Slaughter of the Innocents

When the dust had settled and the sun had fallen beyond the horizon, the only sounds that could be heard were the cries of the mothers who laid in the streets, bathed in the blood of their children.

King Herod the great, the Roman appointed king of the Jews, had ordered the killings of every child between one and two years of age. The night before the butchery a messenger had come into town and told the king of a prophecy that was unfolding. A star had risen from the west giving sign to the birth of a new king. He told Herod that a group of men were riding through the night to find the baby and to take him to safety. Before the sun fell again there would be no child left alive. Included his own two sons, who were dragged out into the street and beheaded. Blood of the innocent covered the cobblestone walkways and stained the walls of the homes that once sheltered them.

The synoptic gospel of Matthew would refer to this massacre as The Slaughter of the Innocents. Word of this slaughter would reach the congregations of the non-Jewish churches. It would create great tension among the religions and fuel the rage in an endless war.

King Herod responded to the slayings by saying that he did not give the order, but a group of ruthless knights set forth on their own to protect the king and save the throne from tyranny.

The only mention of this event is briefly found in the old Testament of the bible. According to historians however this event never took place. It was either fabricated by the church and used as a cause for war, or it was information that was handed down through periods of time for so long that when it was finally documented centuries later the facts were distorted and untrue. It closely resembled previous events in time when the Pharaoh brought forth the tenth plague of Egypt, killing all first-born man, including his own son.

There were records of other massacres at or around that time period. The massacre of Glencoe, the Slaughter of Galilee. Yet none of any mass killings in or around the vicinity of Bethlehem. There was however reports of a plague which swept through the land and claimed the lives of many children who were too young to fight off its infection.

Could it be that something as simple as the flu wiped out those children and the church set blame upon the ruling empire? Could it be that King Herod killed his own people for political gain? Or could it be that a group of men devoted to the preservation of the empire acted on their own?

Conspiracy theories have been around since before the three wise men began their adventures in star-gazing. There have always been those men in search of the mystical wizard in the land of Oz. The difference with the days long past and the modern age is the internet. Ideas, thoughts and theories are mass distributed. Information gets past around so many times that the truth in it becomes impossible to identify. Back in the days before Christ such theories were scribbled down on rocks and tablets. Yet most never made it past the sacrificial fire or occasional ritualistic spilling of the blood. Through hundreds and thousands of years the tales grew larger and further from the truth. With the internet it only takes minutes.

Many men past and present have conspired to create distrust in those of higher power. The bible itself is believed to be a hoax by many. There is the popular Evemerist theory of course. Made well-known by Dan Brown and his work “The Da Vinci Code”. There were also writings found prior to the birth of Christ which spoke of other men who claimed to be the Messiah. Osiris, Mithra, Perseus, Prometheus, all worshiped as gods, all born around December 24th to a godly father and a virginal mother. The story of Jesus almost completely mirrors that of Krishna who was born a thousand years before Christ. He was born of royal blood and was the adoptive son of a carpenter. He was discovered by wise men following a shinning star. Most accounts of Jesus were not even discovered until three hundred years after his death. The inconsistencies of the Gospels create too much speculation for there not to be many theories.

Conspiracy theorist as well as historians point to the city of Nazareth. They claim it was a completely fictional place. Created in order to hide the true identity of Christ. In all the writings found from before and after that time period there has never been any mention of Nazareth. Historians believe that it was nothing more than a city on the Lost Horizon. A mythical place like Olympia, Atlantis or Shangri La.

There is also the theory that the life of Jesus was just a tale compiled of many a different lore. The Romans who kept many records of all their major executions have none on the crucifixion of Christ. They mention Yehuda in 6 CE and Theudas in 44 CE, Both put to death for sorcery, even Benjamin of Egypt in 60 CE who claimed to be a descendant of the gods. Yet none what so ever of Nazarene proclaiming to be the Messiah.

In reality Jesus and his famous father may have very well been the source of the largest hoax of all time. Created by the powers that be to control and subdue the masses. Fear of eternal damnation is a powerful tool. King James and the organized churches were well aware of this.

Anyway. I have a couple of random thoughts of my own. But who doesn’t right?

I am certainly not the first person to think that most conspiracies are planted propaganda. Set in motion by those out to destroy the conditions of a nation. Washington, Hamilton, Adams, all warned us that our enemies would plant those within our society for the sole purpose of creating conspiracy theories in order to divide the people and create distrust in government. We see that in full swing today.

I am not saying there is not corruption in government. Where there is money involved there will always be corruption. I mean that’s its job right? Being the root of evil and all. But to say that random acts never happen is just a little extreme. We are hardwired to seek out order in chaos. To make meaning out of data noise. It is paradoxically comforting to imagine that great tragedy is not just time and chance, but a function of some nefarious, pre-planned grand design.

Sandy Hook elementary being the perfect example. There are many different theories about this terrible tragedy. The most outrages of them being that our government orchestrated this massacre in order to pass gun control laws for the purpose of disarming its citizens. Some have even gone as far as to say it was all made up with paid actors playing the parts of the victims. That it never really happened. Some say there were multiple shooters, some say the shooter never used an assault rifle. Some say, some say.

The horrific event on that December morning shocked the local authorities. They had no idea how to handle such a situation. These were fellow members of the community. Local police, resident troopers, emergency response teams. They did what they could in the face of ultimate horror. They locked down the school as quickly as possible and tried to remain as quiet as possible until they were sure of the information they had and that it was correct. Unfortunately people from within the school leaked out information that was wrong. The news reported anything they could find, truth or not. The members of the media were vultures, feeding off the death and the pain of those people. Nothing new there. But to conspire to mislead and misinform the people just to get more hits on your website is to demean the death of those children and to undermine the bravery of those who responded.

But looking back six month later. If the government killed all those children just to pass gun control laws, it was an ill-fated plan for it didn’t work out so well. Selected states who already had stiff gun control laws added a few new ones. The states that were relaxed in their laws are still relaxed. It’s like 9-11 theories. The government would never have had to go to such extreme measures to start a war with Islam extremist. They could have simply assassinated the vice president or another important political figure and blamed it on the radical Muslims. If they were looking for U.N. support they could have easily obtained it. And it’s not like they needed it to invade Iraq. They went in without it.

Anyway. lets look at the opposite side of the Sandy Hook for the sake of argument shall we?

The government may have exploited those children and used the mourning of a nation for their own political agenda. But who really profited from that day in December. Anyone can create a believable theory. I’ll show ya what I mean…

….In 2010 the gun industry was staled. Manufactures were laying off many of their employees and cutting back on production. The recession had made sales stagnant. Guns were a luxury that people just couldn’t afford. The total sales in 2010 only reached 500 thousand nation wide. NRA membership was at an all time low, with the lowest number of new memberships since 1979.

On July 20, 2012, The shootings at an Aurora Colorado movie theater shock the country. Within thirty days after the shooting gun sales doubled. Three times as many permits were issued in one month then the previous three years combined.

After the massacre in Newtown, with the looming threat of gun control, firearm sales hit a record high. 2.5 million background checks were issued for handguns. 6.2 million assault rifle and long-range rifles were sold. 4 million new NRA members paid their dues. 153 million gun sales world-wide by American companies. Ammunition sales were higher than they had been in the last ten years totaled. There was a six month waiting lists for bullets of any caliber. The gun manufactures and ammunition factories could not keep up with production. The gun stores were emptied in a matter of days. Even the sale of black powder hand guns and rifles surpassed all previous demands.

So tell me, isn’t it a lot more believable to think that the shootings were not some massive collusion between hundreds of citizens, federal government, local authorities and the news media, but in reality an orchestrated and carried out conspiracy by the NRA? I call it the “Remy” theory. You see Remy was a character in the movie “Higher Learning”. In the film The Aryan Brotherhood found a mentally unstable, anti-social, outcast of a kid and convinced him to murder for the greater good. I am not saying that this is what the NRA did however. but it sure makes a more believable theory don’t ya think.

Personally I think it was a disturbed young man whose parents overlooked the signs of mental illness not because their love shadowed reality but because they simply were not a constant presence in his life. The father lived out-of-state and the mother worked long hours. The mother had very little knowledge of the dangers or the cause of her sons illness. Then government stepped in and took advantage of the situation. If the Obama administration was smart they would have suppressed the media attention and not converted it into a modern-day witch hunt. They provided the fuel they created a fire storm. They exploited the sorrow of the country and it backfired by putting more guns on the street then they could have ever hope to control. Washington in its attempt to suppress the NRA made it one of the most powerful and richest big businesses in the world.

I wonder why we are so quick to believe the outrages instead of placing the blame the obvious.

Why couldn’t the records of The Slaughter of the Innocents, as told in the books of Matthew, simply have been lost through time in the writings of King Herod? Why must it be the subject of a massive cover up set in motion to discredit the scrolls of the Dead Sea?

Why couldn’t an anti-social outcast kid be to blame for a modern-day version of such an event. Why must we constantly try to find reason where there is no reason. Why must we tarnish the memories of those children by placing blame on a grand design. Those who create theories are not so insightful as to find truth in lies, yet are just people who know their history and are creative in the repeating of its fables.

Anyway, just random thoughts on the events that shape our lives. Nothing more.

Death of an American Killer

“As you lie there naked, Like a body in a tomb. Suspended animation, As I slip into your room.”- AC/DC

It was August 24th, 1985. The Summer air was uncharacteristically damp. The fog settled in like a brown haze of an old photograph. I was seeing the daughter of a Polish immigrant. She had blonde hair and green eyes and her father kept a sawed off double barrel shot-gun slung over his pineapple shaped bed post. I remember hearing in knocking against the metal frame as the bed moved back and forth.

Her parents were out-of-town that night and like any average American boy, I acted on pure impulse. My mind and body had not yet learned to communicate with integrity and reason.

Richard Munoz Ramirez had already taken his eleventh life. Southern California was on edge. Los Angeles residents were afraid to leave their homes. The media dubbed him, “The Night Stalker”. After the title of an AC/DC song about a serial killer. He took life without prejudice. He raped and tortured. Death was not what he craved, but pain and control. Thirteen dead would be the final count. Five left alive but forever disfigured and scarred. Eleven were raped. Several decapitated. Southern California was on edge during this time. We would watch t.v. and every week or so there would be a another attack. He would pull people from cars, he would kill children, old women and couples in their sleep. No one was safe.

When he moved from the L.A. area to the San Francisco bay, we almost sighed in relief. He was traveling North and away from our small community of Mission Viejo. The attacks there left one victim alive, who was able to describe the killer and the car he was driving. He was tall, Hispanic, and wore an AC/DC cap. He left pentagrams on the walls of the victims, drawn out in blood. He carved crosses into their flesh and removed their eyes.

AC/DC was set to play a show at the Meadows amphitheater in Irvine that weekend. I had rented a limo, bought the tickets, planned it out for weeks. The night before the show, as my girlfriend and I slept in her bed on the second floor of her parents Mimosa Lane residence. Ramirez drove fifty miles south when he finally stopped just off the highway in front of the Mediterranean Village apartments. One block from where we were.

He randomly turned the handles of back doors until he found one unlocked. He entered the house where he found Billy Carns and his girlfriend Inez sleeping in bed. He tied them both up and raped the woman, forcing Billy to watch. He then slit both of their throats.

Just a block away we slept unknowing. I never locked the door behind me when I came over my girlfriends house that night. I had other things on my mind. I couldn’t help but wonder of what would have happened if Billy had locked his door that night.

They canceled the concert that Friday night. They announced a plan to check everyone going in to the metal show in a search for someone matching the description. Brian Johnson refused to play. He would not allow a police presence at an AC/DC show. So they shut it down until they could reschedule.

From the house in Mission Viejo they were able to obtain a single finger print. They finally new the identity of the killer. They posted his face all over every newspaper and on every news program on T.V. He was a 25-year-old Texas man, a drifter. A couple of days later while he was walking through the gang controlled streets of East L.A. he was recognized. He ran. He saw a woman watering her lawn and demanded the keys to her car. She refused. Her husband came outside and started fighting with the killer. Then the neighbors quickly came out and joined in on the altercation. They say he was beaten beyond recognition. When the police arrived they had to pull the crowd off of him or he would have surely died.

During the trial a female juror and her boyfriend were found murdered in their home. The jury was taken into protective custody.

I’ll never forget seeing him in court, smiling, and holding up his hand to reveal a pentagram carved in his palm.

How easily I could have ended up as a victim. How life could have changed so dramatically by something as simple as a locked door.

Richard Ramirez died last week while awaiting the gas chamber on San Quentin’s death row.

He should have died on that sidewalk in Los Angeles.

Monsters are real, they just look like you and me.

Rona

From the time I was six until my late teens I was obsessed with Olivia Newton-John. My room looked like a shrine dedicated to her. I had every album cover hanging on the wall. I had a life-size poster of her on the back of my door. I collected every picture from every magazine. I would listen to her before school and when I got home from school. To me there were no other singers, there were no other forms of art.

The obsession started when my sister bought a 45 thinking it was an Elton John song, but it ended up being “Don’t stop believen’” so she gave it to me. And I was sold. Her voice, her lyrics. I was in love. I mowed lawns every day after school to earn enough money to complete my vinyl collection. The “If you love me let me know” album was constantly being rotated on my cheap little General Electric turn table.

I hated it when the movie “Grease” came out. I felt that I then had to share my love with the entire world. She would no longer just me mine.

One day I decided to write her a letter. I must have been 12 at the time. I compiled a complete poem using only song titles from her albums. Seventy-two titles. I found her Malibu California address and mailed it out to her. Months went by and I heard nothing. I was so upset. I thought for sure she would get the poem and fall madly in love with me. But just when I was about to give up hope, I did get an answer.

I was so excited when I found the envelope addressed to me in the mail box. Although when I opened it I discovered that it wasn’t from Olivia at all, but from her sister Rona. Rona handled all of her sister’s fan mail, She ran her fan club and took care of her personal replies. There was a standard letter in the envelope which they send out to anyone who sends a fan letter. But there was another piece of paper as well. It was a hand written letter from Rona.

She told me that she very much liked my letter. She though it was very clever and moving. She said that she was going to frame it and hang it up in her sisters beach house. She said that Olivia was very busy and couldn’t answer me back personally but ask her to do it. At first I was upset that she couldn’t take the time to at least sign a picture for me, after all it took me weeks to compose that letter.

But a few weeks later I received another envelope. Again from Rona. Inside was another hand written letter, as well as an autographed picture of her sister and a picture of my letter, framed and hanging on the wall. That was a pretty big deal for me. So I wrote her back and told her how much I appreciated her doing that and how much it meant to me.

Over the next several years we continued to write each other. She became my pen pal of sorts. After awhile I forgot all about her being related to the object of my teenage hormones and saw her for her own person. She talked about her own dreams and how life was a dance that kept the feet moving as long as the music played.

Rona was a remarkable human being. She took the time to write me and seemed to take a real interest in me. I didn’t have a lot of friends back then and was very distant from my family. So those letters really meant a lot to me.

Rona passed away last week. It’s been decades since we last wrote, but when I saw her passing in the paper I couldn’t help but feel very sad. It brought back the memories of my childhood. And the thought of how much someone can touch another’s life by just showing small acts of kindness.

R.I.P. Rona. Thank you for your kindness. The music keeps on playing so keep on dancing.

JUNE 2013 INNER PEACE AWARD WINNER

Letters Home

Dear Dad,

It’s been a while now since you’ve left this place. A thought of bitter taste. The reality of course is that you were never really here.

I know of the abuse and sorrow you endured as a child. Your father leaving when you were very young. Your mother’s anger for him which spilled over onto you. I know your step father tried to fill his shoes, he even gave you his last name. But he too would pack and leave. Not much sunlight for a child to grow within. I suppose the darkness felt more real. I wish you could have talked to me, I would have understood. Your silence only divided us and planted seeds of deep resentment. Your anger spilled over onto me, and kept the cycle turning.

I always felt I wasn’t part of the plan. Unwanted and ignored. I know that you were hurting, but we were all hurting too. At some point the chain must be broken so it’s no longer handed down.

If I could ask you just one question, I would ask you of your betrayal. Was it meant to be a test? I know you felt you were trying to teach me some kind of lesson. But the only lesson I learned was that trust is obsolete. I do forgive you finally after many, many years. I did after all, love you once.

Dear Mom,

I know you tried your best. We were always very close. We talked about everything. From the girls I like to my dreams and my ambitions. You comforted me when I was sick, and you listened to me when I spoke. I know you ended up in a life you never wanted. You were a trapped spirit who had no place to run. You wanted so much more from the life that you were given. But you were from a time when marriage and family is what women were suppose to want. Your husband held you back, your children held you back. You sat alone in your car at the end of the driveway afraid to come inside. Wanting so badly to turn and drive away. But you never did, you always found your way back home.

I wish I could have been there for you when things started to slip away. I will always feel guilty for that. I wish you would have reached out to me, my door was always open.

If I could ask you just one question, I would ask you when it was that you stopped loving me? When I moved away at 15 why did you let me go? Why did you never once call to see how I was doing? Was I nothing than a memory the second I walked out the door? There are just too many questions I would have liked to ask. Forgiveness for betrayal may be very hard to muster, but forgiveness for a broken heart is something even harder. I did love you mom, and I miss you.

Dear Brother,

I know you felt that life cheated you out of so very much. You were the oldest and the first to feel the heat of the fire. I did try very hard to be the best brother I could. You were my best friend for a long time. I looked up to you and admired you. And any mistakes you made I forgave you for. Blood ran thick between us. Who knew betrayal was a hereditary trait.

I would like to believe your still alive out there somewhere. That you finally found happiness and peace. But I know that if you were still among us, you would have found your way back to me. You knew I loved you. I told you all the time. Our conversations ran deep and were brutal in their honesty. I miss you every day.

My question to you would be simple, why didn’t you say good-bye?

Dear Sisters,

I know we have not been close since the family fell apart. We’re now spread about from sea to shinning sea. Our time has come and gone. I always felt jealous of you when we were still at home. You had dad’s attention in a time when I had none. I realize now that things were not always as good for you as I thought. I wish that we were closer. I would give anything for that. Life gets pretty lonely, when your family’s gone away.

Dear Son O’Mine estranged.

I felt that letting you hate me was the best direction for you to go in. The truth is something you will probably never know. Your not the man of the blood you share, you’re the man you choose to be. Sometimes doing the right thing may not be so easy, but it’s still the right thing to do. May you someday learn of the roots under your feet. May someday you learn truth.

I would like to believe that we will all be together again someday. That we will get another chance to be a family, and not make the same mistakes again. But I know you only get one shot in life to get it right. There are no second chances. If you have faith in your own spirituality, then the tribulations of life will seem meaningless. You can’t fill your life with anger and distrust and still believe in a greater plan. Only a grand illusion.

I now look at my own family and wonder if I can keep the blood from becoming watered down and weak. This is my shot to get it right. I won’t be getting another. I better not blow it.

I miss you all every day.

Running With Rhinos

“We’re off to the witch. We may never-never never come home. But the magic that we’ll feel is worth a lifetime.”
(Ronnie James Dio)

These words were more than just lyrics when I was younger. They defined my entire life. Dio often refereed to the witch as “the light from the darkness”, For me this meant, seize the moment. Look for the experience where there doesn’t seem to be any. Live life to the fullest. Tonight you may die, but the moments that you live within will be worth a lifetime.

Lion Country Safari was such a darkness. Irvine Meadows Amphitheater was its light. When I was in my late teens, early twenties, there was an amusement park called Lion Country Safari. It was a place where you could drive your own vehicle through on a make shift adventure through an African wilderness. If you were lucky some of the wildlife would walk up to your car and peak in through your windows. Unlucky would be your car over heating half way through, or having an elephant sit on the hood of your VW bug.

Next to the park was concert pavilion. It was a 16,000 seat, half circle arena. It had a grass hill behind the seats where you could spread a blanket out and watch the show under the stars. There was a large chain link fence that closed the entire place in. Security guards would walk the perimeter of the east and west gates. The south fence however was always left unattended to. It was eight feet high and sat on the edge of a ten foot drop down a steep incline. At the bottom of that incline was a small stone wall that housed the rhino pits. The pits held about twenty or so white rhinoceroses. I guess they felt they didn’t need to guard this area because who would be foolish enough to take on an eight thousand pound horned beast just to see some band play. Yet for a chance to see Judas Priest screaming for vengeance, the die-hard metal head never thought twice about it.

There were acres upon acres of strawberry fields that lined the hills around the park and theater. There were usually three to eight of us kids who would hike out to the top of those fields the evening before a show. We would sit and drink cheap beer and swig Jack Daniels out of the bottle. We would eat strawberries and smoke ourselves into a dense fog. The opening bands would go through their sets. The music would echo through the valley. There were always other groups of people up on those hills doing the same thing. You could hear the music pretty well and see the lights from the stage glowing off the trees in the distance. They reflected off the smoke that loomed over the place and created a colorful vision for us to watch.

We would wait until the sky was good and dark. We would wait until the headlining act broke into their first song. We knew the crowed would stand up and push forward. We waited. Then the rush would begin. We hopped the wall into the park, slid down the trail to the rhino pits. Ran as fast as we possibly could to get to the other side. Now the pits had mud holes, lying down trees, watering troves, and of course live rhinos. Trying to run your way through all of that was a challenge enough, but to do it drunk and stoned was another thing entirely. Kids would go down and you would stop to help them up. Like comrades in a war zone.

We would fly over the stone wall, make our way up the incline and over the eight foot high chain link fence. We would drop down behind the trees and casually walk out onto the lawn. Which it was very hard to be casual covered in mud and dirt. For the shows we really wanted to see we would hang out on the grass for a bit, then try to make our way down toward the stage. For the bands we didn’t really care about we would push and shove our way down, hopping over the backs of seats until we arrived at the stage. There we would jump up on the platform and see how long it took for them to catch us and throw us out. Some nights we jumped the fence, got to the stage and got tossed out all in the matter of minutes. I have been on that stage with many half ass bands, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, God I wanted to shove that spot light of his down his throat, Oingo Boingo, Duran Duran, Cindy Lauper. The metal shows were always harder to get to the stage for. That’s because the crowd was always rowdier. They were all shoving and pushing and if you jumped in front of them you were likely to get your head bashed in.

Those were some great times. The friendships that are bonded while experiencing life last forever.

The park was eventually closed. Animal rights activist shut it down. Too many cars being damaged, too many kids wandering into the park after hours. The news came out that they were drugging the animals to calm them down. That kind of took the wind out of our sails. It didn’t seem as dangerous knowing the rhinos were just as stoned as we were.

Once the park closed they started patrolling the fields with ATVs and spot lights. They planted a million thorn bushes where the pits use to be. We would still sneak in but it took a lot more effort. The fence was higher too. We would get about forty kids together and just rush the fence. We would hang on it until it fell over and then just run in. We would be all torn up and bleeding from the thorn bushes. Half the kids would get caught. It wasn’t worth it anymore.

But I’ll never forget those evening up on that strawberry hill. How I loved Summer time in southern California. Being broke yet rich with friends. Always out to find the light within the dark. We might not make it back, but we will live until we die.

Volmars Grove

When I first started dating my wife, she wanted to introduce me to her family. She did so by bringing me to her annual family picnic. The gathering had been taking place for many years before the likes of me. The family owned a large piece of land with a grassy field cradled in a beautiful setting of trees and fern covered hillsides. Through the years it has been home to many things. Once a mink farm, once a Christmas tree farm. Always a picnic grove for the town residents to rent out for company parties, church socials and family reunions. There have been stags, graduation parties and weddings.

The first time I visited the grove I was a little out of sorts. I didn’t know anyone there and they all seemed a little weary of me. I spent most of the time on its lawn under a small maple tree at the edge of the field. But the grove made me feel at ease. It was a picture perfect Labor day afternoon. Sunny and warm. It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship that would last for my entire life. That picnic grove would always be a big part of who I would become. Oh and my wife too of course.

Our children would grow up playing in the blades of its grass. I believe a couple of them were even conceived there. We camped under its trees, gathered the family under its pavilion, marked events in our lives with cook outs and clam bakes. Built long-lasting relationships and life long rivalries along opposite sides of its volleyball net. There’s always a special feeling you get whenever you pass the chain which locks its entrance. Decades of celebrations and memories of those no longer with us live within the breeze that blows through the needles of its Pines.

It’s time is falling short these days. It’s been two years since it’s been open to the public. The gardens have browned and faded. Its grass is overgrown and yellowed. The sand that fills the volleyball court has hardened and grass has replaced the gravel within the boccie ball ties. The pavilion over the kitchen fell under the weight of a snow storm, and was never repaired. Cracks and nicks fill the tables and weeds grow wild in the horse shoe pits.

What once was so full of life and laughter, now seems very sad and lonely. Forgotten by those who it once loved. Waiting for its history to be covered over by pavement and homes filled with strangers.

I wonder if you’ll still be able to hear the laughter of the children and the feel the joy of those who gathered in the winds that will blow through those streets.

Its sad when something so special becomes a burden instead of a legacy. When family goes their separate ways and divides into pieces. What should get preserved for generation yet to come, gets left behind for the world to destroy.

I hope our children will hold onto its memory. And tell their children about the joys that it once brought to them. I know I will never forget.

Lost Shoe

The orange groves that surrounded Riverside were every bit a part of its culture as the old plantation houses and the snow-capped mountains. The groves became in bedded in our every day lives. We walked through them to get to school. We traveled down there paths to get to friends houses. We hung out in them at night. There was a lore to them that always held a certain mystique.

Back in a time before big screen t.v. Video games and Ipods. We had rock fights, rubber band guns, and tumble weeds wars. The orange groves were like the forbidden playground. The grown ups always told us to stay out of them, but we never did.

The fog use to lay thick within the trees. The smell of citrus and pesticides filled the air. They were home to only the outcasts of the desert. Rattle snakes, scorpions, black widows, wild dogs that ran in packs whose howls echoed through the canyon walls. It was also home to many tales of monsters, ghosts, outlaws and shallow graves.

One rainy afternoon after church a few families gathered at an old farm-house to cook out and socialize. The kids were running around and getting restless. Some of the older children decided to take a walk through the grove to an old shack the stood somewhere just beyond the creek. The younger boys were told they couldn’t go, but we didn’t listen. We followed them into the mist of the fog.

Our shoes were muddy and our clothes were damp. The chemical from the insecticide made our eyes water and the southern California smog burned our lungs. But we continued to follow the bigger kids. I was 8 or 9 at the time. There was a little blond-haired kid with us, he must have been 5 maybe 6. He had on these ugly hammy-down shoes that were too big for him and they kept slipping off his feet.

We finally got to the creek that ran through a small section of the canyon. We could hear loud crashing sounds coming from the other side of the hill. When we got to the top we saw an old wood shack that was rotted and falling apart. The older boys were throwing rocks at it trying to get it to fall.

They threw rocks and tree branches. They kicked it and pushed it. You could hear the wood snapping and cracking. In all the excitement the younger kids joined in and started throwing anything they could lift at the side of the house.

Just then the walls began to fold. It sounded like a huge tree dropping in the woods. SLAM! It hit the ground so hard that dust kicked up and pushed the fog back into the trees. We were all jumping about and cheering. Wet from what was now rain coming down. There must have been 10 boys there that afternoon. The joy of destruction was so great that the older ones seemed to not even care that we had followed them into the grove.

Just then I heard one of the kids call to another. I could see his face turn white as he ran to the other side of the house. I knew right away something was wrong. The laughter and the cheers had stopped. I went to move but one of the boys told me to stop and not to take another step. They tried to lift the fallen wall but even with all of them together they couldn’t budge it. Then one of them went running passed me as fast as he could back towards the farm.

I watched the boy as he ran, and when he was out of sight I turned back towards the others, and that’s when I saw it. The shoe. Muddy and alone. My heart weighed heavy as it dropped. I knew the little blonde haired boy was under that wall.

They said a nail sticking from a board went right through his forehead as the house came down on top of him. We all stood in silence as we waited for help to arrive.

We never did gathered again after church. It would be years before I would go back into the grove. The parents of the boy would move away soon after. The older boys would never forgive themselves. The parents would not either.

I can’t remember the boy’s name these days. Or his face. But I will always remember the look on the face of the boy who ran to help. And I will always remember the shoe.