I
visited Pomona after a long absence once, and I had forgotten
the mountains, how close they are, how massive and looming, and
it came back to me: Walking in the foothills, dry hot weight of
the sun, buzzing silence, scent of sage, a high desert.
And this also comes back:
The romance of southern California place names--Glendora Mountain
Road, Arrow Highway, Padua Hills, Brea Canyon; playing tennis
barefoot in the twilight; sweetness of jasmine near the library;
a carrel on the third floor in the obscure-philosophy section,
and the familiar mystery of Philo; the exhilaration of reckless
youthful intellectual analogy--that all knowledge was connected
and all within my grasp; the foamy and irretrievable satisfaction
of Orange Julius; rowdiness in Holmes Hall, and the French professor
with a disarray about his person and a spray of enthusiasm; the
flush of unsatisfied lust at 2 p.m.; adolescent loneliness and
tears on Foothill Boulevard; the smell of sun on my skin, starting
a tan in January; the closeness of college friendship on a windblown
bike ride. And the kindness of Mr. Leggewie and Howard Young.
Now, I have two amazing
kids and a granddaughter I love madly; I live with my sweetie
in a cottage in Berkeley, a wonderful place and of course very
like Claremont; no longer working because of an injury, I cultivate
my garden and read, I read and the words are a lifeline for my
mind and a bridge over the years.
|
Joyce and Steve |
Teresa with her
daughter, Sophie |