I’m writing from Suburbia today. Tomorrow we leave for a larger suburban area – Orange County – where I grew up. We’ll travel in Optimus Prime* through California’s Central Valley farm land, over the Grape Vine, through metropolitan Los Angeles, and into the City of Orange where we reserved an rv site near Disneyland for five nights. The purpose of the trip is to meet up with my old classmates. I’ll see how much they have changed, and how much they haven’t, after fifty-five years. I’ll share memories; I’ll tell stories; but mostly, I’ll just listen and observe. I’ll visit with family who remain firmly established in Orange County. I’ll share a picture with my brother. In it, I must be about seven, he about three. We are sitting on the lap of the Buffum’s Santa Claus, he on one knee, me on the other. He’s crying; I’m wearing a snide grin. The painful look on Santa Claus’s face is priceless (It’s the eyes). The old black and white photo tells its own story, about me, about my brother, and about the times (circa 1960). I’m anxious to see my brother’s reaction. He’s not aware I have the photo. Here it is: >>>>
*Optimus Prime (or OP) is a converted Sprinter van I christened after my ex-wife complained, “It looks like an Amazon Prime vehicle.”
