I
’ve taken a different approach to memoir, neither trying to nail down my past, nor to prove that my interpretations of events are right. Rather, my intention has always been to look back with gentle curiosity and compassion, making a heartfelt effort to understand the perspectives and motives of those whose decisions shaped my formative years. Rather than try to document my experience with facts and figures, I have adopted the mindset of examining an old familiar painting, looking at it long enough to recognize when other images—different interpretations—begin to bleed through. This pentimento practice informed my writing from the outset, and it gives my memoir an everyman quality that many of my test readers have found unique and deeply meaningful.
In sharing completed chapters with people who grew up with me, I have received a wealth of support and commendation for my skill in finding meaning in an adolescent experience that many tried to forget.
Simi Valley
The landscape all around me was unlike anywhere I had ever lived. The beauty of the setting was inescapable, and spoke to me at the heart level. Viewed from my house, the foothills on all sides gave me a feeling of being sheltered.
Hudspeth Avenue ran south for about a mile past our house, rising to the top of a small hill in the distance. Above that, brush-covered hills rose in gentle curves that changed colors with the seasons, green in the early spring, ranging into muted hues of brown and gold by midsummer. The foothills rose to a high point at Simi Peak, almost due south of our home.
Behind our house, to the west, lay a large vacant lot filled with weeds and many noisy crows. Looking out from our backyard gate, I often saw these large black birds wheeling and landing there. Across the field I saw another tract of homes, and beyond that the twin peaks of Mt. McCoy at the western edge of the valley. The huge cross on the right-hand peak was clearly visible in the late afternoon, silhouetted against the sunset.
Along the northern perimeter of the valley stretched a long cliff known locally as White Face. This formation could be seen from almost every point in the valley, and I thought it looked as though some giant had cut away the southern half of the mountain, exposing the whitish rock below. Along the rolling crest of White Face, several mature oak trees stretched their branches toward the sky.
Completing the circle, the Santa Susana Pass with its towering rock formations separated Simi from Chatsworth and the larger San Fernando Valley to the east. Also there, a bit to the southeast, lay Rocketdyne with its tall metal gantries from which those thundering blasts punctuated the otherwise idyllic quiet of the valley several times a week.
Like most of my peers, I had been raised in an urban setting, rarely noticing geographical features, flora or fauna. My focus was on the roads and buildings far more than the land. I knew nothing of Simi’s agricultural past, and gave little thought to why so many trees still dotted the valley floor. Some areas along the northern margin of the valley were still planted in orange groves. I had never heard of the term “windbreaks,” yet sections of Los Angeles Avenue and many of the main streets were lined with tall rows of eucalyptus trees that had been planted decades earlier for just that purpose. By day, I appreciated the views of rolling hills and many trees. Even in the 1960s, the vestiges of that agrarian past were still visible…to those with eyes trained to see them.
My Story
I came of age during the 1960s, a pivotal decade of cultural change. The space race was in high gear. The hippies flourished in Haight-Ashbury. The Stonewall Riots launched the gay rights movement. The Vietnam War dragged on and on. Even with these narratives unfolding on the world stage, it was the personal stories of my family that captivated me.
My stepfather had a story, but he was a cold fish and disclosed little about his childhood, his strict New England upbringing, his schooling, or how he became an aircraft mechanic. He led an insular life, and he never seemed to realize that sharing his story might be a first step toward ending the loneliness that became an insurmountable obstacle to a happy family life.
My mother had a story too, and often quipped that her life was an open book. Over time, however, I began to realize that she would only talk about the few happy times she had experienced. Little by little I began to see that something bad had happened to her as she was setting out on her journey into adulthood. She grew so fearful of her buried secret, she allowed it to cripple every important relationship in her life.
My father was one of the finest storytellers I ever knew, and he told his story to anybody who would listen. Many times he said there was a book or a movie in his colorful story line, if only he could find a ghostwriter. He never moved forward with the task of writing about his life. It remained for him an unrealized wish.
While I sometimes thought my parents led more interesting lives, I was the only one in the family with the resolve to put my story on the page. In that way, I connected with people who grew to love me. In that way, I made peace with my secrets, and exorcised the personal demons that would have held me back. Like my father, by telling my story I befriended people far and wide, because they recognized their own truths reflected in my life.
You have succinctly compiled information and experiences I had blocked from my personal memories. I am in awe of your perspective and ability to form a comprehensive reality of your experiences of your life in Simi Valley (and your earlier memories). I have found very few persons who have even included that we were a valley. Santa Susana, Simi Valley, Santa Susana Knolls, Black Canyon and Box Canyon seem to be excluded from a historical perspective…I am truly hoping your book will enlighten the world to our experiences.
—Mary Lang
Ron, your perspective is an inspiration for longhaul thinkers. You struggled, changed, and then reinvented yourself.
—Tyler Adams