Tag Archives: History

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Quiet Winter

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Photo by takahiro taguchi on Unsplash

I travelled to the Northeast several winter’s ago to share joy with a friend who’s sister was having a baby shower. It was in January the dead of winter and the Northeastern hamlets were covered with blankets of snow. Beautiful pristine crystallized vistas met my gaze as we drove into her village. The air was crisp, refrigerated, but pure. The icy air cooled my airways and my lungs gratefully indulged in the clean cold air. As we walked to the front of our cottage where we were staying,  the snow crunched under our feet. Otherwise, there was silence. People were tucked away in their homes, working on keeping warm and cheerful. The promise of a new life  hovered above us.

The community was old and people didn’t usually move away. My friend and I were well into our fifties and she heralded me with stories as far back as baby music school that she and her friend that had attended. Her friend still lived in the village. Their parents were still there too. She had stories that filled the trip with history of her friends and their families. Who they were and how they came to live in the village.

After a quick dinner, we settled into a room on the top floor of the cottage. The cottage was made of beautiful wood from local Ash and Fir trees. All around the cottage was forest. A forest that would not give up and continued to thicken and thrive no matter what. To live in this forest required constant cutting back to maintain your small space amongst the giants. Outside our multi-paned window, lay an evening winter wonderland scene. The snow sparkled as rays of moonlight hit it’s surface. Giant trees cast shadows across the cottage and the landscape.

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I quickly dressed for bed in warm pajamas and climbed under a huge old comforter covered with a hand stitched quilt. I sunk my head into a soft pillow filled with down. The next thing I knew, light streamed in from the small window and was hitting my eyelids, it was morning. A gentle morning ray that cut across the gray winter sky and provided just enough illumination to establish it was daytime.

 

Photo by Ozgu Ozden on Unsplash

There were no sounds. Just quiet, stillness, my breathing. A sense of peace. It had snowed again during the night.  Fresh diamonds of ice glittered brightly across the landscape, bringing the promise of fresh water in the coming spring and new life.  I felt strangely at home. We bowed down to the cold; to it’s majesty and magic.

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The Past Opened

Photo by isabel garger on Unsplash

Once a year Riverside celebrates it’s beautiful historic architecture with the Doors Open event. It’s an alluring evening for those who love history, architecture, mystery and all things beautiful. The doors to Riverside’s most iconic buildings are opened to the public with free tours that are gateways to Riverside’s illustrious past. Few today know that Riverside was once the wealthiest city per capita in the United States and that statesman, land developers and a who’s who of the gilded age flocked to Riverside for business, respite and entertainment.

The architecture of Riverside is eclectic and much of it was created by illustrious and famous architects. There are buildings that were designed by Myron Hunt, Julia Morgan, Arthur Benton, G. Stanley Wilson, Peter Weber and many others.

I love volunteering for this event. It’s a fast paced, fun and exciting night. It’s usually in the middle of the week, after work and school. Even though it’s at a very busy time, people come from far and wide to experience the beauty of old Riverside. It’s starts at six in the evening when the tours begin. The tours are usually short in duration and present the historical and architectural highlights of the building. There are approximately 20 buildings to see, so it’s a race to see how many you can actually tour within the allotted four hours the buildings are open.

The best part is meeting the people that have journied to see these fabled buildings. I’ve met so many wonderful and interesting people from all walks of life that love history just as much as I do and are fascinated by architecture. Many of the guests recount personal stories that took place in the buildings. Stories that have been passed down through generations in their families. People also come to see the buildings they have passed by for years and wondered what was in it and who created it; coming to satisfy their curiosity.

Photo by Christian Fregnan on Unsplash

The grand dame of the night is The Mission Inn Hotel, created by Frank Miller in 1903 and finished in 1931. A magical wonderland of architectural styles from all over the world. Frank Miller loved the people of the world and devoted his life to promoting peace and building a beautiful community. His legacy is the Mission Inn and speaks for itself. During Doors Open a mini tour is provided that gives a good overview of Frank Miller’s vision and a primer of the varied architectural styles gleaned from around the world. It’s a teaser for a 75 minute tour that is presented seven days a week by the dedicated Mission Inn Foundation for a nominal fee.

The Doors Open event, held every May, is just one of the wonderful events held annually in the Inland Empire and makes the I.E. such a fantastic place to live.

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Vintage Home Tour

Photo by Simon Maage on Unsplash

I’ve been what is known as a historical for awhile now. What this means is I love history and I love to be involved in that world. Sometimes they call us hystericals just for good measure. Hystericals-oops, I mean historicals, light up when the the conversation turns towards old architecture and usually think that every building fifty years or older must be preserved. No matter that the edifice may carry decades of bad renovations, strange add-ons and inappropriate modifications. It’s what’s underneath it all that counts.

Most cities have their Vintage Home Tours in the spring. Usually five or six houses are chosen and then volunteers are gathered and assigned to the homes to recount the history of the home and expound on it’s architecture. This usually happens in May, when Spring is in beginning to set out her blooms and brighten our world. It also happens to usually hit the first hottest day of the year as well. I’ve not participated in a home tour yet, where at the end of the day, my hair wasn’t stuck to my head and I felt soggy from the hot sun beating against my old fashioned clothes. But the experience is worth it, because old architecture is lovely and a door to the past.

Walking into a vintage home transports you immediately into the past and to a simpler and gentler time. Old buildings feel solid and strong around you. The craftsmanship of a time when people built their own homes from scratch and made sure what they made would last. The stories of generations of lives that have passed through the doors of an old home. Some of those players return during a tour to see their old home and relive loved memories. Their faces light up with recognition and wonder as their past comes alive once more.

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The Flea

Headed out to the Rose Bowl Flea last weekend. It was a glorious Southern California Winter day. The Air was crisp and cool and the sun shone clear through blue skies. Fluffy white clouds floated overhead and drifted on the light breezes. The drive was uneventful with just about three slow and goes on the interstate, but the drive was worth it. I arrived on Seco Street and pulled into the line that led to parking. Once the line moved and I was positioned to enter parking, I was able to cut across the green expanse of lawn and find a great space fairly close to the entrance. The grass was soggy from the past weeks of bountiful rain and mud oozed through where heavy cars and trucks had pulled in and down the rows to find the best parking. The Rose Bowl; designed by the great architect Myron Hunt and completed in 1922, rose above the tents and flags. A white coliseum for modern gladiators. A huge neon rose embelished the cement facade. It’s proportions were perfect and graceful and the building was set out at the base of the canyon in the center of nature. Those architects of the newly settled California had loved nature and sought to place their creations within the center of it.

I got my umbrella for shade and my bag for any goodies I might find and marched up to buy my ticket. The venue was filled with people out for an exciting and fun day filled with anticipation. People were out to explore and to look for vintage treasure and funky clothes that you could only find at a Los Angeles flea market. Just watching my fellow human kind was entertainment enough. We humans came in so many shapes and sizes, personalities and characters. People were dressed in all kinds of gear. A couple; impossibly thin and chic ambled by dressed to the tee in Rockabilly style. Their outfits consisted of matching rolled Levis, studded belts and immaculate western shirts. There were gorgeous women who looked like they had just hiked out Laurel Canyon. Their skin pale and untanned, long flowing tresses with the perfect California beach wave, they walked slowly and floated in their patterned skirts and peasant tops. A seven foot cellist in black combat boots with four inch platforms and a kilt had stationed himself in front of the bowl. He serenaded the crowds with futuristic and dramatic compositions that echoed through the canyon walls.

I wandered around, the sun beating against my parasol, the heat settling into my shoulders. Vintage was everywhere and it was more than enough to make for at least two full days of shopping. Thousands of items, each with it’s own unique history and so many stories to tell. The fact that it was so much, created the atmosphere of treasure hunt that could be relished and allowed to slowly unfold. It was a perfect day in nature, a perfect day for relaxing and letting history emerge and entertain.

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Straw Flower Family

The straw flowers were standing lovely in three small tin pots. They reminded me of a multigenerational family clustered together and at different stages of their life. Small blossoms with closed velvet buds slept and awaited their moment to arise and take the stage. Once their bright yellow petals were sprung, they would be stiff and as dry as parchment paper. Perfect for fairies to write love notes upon. The enfant buds had a neighbor that had already fully opened. This blossom, like a dandy, displaying his new clothes and revealed his luxurious velvet orange button at his center. Across the way and glorious; a neighboring blossom lay it’s face fully open to the public. The center button was fully opened and it’s symmetrical seeds lay like a thousand tiny soldiers standing in formation creating the circle of life. Next to this beautiful blossom and nestled between the various buds was the grand parent to them all. It was an old blossom that was fully opened. The straw petals fallen aside and soft feathering seeds cascaded out and over it’s sides. These small aeronauts were ready and waiting to be transported by the wind to a new land.

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My mom planted straw flowers in her garden when I was a child. I didn’t remember them until I picked some up at a local specialty store to decorate the house for a party. I loved how bright and cheery they were. They exuded the ambience of summer, beaches and warm days. As I examined them, the thought of Dragon Snaps and violets floated into my consciousness and a picture of my mom and I planting flowers. That was the sixties. Everything was full of sunshine and promise and my mom drove a van with huge psychedelic flowers on it. Flowers, peace and love were a part of everyday life. This was obviously a flower that was meant to bring joy.

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It’s official name is Xerochrysum Bracteatum. We know it as the golden everlasting or strawflower. It’s a flowering plant in the family Asteraceae and it’s native to Australia. It was first described by Étienne Pierre Ventenat in 1803. Étienne Pierre Ventenat was a French botanist born in Limoges, France. He was the brother of the famed naturalist Louis Ventenat. He devoted his life to the study and the documentation of the plants he found in the greenhouses and the gardens of Europe. In 1850, the straw flower was developed in Germany and new colors were propagated. So now we have not only yellow; but bronze, purple and red. It was initially known as Helichrysum bracteatum back then and this continued for several years. In 1990 it was moved to the genus Xerochrysum and now it’s part of the daisy family. The strawflower is found around the world and grows in many different habitats. Butterflies, bees, grasshoppers, beetles and moths rely on this hardy blossom for sustenance. Crafters use them for potpourri and making wreaths.

Strawflowers are easy to grow. They are heat tolerant and survive well in poor soil. If you decide to grow them, the most important thing to remember is-water them lightly. I’ve got mine outside now and they seem to be thriving in full sun and with just a watering or two a week. On cloudy days, they are a reminder of sunshine and and hold the promise of summer and warmth in the days ahead.

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The Old Circle

Summer is coming and it’s the best time of year in Southern California. My favorite city was once a farming town, founded by a group of entrepreneurial bankers from the midwest. The land they purchased was an alluvial plane descending from the Santa Ana mountains. On the other side of this mountain range are the beaches. The cool fog drifts over almost every evening and then burns off with the first sunlight. When seen from the right angle at a certain time a day it looks tropical and you could swear you were driving into an island. Palm trees jut up against small green mountains with a backsplash of blue sky and puffy white clouds. The city started as a farming community that sustained itself on citrus crops. Those farms are gone now, along with the groves that released a heavenly sent every evening at sundown and blanketed the city with a heady, intoxicating perfume.
Summer is hot here. It’s all about very light clothing, no sleeves, mostly shorts and tall glasses filled with ice and sweet liquid. They call it the dog days of summer. If you are feeling particularly ambitious, it’s wise to rise early and get everything done in the coolness of the morning. As the day progresses it’s time to hit the porch and do nothing. Just like the dogs. Lay back, try to breath and don’t get overheated, because there aren’t too many ways to cool back down. Now we have indoor showers, air conditioning and refrigerators. Back then, you had to improvise. Sleeping porches were common and the family would gather on the second story to catch the night breezes and chat about the happenings of the day as they drifted off to sleep. Once you get used to the heat, it’s wonderful. The body relaxes, the skin opens and breathes. Everything and everybody slows down and it’s summer-time for vacation!




When summer hits, the main event is the fourth of July. People from all over the city head into the historic core for a good old Fourth of July parade. The local school bands and the Rotary are in full force. Candidates for city office ride by in old Thunderbirds or new souped up Mustangs with a young gorgeous pageant queens at their side. People set up small encampments with chairs, blankets, drinks and food and settle in to enjoy the good old fashioned spectacle. Laughing with friends and neighbors and feeling thankful that they landed in this place.
The city was planned with a circle at it’s center. It was meant to symbolize a crown. The crown of English royalty that invested in the small inland colonies of California and provided financial backing to make sure the farms grew and prospered. A hundred years ago famous racers and their vintage Stutz and Fiats tore around the circle to complete one hundred screaming, terrifying laps at more than 100 miles per hour. Beautiful grand farmhouses were erected along it’s borders for the more prominent business leaders and politicians. Many had carriage houses, tennis courts and later swimming pools. Now the races have a become a historic relic and many of the homes are gone. For those that remain; some are well-preserved and some not. Some are modified beyond recognition. It’s a mish mash of eclectic vintage architecture lined with dusty palms, ancient pepper and oak trees. It’s old and lovely and full of history that’s intriguing. The circle has persevered and remains a landmark to Southern Californians. It’s easily seen from the air and serves as a landmark for pilots.
Farming gave the city, it’s first purpose and history.




Over a hundred years have passed and now there are other reasons to live here. As farming phased out, development and industry took over and were a success. Some of the old orchards still remain up in the hills rising above the city. Beautiful old citrus trees stand majestic and silent with globes or orange and yellow fruit hanging enticingly from their branches. Small noises of animal life punctuate the quiet as birds fly over the canopy singing joyfully.
This is summer, this is history, this is Southern California.

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Drive of The Artists


Photo by Rob Morton on Unsplash




Being a field nurse definitely has it’s perks. Especially if you enjoy getting out and seeing the sights and the land where you live. The other day I had an appointment  out in the East Valley beyond Moreno Valley and decided to take the back roads from Corona. This means taking Old Temescal Canyon Road to Cajalco Road and then heading up towards Lake Mathews and then traversing along  a two lane highway that passes Perris and then feeds into the East Valleys. The best part of this drive is when you reach the top. The air is cleaner and cooler up there and the sky a clear, happy shade of blue. Hawks and assorted birds are abundant. The view is spectacular. On a clear day, Mount Baldy is magnified and visible. Defining characteristics are easily made out. The cities of Chino, Ontario and Rancho Cucamonga sprawl before the mountain base and street grids lay like a tattoo against the valley floor.

Back in the 80s the Inland Empire was still a sleepy and slower kind of place. Downtown Riverside was filled with antique and thrift stores throughout the historic downtown. It was a treasure trove of history. Historic buildings remained untouched by progress. Many without plumbing to the upper floors. The shops were jam packed with vintage dating back to the 1800’s.  The Mission Inn, the historic gathering place of auspicious city fathers and visiting presidents,  was struggling to arise to it’s former glory. The Inn rested, waited and hosted the public in the truest sense of the word. A restoration and fight to preserve the unique national landmark was underway.




The shops were filled with old paintings that depicted the landscapes and vistas of the Inland Empire. a consistent theme was one of the mountains and valleys in varying shades of dusky blue with a hazy purple and pink sky. I always thought these artists had  great imaginations and were embellishing what they saw. Now having lived in the area for more than 30 years; I realize I was wrong. At certain times of day the landscapes do become an assortment of dusky shades and of blue and green and the skies morph into a purple and pink haze.  It’s absolutely stunning and moves the soul. These views beckon the past often depicted in old cowboy novels and a past that is not really that far away. Riverside had managed to stay lightly developed until just recently due to it’s distance from Los Angeles. I love that these paintings appear to embellish and veer off into fantasy, but are in fact a realistic interpretation of how the valleys and mountains appear here.

These lands are the high desert.  Sometimes receiving water and sometimes not.  More than a hundred years ago, brave men and women came to seek a new life, better health and opportunity in this harsh, but forgiving landscape. Leaving cold and crowded cities for the sun and room to grow.  The air was dry and clean and the land unspoiled by industry and harsh chemicals. It was a place to start new and become great if you wanted to.  If you worked hard enough, success was yours.  The climate was warm compared to the frigid climate of the East.  Muscles and tendons relaxed and the lungs opened.  It was relief not to have to fight off the cold. The energy freed from the burden of fighting against the elements was directed into new and exciting adventures.




Moving across the ridge, I drive through countryside dotted with small developments. It’s scrubby and green at the same time and birds soar overhead relishing in the clean, clear currents. As I drive, I wonder how long these areas will remain fairly unspoiled and host this relaxing drive. I  quickly remind myself to stay present and appreciate this. This is the best gift that anyone could receive and it’s ongoing and there for the taking.

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Parisienne Breakfast, natural and healthy

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Later in life and once I had enough resources, I made it my mission to recreate a breakfast that defined my initiation into the ways of the world, literally. When I was 20, I moved to Europe and my first stop was Paris. After a very long transatlantic flight and taxi to the our hotel located on the border of  the red light district, I would be ushered into the breakfast room that changed my life and beliefs about the world completely. That first European breakfast would be a vivid memory for the rest of my life.




The breakfast room was a small bright room with huge old windows hung with lace curtains. The morning light of the gray Parisian morning filtered through the backwards lettering that spelled Hotel Des Arts. The tables were old, with linoleum tops, the table legs resting on a painted floor. The room was old, vintage, but one of the cleanest rooms I’d been in.   The aroma of fresh robust coffee filled the air with underlying tones of fresh bread and steamed milk. I felt incredibly fatigued by jet lag and hungry from lack of a real meal for about 24 hours. A waitress came to the table and asked for my drink order in French. After I gave her my order, a basket containing a fresh baguette and croissants were placed on the table with fresh butter and a pot of strawberry preserves. Small containers of plain white yogurt were placed on the table and then a pot of steamed milk and a silver teapot filled with steaming coffee. It didn’t seem like much compared to the choices I had at home, but once I partook of the this Parisian repast, I found it was delicious and satisfying in a wonderful way. It was simple, but completely gratifying. I was  full and the fatigue was slipping away. The flavors of coffee, hot milk and patisserie with fresh butter and jam blended perfectly. Later, I found out that this was the way the French lived. Creating their own unique blends of delicious and natural foods from ancient recipes and traditions. Cuisine that satisfied the soul.

That started a train of thought that would not leave me for the rest of my life. I was determined to recreate that first Parisian breakfast. Once I returned home, I would seek out bakeries in grocery stores, restaurants and freestanding establishments  to find the perfect croissant and baguette. Thankfully about 20 years into my search, French culture hit the US with the opening of a famous coffee chain based out of Seattle and specialty grocery store that went national. The grocery delivered the patisserie, pain au chocolate, in particular, via the frozen food section. I could buy the frozen treat and have it baked and ready by the next morning. Of course, it was nothing compared to the real thing found only in the morning in Paris, but it was amazing how after eight hours of rising through the midnight hours that buttery, flaky crusts actually came out my Southern California  oven. It seemed there were a thousand layers of delicious buttery  dough that melted in my mouth. The last layer, a thick ribbon of dark chocolate lay slightly melted but holding it’s form. The perfect ending to the delicious pastry.




For the coffee, the new coffee chain opened, bringing espresso to the United States. So finally I had most of my ingredients for that mystical French breakfast that plagued my memories and created a longing that went on for years. The last ingredient was a plain, unbelievably creamy and tangy French yogurt. I found that most of the plain yogurts here were Greek and too thick. The European style yogurts didn’t really capture the simple and pure style of those first yogurts. I tried Kefir, goat yogurt, you name it, I tried the gamut.

Then finally and unknowingly, the yogurt that I had dreamed of for 30 years was in my fridge and I had no idea it was there. I knew I had just bought yogurt, but I didn’t  think it would be ‘the one’. I was having a lazy day and didn’t feel like putting my glasses on at the grocery store. I asked the young clerk if he saw a plain cup-sized yogurt in the case. He found me one and said , “this is the only one that we have left, it’s our store brand and I’m not too sure you’ll like it. It’s low fat too, so I’m not sure you want this. ” I really wanted a plain yogurt in a cup, so I took  a couple of cups from him and stored them in the fridge without a thought when I got home. The next day, I sat down to breakfast and opened a cup of that very American, no frills plain cup of low-fat yogurt. I  looked into the cup and immediately felt a twinge of nostalgia and faint feeling of recognition. This yogurt appeared runny, but creamy and it clung thickly to the sides of the cup. An aroma similar to a dairy milking room wafted up from the cup. Memories of the Parisian breakfast room began to appear. I dipped my spoon and tasted the French imposter. The yogurt slid over my tongue with satin creaminess and tanginess that I hadn’t tasted for 30 years! It was ridiculous the joy that I felt over that generic yogurt. It was one of those funny little jokes that life  will play on us every once in awhile. Searching everywhere in vain for something that was right under my nose.   Maybe, over the years, I just didn’t recognize that taste from that long ago, but for some reason, my mind wanted to believe it and that made me really happy. I decided to go with it and the wonder of discovering the missing link I needed to recreate that life changing experience from years ago.




So that’s how I managed to recapture that wonderful first morning in Paris. The quest is over and the idea no longer plagues me. I didn’t have to leave that wonderful memory behind and now every morning I can have a little bit of Paris.