Good and useful comments—I’ll figure out how to bring a little more vitality to the description.
SSR
Non-fiction / Canyon
Growing up in my 1950s-style small suburb, there was a wooded town, two miles south of us called Canyon. Canyon, according to my parents and their friends, displayed all the excesses of the sixties, and we kids were never to go there. Men with pony tails and beards were common, engaged in communal, rural living. These families lived in Appalachian-like poverty or at least rejected middle America’s materialism and suburban comforts. Dark and dense as Muir Woods, this isolated community was spooky after dark, filled with, we knew, Charles Manson types with eyes glowing, just waiting for little kids like us to cross the bridge that led from our town to Canyon. We were allowed to play anywhere except near the bridge, and even by the time I was in high school, my parents were nervous when I completed a biology assignment on the Canyon side of the bridge. I particularly remember one nonsensical rumor that demonstrated our fears about Canyon’s lawlessness and violence. A couple of rednecks picked up a peaceful Canyon hippie who was hitching a ride. The rednecks ripped out his long hair and beard, leaving a roadside trail of hair and blood.
My younger brother liked to wander off our block and explore, and in this more innocent time, the spring of 1969, my parents were usually unconcerned. One time, however, he went pretty far away, and my mom couldn’t find him. Fortunately, he was brought home by the fire department. A captain had spotted him wandering on the bridge. My brother was in big trouble. My mom would have been less angry if my brother stepped into the Korean demilitarized zone. I don’t remember how he got punished, but I’m sure it was severe. The punishment didn’t work. Robert, his wanderlust still unchecked, roams all over the earth, but now he travels on cruise ships. He never visits jungles or forests like Canyon. He prefers the much more civilized cities—London or Paris. I don’t know why he visited Canyon. He didn’t care much for trees.
When I was a college student, I rehearsed in a budding rock band, and the bass player rented a trailer in Canyon. Out in the middle of nowhere there were few neighbors to complain about the noise, so we played and sang, ruminating endlessly over harmonies, there. There I banged out loud amplified pop music in a place it seemed had been forgotten by the masses of suburbanites living just a few miles away. There you could act differently from the suburbanite that you were and drink more, smoke more, and laugh more. Local hippies that dwelled in Canyon, and I can only guess how they supported themselves, admired the band and would show up, unannounced, to watch the rehearsals. As soon as our audience grew bored and left, we got a lot done, because there were few distractions. Girls couldn’t reach us in this time before cell phones. You couldn’t walk to the liquor store. We took breaks by urinating into the forest outside the trailer door, a steaming stream on cold winter days. Bodily functions were great entertainment. When the work was done, we talked about band business—recording dates and gigs—but also quite openly about how we were getting along with our women, money problems, friendship, and our future. The place, a space of primal forest and stark isolation, pulled us toward deeper male contact, real honesty and sincerity.
As the band’s fortunes improved, we rented a place in Oakland with a professional sound system. With no need to visit, I abandoned Canyon forever. Yet, I have heard the place remains the same as before: quiet, bucolic, and ignored.
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pigpen reviewed Version 3 -
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wordman reviewed Version 3 -
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DCAllen reviewed Version 2 -
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An interesting nostalgic look at your roots. This lies somewhere between blog entry and short story. To improve it, I would concentrate on one aspect of growing up near Canyon. As is, it wanders through these memories a bit too aimlessly.
Proofreading notes:
Your first sentence is begins with dangling participle: there is no human subject for the participle phrase “Growin up in my . . .”.
pony tails = ponytails
he was brought home (This sentence would be better in the active voice.)
if my brother stepped into = had stepped
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scottsta reviewed Version 1 -
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it’s well described but i think it could have more life to it. it’s passively written and that, to me, drags the brilliance from it. i do understand your inspiration from the place. but if you wanted to you could create a smell, a vision, and the feel of this place. i hope that helps. (Manson lived in a place near Chatsworth California called Box Canyon. It’s in the sf valley. I had friends who use to live there in those days)
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