neverland
they hadn't meant to go there, but they did. they stumbled across it on their way to santa barbara, or the wine country, or one of the many trips they went on spontaneously to escape los angeles and sit silently in the car, listening to sad, sweet, lonely music. edward put his tan, strong elbow out of the open jeep window to smoke a cigarette and wizine watched him, slept, sung along. these were the days that weren't yet riddled with unknowables, with fear. these days were certain and calm, the answers lingering there without having been called into being by questions.
edward decided where they would go, what general direction, and wizine was happy to pack a bag and ride. on this trip they headed north and a couple of hours outside of los angeles they passed through a tiny town called solvang. it was made to look like an old dutch village, the storefronts and hotels and restaurants were alpine cottages straight from the cobblestone streets in germany or austria. wizine was astonished. how could such a strange place exist so close to where she lived? how had she never heard of it, never seen it in films, never been taken there before? edward parked the jeep and they got out to walk around. they ate latkes in a restaurant with potted flowers in the windowsills and blonde women dressed in dirndls. this can't be real, she said to edward, and he smiled and said, oh but it is. the town seemed to exist only on this one street, with the mountains surrounding it, highways and emptiness all around for miles.
they didn't say much to each other on these trips, or in their relationship in general. they weren't bored, it didn't collapse because of that, and years later when wizine would think back on that time and that car and the nights they slept next to each other, the one thing she was sure of was that they were loved by one another. loved in a young way that pities, that needs, that understands but doesn't appreciate. they were together, lost and lonely in the meanest city on earth, and the togetherness they created saved them both from total desperation.
they had meant to go to solvang, edward had planned that part. he adored anachronistic people and places and characteristics: a proper mustache on a 23 year old man, a banjo, suspenders, note pads and paper strewn about the bedroom. he had heard about solvang, unlike wizine, and he wanted to show it to her because he loved seeing her seeing new things. she absorbed what was in front of her so fully she sometimes looked like she was in pain. there was hardly anything he loved more, though he never articulated this to her, than putting something new, something different, something unbelievable like a dutch town in the middle of california, in front of her face and watching her eyes become arms and hold it all close to her. it made him want to cry. so much of her did.
after a few hours in solvang, edward looked at a map while smoking a cigarette and decided they were going to take side streets through the mountains to get to his friend's house in santa barbara. he didn't care how long it took. these were the kinds of declarations, the things he believed in, that at that time did not bother or upset wizine. she accepted his need to be in control, to take credit, to do things the hard way just because it looked better, without the slightest bit of worry or disdain. that would come later, in a fiery current of worries and disdains, but for now this was the togetherness that saved them, that pulled them out of the icy water when they had decided to leap from a bridge, when they decided to jump off a cliff. there was nothing to be criticized then because the alternative was certain death.
they started out of solvang, it was dusk and the microphones were playing. the wind was whipping wizine's hair around and she was happy. neither one of them wanted to go back to los angeles. that was always the worst part about their weekend adventures- diving back into the dirty, washed out soup of it. that was the quietest time of all.
for awhile they passed by nothing, just dry mountains and trees on either side. the road winded around twists and turns, they only saw two or three cars. and then, after turning a bend and starting to drive down a straight stretch, they saw a gilded gate with a long, uphill driveway. in cursive script above the gate read "neverland."
edward slowed the car down. "holy shit," he said and laughed. "i think that's where michael jackson lives." wizine had heard of neverland but didn't believe this was it. it can't be, she whispered.
there was a little gatekeepers house off to the side. edward pulled the car into the area in front of the gate. an older man wearing a solid blue uniform emerged with his hands behind his back, slowly. edward and wizine got out of the car.
"hi there," the man said. "welcome to neverland."
"hi. i think we came here by mistake, but is this where michael jackson lives?" edward asked.
"i don't think anyone's ever come here by mistake. and yes, this is michael's home, though he's not here today."
"wow," wizine said. she and edward looked at each other and laughed.
"you two big fans?" the man asked. he seemed excited to have someone to talk to.
"we..." edward started, not knowing how to finish.
"the biggest." wizine said. "thats why this is such a surprise. we were just on our way to santa barbara. just happened across it."
"my, my. thats a story for the grandkids aint it. you two got a camera? you need to remember this."
wizine went into the jeep and pulled out her fathers old nikon camera. this would be one of only a few pictures she had of her and edward together. she handed it to the man. "just press that button," she said.
she and edward ran over to the gate and stood in front of it. the structure was massive, over twice their height. they both turned around and looked up at it before posing for the picture. edward put his arm around wizine's waist and pulled her tight. they were both giddy, giggling.
"one, two, three, neverland!" he took the picture and smiled as he returned the camera to wizine. "yes ma'am," he said. "thats one for the grandkids."
edward decided where they would go, what general direction, and wizine was happy to pack a bag and ride. on this trip they headed north and a couple of hours outside of los angeles they passed through a tiny town called solvang. it was made to look like an old dutch village, the storefronts and hotels and restaurants were alpine cottages straight from the cobblestone streets in germany or austria. wizine was astonished. how could such a strange place exist so close to where she lived? how had she never heard of it, never seen it in films, never been taken there before? edward parked the jeep and they got out to walk around. they ate latkes in a restaurant with potted flowers in the windowsills and blonde women dressed in dirndls. this can't be real, she said to edward, and he smiled and said, oh but it is. the town seemed to exist only on this one street, with the mountains surrounding it, highways and emptiness all around for miles.
they didn't say much to each other on these trips, or in their relationship in general. they weren't bored, it didn't collapse because of that, and years later when wizine would think back on that time and that car and the nights they slept next to each other, the one thing she was sure of was that they were loved by one another. loved in a young way that pities, that needs, that understands but doesn't appreciate. they were together, lost and lonely in the meanest city on earth, and the togetherness they created saved them both from total desperation.
they had meant to go to solvang, edward had planned that part. he adored anachronistic people and places and characteristics: a proper mustache on a 23 year old man, a banjo, suspenders, note pads and paper strewn about the bedroom. he had heard about solvang, unlike wizine, and he wanted to show it to her because he loved seeing her seeing new things. she absorbed what was in front of her so fully she sometimes looked like she was in pain. there was hardly anything he loved more, though he never articulated this to her, than putting something new, something different, something unbelievable like a dutch town in the middle of california, in front of her face and watching her eyes become arms and hold it all close to her. it made him want to cry. so much of her did.
after a few hours in solvang, edward looked at a map while smoking a cigarette and decided they were going to take side streets through the mountains to get to his friend's house in santa barbara. he didn't care how long it took. these were the kinds of declarations, the things he believed in, that at that time did not bother or upset wizine. she accepted his need to be in control, to take credit, to do things the hard way just because it looked better, without the slightest bit of worry or disdain. that would come later, in a fiery current of worries and disdains, but for now this was the togetherness that saved them, that pulled them out of the icy water when they had decided to leap from a bridge, when they decided to jump off a cliff. there was nothing to be criticized then because the alternative was certain death.
they started out of solvang, it was dusk and the microphones were playing. the wind was whipping wizine's hair around and she was happy. neither one of them wanted to go back to los angeles. that was always the worst part about their weekend adventures- diving back into the dirty, washed out soup of it. that was the quietest time of all.
for awhile they passed by nothing, just dry mountains and trees on either side. the road winded around twists and turns, they only saw two or three cars. and then, after turning a bend and starting to drive down a straight stretch, they saw a gilded gate with a long, uphill driveway. in cursive script above the gate read "neverland."
edward slowed the car down. "holy shit," he said and laughed. "i think that's where michael jackson lives." wizine had heard of neverland but didn't believe this was it. it can't be, she whispered.
there was a little gatekeepers house off to the side. edward pulled the car into the area in front of the gate. an older man wearing a solid blue uniform emerged with his hands behind his back, slowly. edward and wizine got out of the car.
"hi there," the man said. "welcome to neverland."
"hi. i think we came here by mistake, but is this where michael jackson lives?" edward asked.
"i don't think anyone's ever come here by mistake. and yes, this is michael's home, though he's not here today."
"wow," wizine said. she and edward looked at each other and laughed.
"you two big fans?" the man asked. he seemed excited to have someone to talk to.
"we..." edward started, not knowing how to finish.
"the biggest." wizine said. "thats why this is such a surprise. we were just on our way to santa barbara. just happened across it."
"my, my. thats a story for the grandkids aint it. you two got a camera? you need to remember this."
wizine went into the jeep and pulled out her fathers old nikon camera. this would be one of only a few pictures she had of her and edward together. she handed it to the man. "just press that button," she said.
she and edward ran over to the gate and stood in front of it. the structure was massive, over twice their height. they both turned around and looked up at it before posing for the picture. edward put his arm around wizine's waist and pulled her tight. they were both giddy, giggling.
"one, two, three, neverland!" he took the picture and smiled as he returned the camera to wizine. "yes ma'am," he said. "thats one for the grandkids."
posted by Jessica Baxter | 1:27 PM
1 Comments:
oh, solvang! you certainly know where my heartstrings are tethered, baxtress. this piece is pure amazing magic and served to kick the scab from atop a frothing gusher of memories..
every year, for several consecutive summers, my parents would drive my younger brother and i north to visit solvang. this began, perhaps, in 1985. after a few trips, we got a sense of the terrain, knew we were close, because the roadside adverts for pea soup anderson's would list fewer and fewer miles to go (only 70 more miles for the home of the split pea soup).
solvang, to me, betrayed that same anachronistic allure, a place out of time. there was an open air market that in the center held a small koi pond and coin-operated remote control boats. a nearby slot-car track provided many memorable times as well.
i remember eating my first eclair in solvang. i selected it from a desert tray that was being pushed around the restaurant on a gueridon. there were candy shops bursting with swedish fish, good & plenty, and assorted bags of salt-water taffy. it was a place of indulgence, of happy stomach aches.
solvang also had, by far, the most intriguing toy store from the days of my pre-adolescent youth. my parents would buy my brother and i pustafix, by far the very best bubbles for children to chase, in a yellow plastic bottle with a wand attached to the inside of the cap.
this toy store is burned deeply into my mind. it sat on the second floor of an charming indoor mall, french doors with natural wood and box beam ceilings. it was absolutely filled with toys, from rubber balls rolling the floors to model planes and box kites dangling from the ceiling.
there, my parents picked out a tape of sing-along songs by roger rush that included 'wabash cannonball' and other kid-safe hits to be sung during long car rides. we bought a kite and took it to nearby carpinteria. the day was windy and i swear i remember my father telling me that we let 2,000 feet of slack out on that kite. it was a mere grain of sand against the unblanched blue of the sky.
the very last trip we took to solvang ended in an odd tragedy. seated in my parent's VW bus were myself, my brother, my sister, and my great aunt and great uncle. we arrived home in pasadena after driving all day. on hill avenue, the bus began to sputter, my father pulled over, and we poured from inside, as the bus caught fire and was slowly consumed by flame.
some random family allowed us inside their house. the fire department was alerted and responded. i still remember my half-sister, ten years older than me, standing on their front lawn, shrieking at the very top of her teenage lungs. after the fire, we picked through the sooty skeleton of the car. the kite and its wooden coil of line were ash. my mom's walkman, a tape still inside, was blackened and oily. a box of precious moments figurines were salvaged, but their angelic, doe eyes were charred, soured, no longer innocent.
i miss that place. you brought me back there. it existed to me as untouched and real as anything in the free landscape of my childhood. you sent me on a journey and i thank you for it.
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