Category: Central Coast Life
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I was living in a cozy granny unit in Los Osos, a perfect spot for writing and creativity. But my peaceful retreat took a terrifying turn when I discovered I was sharing my home with a mountain lion. From a strange whistling sound in the dark to finding huge paw prints, my life became a…
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Born in ’61, I came of age with the thunderous heartbeat of rock and roll as my constant companion. For me, it’s more than just music; it’s a foundational element of my identity, a soundtrack to countless memories, and a wellspring of enduring inspiration. This blog explores why rock and roll’s unapologetic authenticity, powerful narratives,…
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A river of night, yet touched by flame, Dark auburn flows, a whispered name. From crown it spills, a rich, deep hue, Where hidden fires glimmer through. Down past the shoulders, a gentle slide, A velvet curtain, where secrets hide. It dances free with every turn, A silent story, lessons learned.
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Now, at sixty-four, I see the lines around my eyes, and I know their names. One is for the creek, one for the cold, one for the day I brought my children home. They are not scars. They are the etchings of a map, showing the way from a place of ruin to a house…
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But listen close, my wild-fire dear, from sixty-four, the view is clearer now. Each mistake you make, each falling tear, is carving strength upon your brow. That impulsive flame you cannot tame, that fierce refusal to be small, will one day be the power in your name, the force that helps you conquer all.
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Across the miles, where continents softly dream, Two hearts awaken to the dawning gleam. In California, where the Pacific sighs, The morning paints its hues in western skies.
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The house stood stark, a place of fear, Where young years echoed shouts I’d hear. My forts arose, in leafy space, A hidden haven, a safe place. For in the wild, I learned to be, The architect of my own decree.
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By the time I was 12, the choice was often a brutal one: stay and face my mother’s drunken violence, or run. I chose to run. In the wild hills of Los Osos, California, I built secret forts, stocking them with water, food, and a sleeping bag. These weren’t forts for play; they were sanctuaries…
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My home became a canvas tent, By creek water, my strength was spent, And then renewed. The tracks my guide, With nowhere left for me to hide. I’d walk to work in waitress shoes, To fight the lonely, midnight blues.