9/4/11: California Stars, Fleas and Laughter


Sunday, August 7th, 2011, Santa Barbara, California.
Our younger daughter Lisa, and Joe and I had flown here for our nephew’s wedding, held the day before.

Oh, the memories! We’d lived here from 1975-77, and it didn’t rain once. If you needed a bathroom anywhere in most of California, you had to buy something. Water and cloth napkins disappeared from restaurant tables. Lawn police heavily fined desperate homeowners who watered their expensive landscapes in deep night.
Finally, anything green died: lawns became stone. Literally.
That drought lasted three long years. There were rarely clouds: just perfect blue sky, day after month after year.

It was a town where I’d shop for groceries alongside Cary Grant, or Fess Parker, of Davy Crocket fame; where fish, barely out of the ocean, were delivered to the shop around the corner from my sister’s home; where I could pick avocados right off the tree in her garden; and…where I’d perambulated my six-week-old daughter, Jenny, to Cliff Drive Park near the wharf to watch the occasional shark idly watching people.
I’ve never cared to swim in that ocean. Nosir.
(Recently a surfer was eaten north of town.)

I’ve mixed feelings about Santa Barbara. The karma was never quite right. Two examples:
- Our dog Fred was ticketed fifteen minutes after we hit town: though licensed and at heel in my sister’s front yard, he wasn’t leashed.

-We’d finally found a tiny cinderblock rental on Cliff Drive (100 feet away from the famous1000 Steps, which descend to one of the world’s most spectacular beaches). But it was infested with fleas. My white jeans offered mute testimony. We’d faced some filthy houses over the years, but this one took first prize. For three awful weeks we released potent flea bombs, vacuumed and scrubbed everything till our hands ached, and applied gallons of paint to grubby walls.
Then came the test. I slid on my white jeans, lay on the carpet, and waited. Five anxious minutes later, not. one. flea. We moved in.

Now, 36 years later, we stood before the same boxy residence, which has no yard, garage or view (because one other teeny house stands between it and the cliffs). It’s for sale for well over one million dollars.

Anyway, we trekked down the 1000 Steps to that glorious, empty beach, and walked for a long time beneath towering cliffs. I collected shells for my garden fountain, and we recalled nine-month old Jenny holding Joe’s forefinger as she navigated the damp sand, taking multiple steps to her daddy’s one…
It was a marvelous, reminiscent hour.

Climbing up to the street again, we were greeted by - chuckles.

There were no people about, and few cars. So, who…? They were oddly infectious: we found ourselves chuckling, too.

There! A light chocolate lab hung out a barely moving truck’s window, his eyes glued to the 1000 Steps’ entrance.
Nah…It couldn’t be!
Yup. That dog was chuckling!
But then, when the driver picked up speed and left, they morphed to a mega-disappointed “Oh-h-h-h-h…” Our hair rose as we stood there, open-mouthed.
That was unreal,” Lisa exclaimed.

Wait! They were back! The tone of those human-like sounds rose in anticipation: the dog had apparently convinced his master to reconsider. The guy parked, and a soft “heel” command was issued. They made a disciplined approach to the Steps, with the delighted animal practically walking on his toenails. He shot us one triumphant glance before they began the long descent. Distance and the gently lapping ocean gradually swallowed those uncanny chuckles.

Never have we heard anything remotely like them, or seen a happier dog.


 

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