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(MSWC) The Girl on the Rincon

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posted on Aug, 11 2009 @ 08:20 PM

Before this little story gets started, you need to know a little bit about the Rincon and maybe even a little bit about Santa Barbara and Ventura, California. Two towns which are also two counties and for the most part define Southern California and what it’s all about. Both geographically and how life went back in the day. It was a place to behold.

As a small matter of interest, Ventura’s legal name is San Buenaventura.

San Buenaventura translates to, “Saint Good Fortune or Good Venture.” Either way, it didn’t make any difference and all of the guys and gals who I knew felt like we lived in the best town there ever was. Probably true of you and how you think of your old home town. We had it all though, beaches, rivers, mountains, the ocean and places rich in history.

Ventura’s name was shortened from San Buenaventura in 1891 by the Post Office, which was tired of dealing with the confusion engendered by the similarity of it’s name with San Bernardino.

Pretty much the same thing happened with Mohave County here in Arizona where I now live. There is a Mojave County in California and the names were originally spelled with a J in both cases. A California postmaster, tired of dealing with identical names for two areas pulled the J and put the H in Arizona’s Mohave county and that was pretty much it. That little bit explained my life-long confusion as to how to spell Mojave/Mohave properly.

The history of town and county names is simple and in many cases it was no more than a postmaster labeling an area with a particular name.

The name, Ventura, translates to happiness, fortune, chance, risk, and danger which fit right into the things we did when we were younger and in fact, it fit right into a few things we did when we were a little older. We should have known better and in fact we did, but we did em anyway. It doesn’t make it right, safe or even sensible, but it was a calmer and quieter time.

Santa Barbara translates to Saint Barbara although Santa for Saint is not quite correct. Santo is the proper translation for Saint. More than likely, since language - any language - is such a dynamic thing, English speaking peoples probably corrupted the pronunciation with their tendency to apply English language rules to the beautiful, smooth flowing and literate Spanish language. All of which tended to corrupt and lose the literal flavor of the Spanish word.
Saint Barbara - who became a Saint in later times - was a virgin and martyr in Asia Minor about 300 AD.

Rincon is Spanish for corner, nook or narrow valley. The local pronunciation is, “Wren-Con.”
Wren like the bird and con like in pro and con. Cone it’s not, even though Spanish rules of pronunciation call for a cone pronunciation of the second syllable.

The definition of Rincon explains it quite well and in fact it covers all facets of the Rincon.
It ends in a corner of sorts at the western and eastern ends. Don’t get confused by the east and west end notations. Strangers to Ventura get confused when you tell them they have to go south to hit the beach. Bad enough too, to tell them they have to go west to get to Santa Barbara. The confusion being that highway signs point to Santa Barbara as being north.

Santa Barbara and Ventura are both coastal cities as well as being mission towns. I’m sure you’ve read your history and know about Father Junipero Serra and the building of the California missions which started at the southern end with Mission San Diego and ending with Mission
San Francisco Solano at the northern end.

Mission San Francisco Solano was the only mission founded after Mexico gained its independence from Spain.

We’re not here for a history lesson though. What we’re here for - at least for me - is just a simple and maybe not so simple little trip back in time.

End Pt 1

[edit on 11/8/2009 by Desert Dawg]

posted on Aug, 11 2009 @ 08:20 PM
The Girl on the Rincon

The Rincon, simply enough, was one of the best beaches around. At least it was simple to us. Us being the kids who grew up and lived in both Santa Barbara and Ventura and spent many days as well as a few nights along the Rincon. Most times at the long and beautiful white sand beaches and other times, parked somewhere along the beach or for those who knew where to go and how to get there, up into the mountains of the oil fields overlooking the Rincon. With a beautiful young woman if you were lucky and if not, you could always drink beer with the guys and watch the sun sink into the Pacific while wondering about life. Course, with the bunch I ran with it was more about the beer and not getting caught with it - since we were all underage - than it was about the wondering. A little bitching, a few lies, a couple of tall tales and all in all it wasn’t too bad a way to spend an evening.

Even so, most times, specially after a few beers, you could look out at the black shadows of the offshore islands or into the clear and star laden sky and just wonder. Geez . . . even at the age of eighteen there were a helluva lot of things to wonder about and wondering about women was what we wondered about the most.

I met Annie at the age of 16. Right in the middle of my junior year in fact. At the time I hadn’t been driving for long, but at least I had my own car - a 50 ford sedan - and the freedom to do things. The folks were good about letting me run a late curfew and at the least I tried to keep them informed as to where I was and what was going on. Kinda funny, my sister who was the really smart one in the family ran her own schedule, went her own places and pretty much figured the world could conform to her and not the other way round. She was forever getting grounded for something the folks would have let her do anyway if she’d just let them know. I saw what went on, kept the folks apprized of what was cooking in my life and I had about all the freedom I could handle. Kinda funny that once you start driving, a lot of life’s little restrictions faded into the background and now you were your own man and could do pretty much what you wanted, when you wanted.

I wasn’t all that good though. I’d have been grounded in a flash if dad would have caught me drinking beer. I got drunk now and then, we all did, but I always did it in somebody else’s car.
Part of the hanging out, drinking beer and puking like a man was a bit of bravado sometimes.

We pretty much knew what nights were going to be serious ones as far as setting up a race out in the country went and by the same token, when nothing jelled, especially on a date-less Saturday night, Benny would get his 21 year old brother to walk over to the liquor store next to the gas station where he worked and buy us a case of beer. I was happy to get beer, but sometimes I wondered why in the hell Benny’s brother was willing to buy us beer. Looking back, I think he had the four of us pegged pretty well. Six cans of beer apiece wasn’t going to get us into too much trouble and sometimes the beer didn’t go all that far. Half the time we either invited another guy or two along or saved some of the beer for the next night. We didn’t need beer to get us through the night, but it did loosen a few tongues and like always, sometimes the wagging tongues got a little too loose and before you knew it a fight would be on. Usually with one of the invitee’s. We could fight, but like most guys we lost about as many as we won and if nothing else we were staying even in the score department.

Like you’d expect there was the usual grumbling and bitching from the losers, but no one ended up in a long-time feud or anything like that. We had the fights, mopped up the blood and got over them with no long-lasting effects.

Hanging out at theVentura Fosters Freeze was one of our favorite things and if we didn’t have a date it was one of the first places we went. Lotta times we had the beer iced down in back, but if something was going on we figured we could always drink it another day. Fosters made the best taquito’s in town far as we were concerned and the burgers weren’t too shabby.

Close to midnight, parked at the back of the small parking lot at Fosters Freeze, all four of us dateless, we finally realized the fog was rolling in pretty good and the back roads drag racing bit between the two cars we thought would have it out was a bust. Part due to the fog which always killed traction for the strong running cars and part due to neither car had come into Fosters Freeze. I gave it up, said so long to the gang, fired up the 50 Ford sedan and pulled out of the Fosters Freeze parking lot via the alley to Catalina Street which was one short block to the west from Fosters Freeze.

Instead of turning south for home, I decided to turn north, cross Main, go to Poli, hang a right and cruise by the high school gym where the Christmas formal was being held. I wasn’t sure what I would see, maybe someone I knew and stopping and talking for a while would be ok, but what I wasn’t thinking about was, what guy escorting a beautiful girl in a gorgeous strapless gown was going to take a break from that just to talk to me.

Cruising Poli Street and sliding past the gym in second gear at 20 per, I was surprised to see a girl in a white strapless prom gown leaning up against the tennis court fence about a hundred yards up from the gym. Kinda weird thought I. What the hell would a girl in a prom dress be doing all by herself that far up the street on a cold and fog laden night?

I hung a right on Seaward, went south to Main Street and ran down the front of the high school campus to Catalina, hung a right there and before long I found myself on Poli in front of the gym just idling by in low gear. There wasn’t a soul there, but I could see the girl in the white prom gown still leaning against the fence. I wasn’t sure what to think, but the fog coming in hard enough to make me operate the wipers now and then made it pretty obvious the girl would be soaking wet in a little while. I pulled up to ask her if I could help and before I could wind the passenger window down, she walked over, opened the door and got in. You can bet it was a surprise to me. I didn’t recognize the girl, but she was most beautiful. The street light reflecting little beads of light from the water on her hair lent a strange, but comforting feeling to her beautiful smile.

She shut the door and said, “I’m ready to go now,” leaned back on the seat and closed her eyes.

I was at a total loss for words which was a little surprising as I’d never had trouble talking to anyone. Her short, but terse comment pretty much brought my thinking processes to a halt since I’d never had a total stranger say anything remotely like that to me.

I pulled away from the curb, turned right on Seaward heading south and when I hit the stoplight at Main she said, “Turn right.”

I ran the car down Main, passed the graveyard at the top of the hill and we were rolling easily downhill into the heart of downtown where all the stores, restaurants and theaters were. I’d glanced over several times and she was sitting there with a tired, but pleasant expression on her face and hadn’t said a word since we’d turned onto Main off of Seaward.

When we got near the Avenue which was about the end of Main Street, she opened her eyes, sat up, looked at me and said, “Do you have enough gas to take me to Santa Barbara?”

“Santa Barbara?”

“Yes, that’s where I live. I have money for gas if you don’t.”

“I have a full tank, but what are you doing so far from home?”

“Would you like the long version or the short version?”

“Either one, whatever’s easiest for you.”

“My son-of-a-bitch boy friend . . . at least I thought he was my boy friend, invited me to the Christmas dance and I thought it would be fun so I accepted.”

“He’s a Ventura guy?”

“Yes, but it’s not important who he is, he’s out of my life now and I don’t want to talk about him except to tell you why I was standing outside next to the tennis courts.”

“All right.”

“I met him at the end of last summer when my church youth group came down to Ventura for the weekend and we stayed at homes where the Ventura youth group kids lived. All very much on the up and up, well chaperoned and all that. Anyway, we started writing each other, once in a while a phone call and this was our first real date. Boy, he was so different from what I thought he was. He picked me up, promised to get me home by one and was the perfect gentleman around my folks. They were like me and thought that meeting a nice boy through church was a pretty good way to do it. My dad really seemed to like him. The light began to dawn while we were driving to Ventura. He had more on his mind than going to the dance. He wanted to park along the beach and make out for a while, but I didn’t feel quite right about that. Especially since I didn’t know him all that well. We went on to dinner and the dance, but he was mad through the whole thing. During one dance, he told me I’d either put out or I’d be walking home and he’d be taking his old girl friend home. I walked off the dance floor, out the door and up the street to where you found me. When I grabbed my purse I left my coat behind and I don’t care.”

Looking at her in the dim light, it looked like she did care. Tears were rolling down her cheeks and she didn’t say anything for a while.

When she did, she asked, “You’re a Ventura guy, right?”


“Do you think you could go to the school tomorrow and get my coat back? It was a gift from my favorite aunt and I’d hate to lose it.”

“Yes, but getting your coat back probably couldn’t be done until Monday. How will I get in touch with you?”

[edit on 11/8/2009 by Desert Dawg]

posted on Aug, 11 2009 @ 08:21 PM
Pt 3

She took a small notepad and pencil out of her purse, wrote something on it, handed it to me and said, “this is my phone number and address.”

I glanced at it and didn’t see a name.

She sat there for a few seconds and said, “My name is Annie.”

The run up to Montecito didn’t take long. The community was about five miles south of Santa Barbara. It was a beautiful place to live with the stately and big houses which some would call mansions. The area was rich with trees and greenery that looked like more than a few hedges had escaped the properties and now lined the two lane road through the area.

Turning down the lane to Annie’s house was more than impressive. Beautiful landscaping and a big, well cared for two story house.

I stopped in front of the door, Annie got out, said, “thank you very much” turned and went inside.

Geez, that had to be the strangest meeting with anyone that I ever had. Running for home along the more than dark coast highway there was a lot to think about. I could see white foam from the occasional wave that washed up on the beach where the highway ran close to the high tide line and that was about it. If I hadn’t been running headlights I wouldn’t have seen that either.

Monday morning, no problems with getting Annie’s coat. I called her and said I’d bring it up Friday after work.

I figured I was just going to drop it off, but after meeting her folks, Annie announced that we had a date and she was going to show me around town. At least I had the brains to keep my mouth shut about knowing my way around Santa Barbara. Learned that when I ran around with a couple of guys a little older than me and they were forever wanting to hit the Santa Barbara beaches, check out the girls and maybe do a little bodysurfing. Most of the places we went didn’t have decent surf unless Mexico had a tropical storm, the winds changed to the S/W and the wave train patterns came from a different direction. All about the girls as far as the guys were concerned and I didn’t complain. Running with a couple of older guys was a decided stroke of luck far as I was concerned.

They had a couple of nice cars for sure, one was a Buick powered maroon 32 Ford coupe with rear hinged doors that were a pain in the ass, but the car was fast. After a while I got used to the weird doors and it was always fun to watch girls get in and out. Sometimes their big skirts with lots of petticoats almost wouldn’t go in and when they wore tight skirts, they’d have to hike em up a bit before they could make it in while retaining a bit of modesty. Times like that, I’d end up in the rumble seat and if I was lucky, get dropped off somewhere. Usually the skating rink. I’d been a skater for a long while, Santa Barbara had a small rink and there were lots of girls there most times. Seldom did I take one home or even get out the skating rink door with them.

George was always good about picking me up at midnight when the rink closed. A fifteen minute wait after midnight was about the worst that he’d done. Probably since most parents wanted the girls home by eleven and he didn’t have a whole hell of a lot to do afterward. Jon’s folks had a nice 55 Mercury hardtop that was pretty much his on the weekends. It held three couples with no problems. The beautiful two-tone paint - turquoise and white - and matching upholstery always impressed the girls.

Gotta admit, I was a touch stunned when Annie walked me through the house and out into the garage. It was absolutely huge. There were all kinds of cars there. Nice ones. She explained that the garage comfortably held sixteen cars and most of them belonged to other people who were traveling overseas or were back east for a few months. Friends of the family were allowed to park there when out of town and they rented garage space to others.

She walked over to a beautiful dark blue 50 Ford convertible, opened the door and got in. I walked over to the passenger side, got in, she fired the engine and drove out the big door that was already open.

I asked, “Do you want me to close the garage door?”

She smiled, said, “No. It’s always open because it’s such a pain in the butt to get closed. Besides, folks can pick up or drop off their cars without having us home.

Running around Santa Barbara with Annie was fun and interesting. I didn’t have a clue where it would lead or how long it would last.

End Pt 3

[edit on 11/8/2009 by Desert Dawg]

posted on Aug, 11 2009 @ 08:21 PM
Pt 4

The whole thing started a period in my life that was the strangest and most complex couple of years I’d ever experienced. Even today, many years later, it was like it happened yesterday and I’m still a little confused.

We weren’t going steady and in fact had made no promises to each other. It was easy to see that she still had strong feelings for her old boy friend. Rick was his name and he lived on Ortega Ridge above Summerland near the Josten’s high school class ring plant.

It didn’t take long for me to fall in love with her. She liked me, but there was still an attachment to Rick that never quite went away. Rick and Annie had the same group of friends so they’d still run into each other pretty often. After I’d gotten to know a few of the Santa Barbara kids, a girl named Karen told me that Annie and Rick had gone steady and broken up several times ever since Junior High.

Dating Annie, spending the day with her was always pleasant and some days were so glorious you couldn’t put them out of your mind. Some of the best were days spent at the small and calm beach across Hwy 101 from La Conchita. La Conchita was a small beach community a couple miles down the highway from County Line Beach between Santa Barbara and Ventura.

Annie had her favorite place, right next to a big rock about the size of a car and only four feet or so high. She delighted in sitting on top of it, sipping on a coke, watching the ocean and not saying much at times.

We eventually went our own ways. I’m not sure why, probably because she’d been in love with Rick all her life. The breakup was calm and pleasant. Perhaps hard to believe, but I’m a pretty calm guy and she was an easy going girl who could be strong willed about some things sometimes.

Annie Green was her name and a few years later the canyon where she died came to be known to locals as Anaverde Canyon, but you won’t find it on any map.

It’s a local thing, just a small story known to a few privy to the story, but to those involved it was a sudden and far-reaching tragedy that reached farther than I thought it could and was remembered by more than a few.

We named the canyon where Annie died, Anaverde Canyon. I know, the correct pronunciation for her name is Verde de Ana, but we named it what we named it and to hell with correctness and all that stuff.

End Pt 4

posted on Aug, 11 2009 @ 08:24 PM
Pt 5

Somewhere along the line we decided to make a sign and plant it near the canyon drop off.

Benny was doing pinstriping at the time and he was pretty good with a letter brush as well. He’d been painting car names on quarter panels for quite a while and was good at it.

The first sign lasted about a year before it was torn down. It had to have been torn down because it was 2" pipe with a 16 gage sheet aluminum rectangle up top and Benny had lettered it in the same colors and letter style as the small State Forestry signs you saw everywhere in the national forest.

A few weeks later, we made another sign, put it up and it lasted about six months until it was torn down.

Deciding to get serious and make things tough for whoever was tearing the signs down, we made another sign, dug a large hole, stuck the sign post with welded on cross pipes at the bottom to lock it in and tossed in a pickup load of gravel and sand mixed with dry cement right there in the bed of Skip’s 55 Ford pickup. Only thing that made it work was the plywood floor we’d put down before adding the gravel. After we shoveled the dry cement mix into the hole, got the sign level and square, we poured ten gallons or so of water on it, tossed dirt over the wet cement and went home.

We checked on it every couple of weeks for a while and it stayed there for about three months before it was ripped out by the roots and tossed down the side of the canyon toward the small stream far below. It was easy to see what they’d done. They’d wrapped a chain around it and had a Caterpillar tractor yank it out. The tracks were about the right size for the D8 Cat the Forestry Dept. kept up in the mountains.

It was apparent we were in a battle of wits with a particular ranger. Well . . . he had his agenda and we had ours. Skip was a fairly good rock climber and Benny wasn’t afraid of much.
We went out there in broad daylight on a Monday morning, Skip and Benny climbed the sheer rock wall next to the drop-off, hung from ropes and laid a nice coat of white paint on the face of the rock.

We gave it a couple of weeks and went back to check, figuring all the time that the ranger would have spotted it and removed it somehow. The white background was still there and it was easy enough to walk around the bottom of the rock wall so we could climb it from the far side like before and the only thing that could be seen were Skip and Benny hanging down from the rock on their Bosun’s chairs. I was the ground guy and passed up what they needed in an old canvas bucket.

Benny used black paint and laid on some lettering that was a match for the road sign type lettering we’d been using and he outlined the white background with simple black lines that made the flat rock wall look very much like an enlarged road sign.

Maybe it was the little fact that it was up so high and the usual passer-by didn’t tend to look up that high while transiting the tight corner. Maybe too, the unknown ranger we’d been battling with had given up. I do know that I wouldn’t want to climb that rock wall by myself.

So every now and then, somebody from the gang would drive by the sign and report on how it was doing. A little more faded each time they saw it was the usual report. We thought of going up there again and refreshing the paint, but like Benny said, we know it’s up there and we know what it means and it’s time to let go and just hold Annie in our memories. I suppose he was right. If some of the gang did go by there they never spoke of it again.

End Pt 5

posted on Aug, 11 2009 @ 08:25 PM
Pt 6

After about ten years I transferred out of Ventura County. I hadn’t visited the sign in quite a while and wasn’t really sure I wanted to.

In the summer of 2004, July 5th to be exact, I ran my roadster down to Ventura to visit my mom. We’d been staying at our friends house in Fillmore, doing the 4th of July Carshow and BBQ bit. Ventura was an easy one hour drive away.

I’d left Fillmore around 0900 and had time to kill after a couple hours of visiting with mom.
Not sure why, but I decided to cruise by the old high school and transit a few of my favorite in-town roads. Roads and streets where not too much change had taken place. It was easy to go back in time in my mind and I started thinking about Annie and all the strange things that had happened. Like other times in my life, I found myself driving up the road to Ojai, going through Ojai onto Highway 33 and traveling up the curving two lane road toward Rose Valley. It was a pleasant trip overshadowed by sad things, but the roadster, like always, was pleasant to drive and thinking about Annie was pleasant as well.

It wasn’t too long until I found myself at the turnout where Annie, and a few others had missed the turn and went over the bank. I couldn’t see the sign anywhere from the road during the drive up and once parked it was apparent why. Brush and small trees had grown to the point where the sheer rock wall was hidden from the casual observer. I could make out a little of the white background and after I’d climbed the dirt hill on the downhill side of the turnout I could see the sign. The black paint had faded to the point where it was almost gone, but you could still make out the letters. I’m not ashamed to say, that seeing the sign after not having seen it, forty years almost to the day we put it up, brought tears to my eyes. My feelings for Annie were as strong as ever and I was surprised to find thoughts and memories flooding back into my mind.

After a while, I was thinking it was time to climb down when I heard the crunch of tires on the dirt turnout. It was a CHP car pulling in behind the roadster. Well #. I figured I was gonna get busted for something, probably the lack of fenders and low headlights, but when I climbed down the CHP officer was waiting for me with a smile on his face.

He took one look at me and asked, “Are you alright sir?”

“Yes, I am. Is there a problem.”

“No . . . no sir, no problem. I saw your little roadster here when I came up the hill, saw it again when I came down so I turned around to see what’s going on.”

What he said next stunned me completely.

“You’re one of the sign guys aren’t you?”

“Yes, but how do you know about it.”

He smiled and said, “My dad used to be in the Forestry Dept. until he broke his leg climbing up that rock wall all by himself. He was going to paint over the sign so it would blend in with the mountain. I guess he was a sad sight lying there on the ground when his supervisor found him later that day. Bad enough that he had a broken leg, he had beige paint all over himself as well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yes, dad was sorry as well. It cut short his forestry career and he ended up doing electronic stuff for the phone company. Like he said, it was lucky he dabbled in electronics as a hobby. Once he got on with the phone company he made a nice living, but he still missed being outside.”

“I’m glad to hear he made out ok.”

“You know, dad used to hold you guys up to me as a good example.”

“I don’t understand officer, why would he do that when he was constantly tearing the signs down.”

“What you don’t know is that he watched you guys put the first one up, gave it about a year and figured that it had defaced his forest long enough so he tore it down. He was shocked to find a new sign up a couple of weeks later. That time he gave it about six months before he tore it down. After the next sign went up, he tore it down while it was still new. The last sign, the one you guys embedded in concrete, he got pretty mad about it and tried to tear it out by himself, but he ended up bending the forestry pickup’s rear bumper pretty bad so he talked the road crew into ripping it up by the roots with their D8 Cat.”

“That still doesn’t answer the question.”

“ I know, it was pretty simple. Dad admired you guys for wanting to remember an old friend and he did understand why the sign went up, but he was torn with his love for the forest and a sign that didn’t belong there. He told me the story several times over the years and every time he had a smile on his face. I think he knew what it was all about, but he never told me that part.”

“Did you ever climb to the bottom of the canyon?”

“No, but I see the cars that are hung up at the halfway point and I’ve climbed down that far. I’ve walked the stream below several times while fishing for trout. One thing that stands out in my memory is finding the 50 Ford convertible lying upside down in about 18" of water, rusted all to hell and gone, wheels missing along with a few other things. All dad would say about it was that a couple of kids had died in the car and that’s all I know. I did research some old accident files, but never found anything about it.”

After a while, we parted company. I didn’t tell him anything more about the sign or the reasons behind it, but I think he had a good idea of what had gone on. He went down the hill in the black and white cruiser and I went down the hill as well. At first I was sorry I didn’t tell him the whole story, but after a while I was glad I didn’t. Some things in life deserve to remain secret or at the least, remembered and not talked about. Just thinking about it brought back a lot of painful memories.

When I got close to Casitas Lake I took Highway 150, the back road to Santa Barbara so I could have a quick look at the Santa Barbara beaches we’d loved so much when we were kids.

What I didn’t think about was the trip home on Highway 101. I gave some thought to going back over 150, through Ojai, Upper Ojai and then Santa Paula to Fillmore. I decided against that since it was late in the afternoon, not too long until dark and the winding roads would have added at least an hour to the trip.

Traveling 101 south to Ventura was pleasant. It was a Monday and the traffic wasn’t bad going south. Headed north, another story entirely. It was dusk when I started down the hill to County Line Beach, the one made famous by the Beach Boys song, I was wondering what would happen. When I slid by the big flat rock next to the highway, there was nothing to be seen except for the no-parking signs that proliferate the highway nowadays.

I couldn’t resist though. When I got to the Richfield Island turnoff, I pulled off the road, got out and looked back. Sure enough, there was Annie’s dark blue 50 Ford convertible sitting by the big rock she loved so much. It was quite a ways up the road, but the outline of the Ford convertible was not to be mistaken. I could see as well, the girl in the white prom dress, sitting on the rock. You couldn’t quite see who it was, but I knew in my heart that it was Annie and like always, she was smiling. I took it as a sign of forgiveness even if I couldn’t forgive myself.

I was the guy who caused her to run off with Rick and I’ve carried the guilt for a long time. I always wondered what Annie and Rick were doing up in the mountains behind Ojai. It doesn’t make any difference now. She was smiling and crying when she left and now I was trying not to cry. It didn’t make much difference, when I fired up the roadster tears were streaming down my cheeks and for a while all I could see of the road was a black and velvet like ribbon of asphalt winding up the highway.

Sometimes I wish I could unwind the hands of time and other times I was glad I couldn’t.
Rolling down Highway 101 headed for Ventura and then for Fillmore was a return to a life that was less complex and didn’t hold any hard to answer questions.

I don’t know why I wrote this story down, I’ve never told a soul about the things I’d seen along the Rincon and perhaps at this late date, it’s time that somebody knew.

I think Annie would have liked that....


posted on Aug, 12 2009 @ 01:20 PM
Incredible writing. I was a little confused about the events leading up to Annie getting in the car with Rick. Why did you cause it? I felt like I was right there with you on 101. Thanks for a wonderful experience today...what a sweet story. What a magical coming of age story.

posted on Aug, 21 2009 @ 10:34 PM
reply to post by Desert Dawg

Very descriptive Desert Dawg. I enjoyed the imagery and I think I want to visit the places that you described. It was very well done and reminded me of a story I read a while back called The Perfume Factory. Good luck my friend.

posted on Aug, 31 2009 @ 01:45 PM
That was a wonderfully descriptive jog down memory lane. I enjoyed it quite a bit and your writing style is fantastic. Thank you for sharing it with us.

S & F and I hope you do well in the contest.

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