___
In a small town in Wales there is a one-room museum. In it are various archives, including a clipping from a local weekly newspaper dated May, 1880:
There is a view from the town center to the west, where a long gentle valley meanders from the uplands down to the sea. At the top stands a rock the size of a modest manor house. The rock is unique, a stone from an outcropping over twenty miles distant. Whether brought to that resting place by the ancients on an errand of folly or great purpose, or dropped by some giant on his way elsewhere, the facts are unknown. It has always been a resting place for those bound to the sea to take a journey.
The rock is roughly pointed at the top. On its sides are carved uneven steps that wind about and stop just below the crest. At that spot is fashioned in the stone a small seat that espies the view to the sea.
And what a view it is. Like a framed painting, one can see the forested cleft of the hills descending to the vivid green expanse of an estuary, and the sea with crashing waves breaking on scattered rocks offshore. Beyond lie white capped rollers and the deep blue of the boundless ocean.
Behind the seat, on a spot plainly visible but precarious to reach, was long ago carved an inscription followed by two name-runes. One of the names has been partially obliterated where a fragment fell. The other remains clear and distinct. It is a unique letter A, whose owner’s tale has been lost in time.
The spot to this day is a favorite for lovers as well as those that gaze at the sea, think of tales and legends, and wonder “Are they true?”
* * *
From the Topanga Times
May 24, 2009
The rite of passage from spring to summer in Topanga Canyon is nominally the Memorial Day Parade. It winds from near the canyon crest, down the two-lane road, to the little town center where San’s Grocery and the Mirkwood Forest huddle between road and creek. In it flow goofy cars, every form of person-powered cycle, baby buggies, middle school and elementary school bands. There are also arrays of clowns and mimes, surely enemies of the blood, eyeing each other warily. Crowds, basically everyone in the canyon and a lot from neighboring communities, line the road.
“Nominally” is the apt word because the real rite of passage is the accompanying Great Water Balloon War. Since inception in the hazy days of the 1980s, with a few prank balloons lobbed at friends, it escalated faster than most third world arms programs. There were, of course, unwritten rules of engagement. Only certain paraders and certain watchers were legitimate targets. No moms with babies, no one with a disability. Common sense rules. Unless, of course, they attacked first.
That’s the way it progressed, mostly the paraders enduring the assault, until the unveiling of a tarp-hidden water cannon rigged on a truck of quasi-nudists who had gotten tired of just throwing back their own, limited supply of jiggly water bombs.
The water cannon sprayed the crowds with the shocking efficiency of a new technological weapon. And that changed the complexion of the engagements. The next year, scores of water hoses showered down on the paraders from strategic bluffs. In good guerillista fashion, the watchers broke and reformed and got their own roadside cannons. The paraders upped the ante with assaults from an antique LAFD fire truck.
In short, everyone got wet. Pity the poor Valley tourist, sporting along top-down in his new convertible, who gets caught unawares in the parade flow.
* * *
Cadence burst through the door of the Forest. She was drenched. She sat down at the kitchen table, dripping water from her limp hair and soaked sweatshirt into the red and white gingham tablecloth.
Jess leaned back and smiled. “I just got in, too. The tourists will start to come in, once the parade dispenses. Oh yeah, you got a message on that new machine. That Mr. Thornton fella.”
She knocked the phone over as she punched up the replay.
“Cadence, Bossier. Look, I’m going to be in L.A. this week. I’d like to see you. No official stuff. Call me if that works. If you have a favorite place for dinner, that would be great.”
Jess was shuffling papers and envelopes on the table.
“Grandpa, what’s the name of the new place down at the Corner?”
“Easy. It’s called The Eat.”
“Great. Let’s finish up and go celebrate.”
She smiled and came over to the table.
“Cadence! Don’t get your drips on this. Here’s the final copy of Mel’s manuscript. All of our edits are in. He did — we all did — a great job. It’s ready. Here’s the envelope, here’s the letter. Let’s each sign and send it off.”
“You know I could do this easier on the computer.”
“It wouldn’t be the same. I like the old-fashioned way. You know, the sepia-toned image of the veteran publisher. The one that responded enthusiastically to our letter. I can see him, fussing around. Pipe smoke. Messy desk. Piles of manuscripts. He’s still a hard copy man. His best-seller products are lined proudly on a bookshelf. He opens the envelope, nodding as he adjusts his bifocals. He leafs through the manuscript, smiling, puts it in his briefcase to savor at home. Picks up his tweed sport jacket. He—”
“Grandpa!”
“Huh.”
“No one publishes on paper any more, it’s all going digital. More important, the publisher is a lady—a very successful lady, like more than half the industry. It’s increasingly strong, competent women.”
“OK, I got lost. Change the scene.”
“Well, let’s seal it with good luck.” She licked the flap and pressed it with the edge of the tooth on her key chain. “I’ll walk it over to the post office.”
“Get a return receipt.”
“It’s great to get this done, Grandpa.”
“Done? We haven’t even started. You should see the other stuff up there in the attic.”
“Hey, one story at a time.” “One thing’s for sure…” “What’s that?” “We’re home.”