My life’s book is in its 66th chapter right now, but with modern technology being what it is, I have been given the opportunity to reopen and revisit earlier chapters of my life in living color. Or, in this instance, I had characters from early on in my life’s story, emerge from the distant past, and visit me up on my mountain.
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| Laura and JT playing in the back yard on Fellowship Street. The Tranbargers' house is in the background. |
This most recent adventure began innocuously enough with my posting of a piece of writing about Fellowship Street, a bit of fluff, really, with an unexpected result: A woman named Margie made the most amazing comment, “Have many wonderful O’Neill memories.”
I did not have to sweep the cobwebs out of my memory to recall in crystal clear detail Margie’s story. Now ninety-three years young, and still living in SoCal, (and a friend on f/b with my brother Noel), Margie first entered our lives as a neighbor, four or five houses up Fellowship Street, along with her husband Allen and four young children, the oldest Tommy being six. This would have been in the early sixties.
Specific dates are irrelevant so I will just say that I was about ten years old when Allen was killed in a car crash, leaving Margie with the four kids under six years of age, with a fifth one on the way. A native of Wisconsin, the natural thing would have been for Margie to pack up and haul the kids back to her Mama’s house, which is what Margie was being pressured to do.
I did not know any of this as a kid. All I knew for sure was that Margie was at our house after the news of Allen’s death had been revealed, crying in Mama’s bedroom, and the kids spent a lot of time at our house. When we were visiting the other day, Margie said simply, “If it weren’t for Robert and Pauline, I would never have stayed in California.”
As it was, insurance money allowed Margie to purchase a home across town from us, but only fifteen minutes away. As time went along, I used to spend time at this house, hanging out, reading a lot, and frolicking in the built-in swimming pool. I watched TV and explored the gully filled with eucalyptus trees, located across the street behind the band of homes, with whichever kids wanted to come along.
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| The author of Mark's Work, age ten |
Being four years older than Tommy, who accompanied Margie on the road trip up here to Bell Springs Road and HappyDay Farms, I was naturally inclined to keep an eye out for the little kids, having five younger siblings of my own.
No one ever told me it was my responsibility to watch the kids; it was a given that I would do so. On the other hand, no one ever asked me to wash dishes, mop floors or do anything other than pick up after myself. Besides, my favorite pastime at this point in my life was reading, and books don’t make that much of a mess.
When Margie announced she was headed out on a road trip to visit the O’Neill complex up on Bell Springs Road, I was flummoxed. I have a devilishly hard time driving the one hour down to Willits, and am completely incapable of driving Gluten-Free Mama over to Sacramento, to consult with the pros from Dover.
For Margie to come driving up here with Tommy from SoCal as casually as that, makes her a savage in my mind. It made the visit that much more enjoyable for me. I am not a social butterfly, but because they were coming to me, at least I was in the best possible venue.
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| Mama and Mark at St. Martha's |
My topsy-turvy world found me down in Willits when Margie and Tommy first rolled onto the mountain Sunday afternoon. The accommodations had been arranged in advance, and they were staying at the newly-remodeled Big House, Mama and Papa’s home. The reality is that this was not Margie’s first visit, that having taken place back in the late 70’s, or early 80’s.
In fact her youngest, Robert, or Boo, spent considerable time up here one summer. He was always Robert or Boo, which meant that me own father was never Robert, but rather, Papa. Even during this most recent visit, he was always referred to as Papa.
I stopped by the barn up above the big house when I came back from Willits Monday morning, because I saw my brother Matt’s truck. He had made a point of going over to the Big House Sunday evening to pay his respects, because he was also running his construction crew from Monday onward, so he was not going to have the luxury of playing host.
I, being retired, did have this luxury so I traipsed down and barged in on Tommy about nine or so. Margie emerged when she heard our voices, and we chatted for a minute or two before Tommy asked me, “Well, do you know why we’re here?” He went on, “We’re here to hang out with you guys; I have some grubby clothes; put me to work!”
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| The Big House, as seen from the Pepper Pot |
My first thought was I would play Tom Sawyer and coerce Tommy into painting that storage unit with me; we could knock that out in no time at all. Fortunately, I stifled that impulse and went a different route. I decided that if they wanted to sit around and reminisce all day, I had the flexibility to go along with the program. I am retired, after all, and can clock in if I want, or not.
“Give me a few minutes to spruce things up?” I asked, not because I was going to go home and try to actually clean, but just to give me a second to put away groceries and gather my wits.
[Editor’s note: A second, huh?]
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| Eric, Mark, Noel and Brian, with Auntie Anne behind, circa 1957, at Disneyland. |
“MARK! We’re the Gerlach’s! You don’t have to do anything!” And Margie was right. We did go back that far, and had spent enough time in both households, combining upon occasion, nine plus six kids, so yes, Better Homes and Gardens took a back-seat to reality. I do keep my home tidy at almost all times, for the simple reason that it is infinitely easier to maintain a clean living space, than it is to try and shovel out a sty, so I was in good shape for the shape I was in.
On my way home from the Big House, I stopped in at HeadSodBuster’s spot long enough to pilfer two HappyDay Farms chickens from one of the big freezers. Defrosted birds barbecue up much better after they have thawed, so I had to get that process under way.
I knew I still had potatoes from Irene’s farm that HeadSodBuster had given me a few weeks ago. Originally, it had been a good-sized box, filled with potatoes, and I had thought to myself that I would never be able to eat them before they went bad.
That would have been just me eating them, however, but luckily I have had the pleasure of preparing several meals for the whole farm crew. Needless to say, I polished off that box when I made potato salad on Monday. I don’t know what I was thinking when I was cogitating putting Tommy to work painting.
I had to get those potatoes on the stove-top most rickety-tick, so that I could get them peeled, cut up and in the refrigerator. No one likes warm potato salad, unless it is German potato salad with the onions, bacon and vinegar, which is served hot. This, however, was old-fashioned tater salad, flavored at the end with dill pickle juice and yellow mustard.
Next: Reminiscing
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