Love song

At peace, surrounded by the gifts of a long loving marriage

She is driving us down from Simi Valley to LAX to make our plane flight back to Virginia after three days speaking to Southern California freedom lovers, and she asks “why are you so quiet?”

I look inward, turning the question over in my mind. “Because I am at peace". “I am warm, secure, and sitting next to my lifelong partner”.

We are both California natives, she the child of British immigrants, born in the UCLA hospital, and the first in her family to not only graduate from college but also to get a PhD. Myself the child of a couple that came together in the San Francisco bay area, mother raised on a sheep/wheat farm in Eastern Oregon (Hardman, now officially a ghost town), father from the deep south. Pensacola- banking family, my middle name of Wallace recognizes the close relationship of my branch of the Malones to that family- George being an uncle once removed. I was born at the old Stanford hospital, and so have been told I should list “Stanford, California” rather than Palo Alto as my birthplace.

For both, our teen years were spent in (what we now recognize as) the middle class bubble of paradise named Goleta, California, a land of SSW-facing coastal foothills stretching down to the sea, the Channel Islands protecting the coastline from Pacific storms. Endless summer.

Goleta beaches were generally not groomed, and the beautiful people that came up from LA tended to land in Montecito and Santa Barbara, never making it up the coast to decidedly middle-class Goleta. Spanish land grant ranches were still sprinkled along the foothills, with acres and acres of lemons and semi-wild cattle grazing the sagebrush and scattered oat grass meadows overhung by ancient gnarled oak trees.

Aside from the rattlers, the real snakes in this garden of eden were the oil companies, with their crumbling docks, rusting oil drilling and pumping infrastructure, and stinky open pits scattered along the bluffs overlooking the Pacific and the islands laying low along the horizon. Offshore oil wells cracked the seabed during the mid 1970s, and sticky crude intermixed with washed up kelp or hiding in the sand as dark globs awaiting unwary bare skin were the main hazards. A trip to the beach always ended with dousing feet in spirits and various concoctions to remove the globs of tar mixed with sand. By the end of the hot season, bare feet tended to have become permanently black.

Hiking, rock climbing and horseback riding along the bluffs and up into the foothills was just another part of semi-wild adolescent life, as was the frequent buzz of rattlesnakes. As young teens, we were just expected to get out of the house and wander about, and rattlers were merely another part of the daily landscape. Creek rocks were not to be disturbed, lest Mr. Snake awaken from his midday nap. Sparrow hawks, White-tailed Kites, Golden Eagles and thermal-searching buzzards were constant companions. On the other side of the foothills, a few of the magnificent California Condor still flew. Looking back, I am still amazed by those enchanting times so long ago. Old stagecoach trails, Chumash Indian sites - mortars ground into the sandstone by generations preparing acorn meal from the abundant coastal oaks, caves and overhangs with handprints and mysterious symbols.

---

---

My parents, a schoolteacher and an electrical engineer, had escaped Thousand Oaks, CA during the post-Vietnam downturn in the “defense” industry (where our home proudly featured a bomb shelter in the event that the Reds decided to push the button down), to perch in a canyon known as “Tecolote” (owl) in an obscure residential development named “Rancho Embarcadero”. (Thanks to Tom Modugno for his historical record, brief summary and images linked above.)

The development had been built around a classical 1930s California estate (Tecolote Ranch) which was abandoned when my parents first moved there. The ranch building complex has since been purchased and restored to former grandeur, although stripped of its lands and stables. The ranch house and out buildings (including a stunning “U”shaped main and satellite stables which were still there when Jill and I used to ride the hills) was designed by architect William Mooser, who had just finished designing the Santa Barbara County Courthouse. The courthouse and the Tecolote Ranch Hacienda are the only two Mooser designed buildings in Santa Barbara County. The Spanish Colonial Revival design was so authentic that it used reclaimed roof tiles from Mission La Purisima in Lompoc. With the devastating 1925 earthquake still a fresh memory, the seven-bedroom house was built on a foundation 45 feet deep and set on shock absorbers to help ride out any future earthquakes. In a 1939 book describing the area, Tecolote Ranch was proclaimed as “one of the most attractive and successful ranches” in Santa Barbara county, with 150 Hereford cattle, 22 stock horses, 10 mares, 3 thoroughbred race horses, 60 acres of lemons and oranges, 70 acres of walnuts, 20 employees, and a small avocado orchard comprised of 32 different varieties of avocados! The ranch became a major destination for those traveling up the coast, with thousands of visitors every year.

It is no surprise that the arid lands and architecture of Portugal’s classic horse “Quintas” sing to our souls.

---

---

California has seen many boom/bust real-estate cycles, and during the economic downturn of the ‘70s this single family housing development had largely failed to meet the expectations of the original developers.

So my parents were able to find a home overlooking the Pacific (lower status than living in Goleta or Santa Barbara!) at what they considered at affordable price for their very own four bedroom Spanish Colonial Revival home - $48,000 (US).

To find an “affordable” home, they had to go north up the coast from Goleta proper, and then my father “commuted” back to Goleta (15 minutes, what a sacrifice!), while I rode my Schwinn “Varsity” ten speed bike the three miles to Dos Pueblos High School.

Ronald Reagan found his own personal horseback paradise (Rancho del Cielo- sky ranch) just a few miles north of Tecolote canyon (as the crow flies) along the ridge of the foothills which are topped by the road/trail known as Camino Cielo (sky road). The name we chose for our current farm in Virginia (Cielo Azure, “Blue Sky”) alludes to this semi-arid eden of our youth.

My first memory of meeting my future lifetime partner and companion was seeing a beautiful geeky girl in glasses sitting on a school bench with her friends during a Dos Pueblos high lunch break. I suspect she was about 14 years old. Like me, this one often found refuge from the social pressures of high school in the library, immersed in the latest science fiction paperbacks. Next memory is of a tomboy/pixie flitting in and out of a party being held at her home in the Goleta foothills. We were both a bit horse crazy, my ride was borrowed from the next door neighbor, hers (“Red”) was stabled down the end of “Pine Tree Lane” behind her parents home, where she could walk to care for and ride.

Then along comes the summer of ‘76. At age 15, I join three (male) friends from my Episcopal church group to hike the Muir trail starting from Mount Whitney and ending up in Yosemite valley. After six weeks on the trail with three guys, one clear resolution made during that trip was that I absolutely needed to find a steady girlfriend when I got back.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Jill’s parents had decided to sell “Red” to a family that lived up in Tecolote canyon, near my parent’s house. I return home from the hike, Jill bikes over with a friend to visit Red, and they decided to drop in and visit me. Recently upgraded to learners permit and proud “ownership” of a straight six 1967 Chevy half-ton stepside (formerly a county work truck), I muster the courage to ask her out. We go to see a surf film playing downtown, “Endless Summer”, and that was that. I never looked back. We completely bonded, for life. I am a bit embarrassed to admit that she was barely 15, and I barely 16. So for those of you parents who frown on young love, you can go pound sand as far as I am concerned.

I don’t know what it was. All the books consumed? The endless hours spent listening to ‘70s love songs? Somehow we were both young and old souls at the same time. Both looking for a lifetime partner, a soul mate with which we could share our love of books, horses and the outdoors. We talked and talked, both chatterbox/young unpretentious intellectuals, immersed in the hopes, dreams, culture and environmental ethics of the ‘70s. I worked doing landscaping, orchard work (Avocados), and at a local paint and glass store to be able to afford gas, climbing equipment, cassette tapes, and a permanent girlfriend/partner. Off to college a year later, before I was really mature enough, I dropped out after two quarters and went to live up in the Sierras by Lake Tahoe. Jill, in the last quarter of her senior year, told her teachers that they could let her take the final exams and graduate, or she would just leave to join me up in the mountains. They conceded, she graduated early and I drove down to bring her back to the modest mountain cabin room that I had rented. I supported both of us by cutting wood until we got jobs at the local roadhouse - Kyburz lodge - with me as short order cook and her as waitress. Those were hard times, but we were together and out on our own. My parents disowned both of us. Fortunately, hers did not.

People often ask about what is our secret to a happy, long lasting marriage. We have been through years and years of hard times. No silver spoons here. Her father mentored me, and we became good friends. When we were married, he had one request - to take care of his daughter. I have never forgotten that, and loving and caring for Jill has been the most important thing in my life. Despite all of the hardships and setbacks. And she has committed herself to me.

I freely admit to being an incurable romantic, and will never forget one of those deeply rooted memories from my childhood, a song from the musical “Camelot”. King Arthur is perplexed by impetuous and strong willed Guinevere, and musically asks “how to handle a woman?”. Yeah, I know. Outdated. 1960s. But still. The lyrics continue:

"How to handle a woman?
There's a way," said the wise old man,
"A way known by ev'ry woman
Since the whole rigmarole began."
"Do I flatter her?" I begged him answer.
"Do I threaten or cajole or plead?
Do I brood or play the gay romancer?"
Said he, smiling: "No indeed.
How to handle a woman?
Mark me well, I will tell you, sir:
The way to handle a woman
Is to love her...simply love her...
Merely love her...love her...love her."

And the same applies for immature, willful and sometimes arrogant young men. Like I was for so long. I think it is really that simple.

There is so much hate, fear and pain in the world today. Let’s all commit to doing what we can to make things a bit better, for each other, and for all?

Be gentle. Always remember that, even though words are just words, they can cause lasting pain. So think twice before you speak. Be kind, and protect your partner. If you need to think in transactional terms, consider every day together an opportunity to invest in your future. A future of continuing dividends of love and companionship. Of building a forever partnership.

Is there a secret to our marriage? Yes and No. Just a commitment to another soul, to be kind, to protect, to serve the other, to discover and create a shared vision of the future, and strive together as a team to achieve it. That’s all. Simple stuff. Through all the trials and tribulations, all the setbacks, all the pain that comes with living as a free person, truly walking side by side as trusted partners can be pretty powerful. And now that we are older, we are collecting the dividends. That calm inner peace that comes with a stable, loving, long term partnership.

Our youth spent in and along the bluffs and hills of the central coast of California was truly paradise. But not paradise lost, for we carry it with us, deep in our souls. We mourn for the tragic passing of the California that once existed. The loss of that peaceful easy feeling. The passing of friends, family, parents, and the culture of our youth. But we have not really lost it.

We each have the power to create and reside in our own heaven or our own hell on this earth. And sometimes it can seem that others are bound and determined to make our lives hell. But by standing our ground, and relying on each other, we have been able to tunnel through time while preserving the one thing that makes life worth living no matter what gets thrown at us. Our commitment and shared partnership.

I think that has been well worth the effort.

---

---

---

---