Burbank High School

Although I loved high school when I was a teenager, it certainly was not the highlight of my life. Nor was my class (1971) apparently all that memorable since it’s barely mentioned in the recently published history of the school. Still, when a former classmate told me that Burbank High School (BHS) was celebrating its centennial this year, I immediately went to the alumni website and got nostalgic for the good ol’ days.

My family moved to Burbank in the early 1960s. With Lockheed still booming and the studios (Warner Bros., Disney and NBC) churning out hundreds of movies and TV shows in those days, living in a town like Burbank was probably every middle-class American’s dream. Though a mere 15 miles away, our new home seemed galaxies apart from the considerably less affluent El Sereno, our former neighborhood in the heart of Los Angeles.

My sister Vicki and I were excellent students who loved school. We never belonged to any social cliques; nonetheless we had lots of friends and happily participated in high school life. We attended most sports events and, like everyone else, hung-out at Bob’s Big Boy restaurant after games and on weekends. We both moved on, though, soon after graduation and rarely go to Burbank anymore since our father and aunt died.

No wonder then that I was totally mystified when I returned, earlier this month, for the BHS centennial parade and celebration. I parked the car and started walking toward the high school, but for the life of me I couldn’t see its rather distinctive 1960s facade. Had they moved the school?

Then suddenly I noticed a much newer building where our school had been. It was covered in bulldog (our old mascot) banners and I realized BHS had been completely rebuilt! Stunned, I sat on the front steps and waited for the parade to start. A group of much older alums (class of 1958) sat next to me and chatted about homecoming dances and drag-racing down Third St., while I kept my eyes peeled for classmates from my generation.

The parade was sweet—lots of former prom queens and the oldest living alumna (100 years old). Anson Williams (class of 1967), perhaps our most famous graduate and star of the TV show “Happy Days,” got a big round of applause. But the single most popular attraction was Bob’s Big Boy, towed behind on old Ford wagon. Everyone ran to the curb and starting taking snapshots of possibly the most important icon of our youth. I can’t even tell you how many Bob’s hamburgers (back in the days when I was still eating beef!) and french fries I devoured while in high school.

After the parade, I rushed over to the main quad to be part of the first tour of campus. We started at the library—the newest part of the building and the final phase of a reconstruction project that’s taken over ten years to complete. The school is now twice the size it was when Vicki and I went there. The number of students has also doubled—2000 compared to roughly 900 kids in our day. The auditorium, now named after my former drama teacher Deane Wolfson, is the only thing that remains of our old school.

Though I never did run into anyone there from the class of 1971, my visit to BHS ended up being very magical. The students all seemed to love the school and the renovated campus was truly amazing. I felt empowered by our school motto, “PRIDE,” all over again.

Hail Burbank High School! Hail! Hail! Hail!

Brian Wilson

Karen had an extra ticket to the Hollywood Bowl Sunday night, so I went with her to see Brian Wilson’s end-of-summer concert.

Wilson, of course, was the main architect of surfer rock ‘n roll as well as the brilliant mastermind behind the Beach Boys. He had a rather infamous nervous breakdown in the late 1960s and pretty much fried his brain on drugs (subscription and otherwise). Still, he’s managed to outlive his brothers and bandmates, Dennis and Carl Wilson, and continues to create beautiful music, even though his voice is fairly shot. Over the past four decades, I’ve seen him perform on stage more than any other musical artist.

We took the early bus to the Bowl, so we had plenty of time to look around and survey the audience. Most of the people were our age: baby-boomers who, like my sister and me, probably spent their teen summers hanging out in Santa Monica, listening to the Beach Boys on their transistor radios.

There wasn’t an opening act. Instead, the L.A. Philharmonic orchestra was scheduled to play a selection from “The Marriage of Figaro,” a Bach concerto and the overture from George Gershwin’s “Girl Crazy,” before Wilson and his band took the stage.

I called Tim while Karen was in the bathroom.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t come with us, because the Phil is playing ‘The Marriage of Figaro,’ Bach and ‘Girl Crazy’ before Brian comes out,” I told him.

“Gershwin is OK. But Bach and ‘The Marriage of Figaro’?!” he nearly yelled. “That was never part of the deal. Quick! Take a cab and come home right now!”

Well, a little opera never hurt anyone, so I stayed. And thank goodness, too, because there actually was a method to this seeming madness. Turns out Mozart, Bach and Gershwin are Wilson’s favorite composers, so the Bowl decided to include them as part of the celebration.

After the “Girl Crazy” medley, Wilson’s band came out, followed by Brian himself, looking a lot more spry than in the past. He greeted his fans and proceeded to immediately launch into “California Girls,” one of the Beach Boys’ most popular songs. Without missing a beat, the woman sitting directly in front of us leapt out of her seat, ripped off her jacket, and started gyrating in a tight-fitting Hawaiian-print dress. Not only was she (quite literally) the only person dancing in the entire Hollywood Bowl, but her movements were extremely provocative. I swear, all that was missing was a pole! Her poor husband was duly mortified.

Though our view was mostly obscured by the pole dancer’s shenanigans, we ended up having a great time and even got up to dance ourselves during “Help Me Rhonda” and “Johnny B. Goode.” I screamed along to “Fun, Fun, Fun”—SEEMS SHE FORGOT ALL ABOUT THE LI-BRARY, LIKE SHE TOLD HER OLD MAN, NOW! After all these years, Brian still knows how to rock.

The show ended with fireworks as Wilson and his band exited stage right. Summer is now officially over.

Eating Our Way Through the Central Coast

For the past few summers, we’ve taken a short but restful vacation on California’s central coast. We usually rent a house in Shell Beach, go antiquing in Cayucos, and generally hang-out in San Luis Obispo (SLO) and Pismo Beach. But mostly we like to just relax and eat. This year Karen came along with us.

We always go up on Thursday so we can partake in SLO’s enormous farmer’s market—the single best farmer’s market we’ve ever seen, primarily because half the vendors sell barbecued food cooked right there on the street. It is a meat-lover’s paradise.

Even though the farmer’s market doesn’t open until 6PM, we always arrive early to survey our food options. Parking in our secret spot behind the Well’s Fargo bank, we started at the southernmost end of Higuera Street and began walking slowly north, lured by the various smells of sizzling meat. At exactly 6PM (vendors aren’t allowed to sell anything until the market officially opens), we ran over to our favorite pie booth and bought two freshly-baked pies—apple and olallieberry—before they sold-out. We all agreed later that the pies were among the best we’d ever eaten (yum!).

Selecting dessert was easy. But the main course? Not so much. After scrutinizing every barbecue stand along the way, Tim and I finally went back to our usual spot, Mother’s Tavern, for chicken and sausage sandwiches, while Karen continued in search of the perfect pork rib. She was so successful that Tim got ribs, too, as soon as he finished his sausage.

We then went to Bel Frites, a hole-in-the-wall joint that sells Belgian fries, which we followed by going over to Giordano’s for an Italian ice chaser (“bomberry” and limon—yum!). Waddling back to the car, we picked up two loaves of bread, two pounds of tomatoes, a jar of olallieberry jam, and, oh yes, an “Obama for President” bumper sticker. After all, one can never be too prepared in case, say, a nuclear explosion precluded us from returning to L.A.!

Believe it or not, I was actually hungry the next morning and so the three of us strolled up to the Seaside Cafe, a small bakery/coffee shop two blocks from our rental. I ate a berry scone (yum!) while they drank coffee. Back at the house, we broke into one of the loaves of bread and devoured leftover pastries that Tim had brought from breakfast the day before. Funny how the sea air opens one’s appetite!

With nothing much else to do, we drove back to SLO to shop and ogle the town’s famous Bubble Gum Alley, an odd bit of local color recommended by one of my students. Located just off Higuera Street, the alley consists of two walls completely and utterly covered in chewing gum. Although thoroughly disgusting, the sight was also strangely compelling . . . well, for a few minutes at least.

To clear our mental palettes, we headed over to Big Sky, a healthy food cafe started by the chef of the now defunct Kokomo’s, our favorite restaurant when we lived in Park Labrea ten years ago. Anticipating a meat-filled evening ahead, we unanimously opted for vegetarian dishes for lunch (fresh gazpacho soup—yum!) and then returned to Giordano’s for dessert. From there, we drove to a Pismo multiplex, where we saw “Bottle Shock,” a quirky little movie about Napa Valley wine, and counted the hours till dinner.

Every time we vacation on the central coast, people always ask us afterward if we ate at McClintock’s, perhaps the best-known restaurant in the area. We never had, so we decided to give it a try this time.

With five locations, McClintock’s is something of a local institution. I can imagine young couples eating there on prom night or families going there to celebrate landmark events, like 50-year wedding anniversaries or 75th birthdays. We, on the other hand, had no idea what to expect. Turns out, the main dining house, across the freeway from Shell Beach, is similar to Buca di Beppo or any number of “family style” restaurants where quantity is favored over quality. Before we even ordered, a young man brought a basket of onion rings to the table—it was downhill from there. The food was prepared and served in massive quantities and all for a massively big price. Needless to say, we were disappointed, but brought home leftover ribs and potatoes anyway!

I returned to the Seaside Cafe the next morning for one last berry scone (yum!) and then suggested we all walk over to see the ocean once more before leaving town. Just when I thought it was safe to move about the neighborhood, the three of us spied what appeared to be a small farmer’s market at a nearby park. Sure enough, more food galore! I resisted all temptation, but Tim and Karen were immediately drawn to The Eatery, yet another barbecue stand.

“How about a sample?” the female proprietor teased.

“We’re still full from dinner,” Tim answered, holding his stomach. “We ate at McClintock’s last night.”

“McClintock’s? Pfft!” she scoffed. “Let me show you what real tri-tip tastes like!”

And with that, she sliced off samples for both Tim and Karen. (I had already fled). Like playground kids tempted by the school junkie, they were quickly hooked and decided to split a tri-tip sandwich before we hit the road. We also purchased corn chips, strawberries and locally-produced olive oil.

How my poor little Honda Fit managed to carry us, plus all our bootie, back to Los Angeles, I’ll never know. But we piled everything into the car and were back home in plenty of time for dinner.

Labor Day Stay-cation

As usual, we decided to stay in L.A. over the Labor Day weekend. Who needs to travel when there’s so much to do here?

On Saturday, we decided to brave the heat and head east to the Huntington Library to see the “This Side of Paradise” photo exhibit, which ends September 15. The exhibit, comprised of hundreds of famous and not-so-famous photos, succeeds at capturing the essence of Los Angeles from its beginnings to current day. Sure, there were the obligatory snapshots of celebrities posing and doing glamorous as well as silly things (e.g., Marilyn Monroe lifting weights); but the best were of everyday people working and living their lives: a man watering his lawn (ca. 1973); another man holding his baby at the beach (1963); a boy selling newspapers (1943); and porn stars taking a break in Woodland Hills (2002). (“Boogie Nights,” anyone?). My favorite was Michael Light’s enormous landscape of downtown L.A., looking west above the 5, 10, 60 and 101 freeways. The city looks like a giant gray squid entangled in a mass of concrete tentacles. Everyone who loves Los Angeles should see this amazing exhibit.

The next morning, we schlepped to Santa Monica beach, where we read the Sunday paper and watched as surfers tried to catch what little waves there were. The water was flat and glassy—so glassy, in fact, that we saw dolphins swimming among the surfers—something neither of us had ever seen in all our years going to the beach. What a thrill!

En route home, we visited Arlington West, a project of the antiwar group Veterans for Peace, who erect over a thousand crosses every Sunday to commemorate the more than 4,000 soldiers who have died in the Iraq war. The weekly memorial is installed on the beach just north of the Santa Monica pier and is extremely powerful. If anyone needs visual evidence of how wasteful and wrong this war has been, certainly this is it.

On Monday, we just putzed around the house and wished we’d taken the entire week off! Despite the heat, our backyard garden has surprisingly flourished this summer, with some plants actually still blooming. I’m looking forward to re-landscaping the front yard this fall, but that’s a story to be continued . . .

Obama for President

I’ve tried not to make this blog a forum for blatantly promoting my political beliefs, but last night I became a convert and don’t care who knows it!

Still stinging from Hillary’s hard-fought defeat, I began the week rather blasé about the Democratic convention. But when Barack Obama took the stage last night as the first African-American presidential nominee in history, I started to cry and didn’t stop until well after his speech. He was brilliant, inspiring and, I dare say, just may be the most authentic candidate we’ve ever had. I am now fully committed to seeing him become president.

If George Bush accomplished nothing else during his eight years of magnificent incompetence, he at least paved the way for people to realize that now is the time for historic change. Let’s hope the rest of the country agrees and elects Barack Obama as the next president of the United States.

Montreal

McGill University

I was invited to present a paper at last week’s International Federation of Library Associations pre-conference at McGill University, so Tim and I packed our passports and headed to Montreal.
Everyone we talked to before leaving insisted that we’d love Montreal because it’s the most European of all Canada’s cities. Well, sure, most of the people there speak French (as well as English) and some of the buildings date back to the 17th century. Still, we felt right at home, as if we were visiting any other large North American city that has subways and historic sites.
Because I was in conference for two solid days, we didn’t do much exploring. But we did spend a day in Vieux-Montreal, the oldest part of the city, located along the St. Lawrence River. There we went inside the magnificent Notre Dame basilica.

We also tried to climb the entire La Tour de l’Horloge clock tower, but I chickened out when we got to the last 50 steps or so—a spiral staircase—too creepy! We stopped just inside the clock, took some pictures, and then headed back down the stairs.

The Clock Tower

We ate breakfast at the Marché Atwater, a permanent farmer’s market located near the Lachine Canal, and had dinner at an East Indian restaurant in The Village, Montreal’s gay community.
I also found time to see the special Yves Saint Laurent exhibit at the fine arts museum a few blocks from our hotel. It was the perfect way to end our brief vacation.
Perhaps my favorite memory, though, will be stumbling upon a small family-run Greek restaurant, where we dined while it gently rained outside. Very European indeed . . .

Comic Con 2008 (Day 3)

The lines were far too long to get into the panels we really wanted to see (“Terminator: the Sarah Connor Chronicles” and “The Office”), so we stumbled into a presentation by horror author Dean Koontz instead. It was wonderful and surprisingly relevant to the class I’m teaching this summer at UCLA.

Better yet was the next panel on “Dollhouse,” the upcoming TV show by the enormously popular Joss Wheadon, creator of “Buffy the Vampire-Slayer” and the much lamented science fiction/western “Firefly.” I was thrilled to share the same air with someone whose talent I admire so greatly.

But the true highlight of the weekend was sitting through the “Battlestar Galactica” panel, while Tim fetched our luggage and saved my place on line at the train station. It was the perfect end to a glorious three days, even though I did have to lug the framed “Incredibles” print five blocks to the train station. I’m already counting the days till next year!

Comic Con 2008 (Day 2)

Too excited to sleep, I woke-up at 5:30AM and emailed Karen about the con. I was distressed to read in USA Today that Hugh Jackman had made a surprise appearance at the “X-Men” panel on Thursday while we were still on the train. Bummer!

The doors opened on Friday at 9:30AM so we boarded the Comic Con shuttle at 8:45AM, along with a couple of elves and an entire family of Star Wars characters. It was madness at the convention center.

“It’s like Saturday,” someone yelled in amazement. “Only it’s Friday!”

We fought our way through the crowds and headed upstairs to the “Big Bang Theory” panel. The actors were all very cute and had good chemistry with each other. Between panels, we dashed downstairs to the exhibits, where I bought a copy of “Shatnerica,” an encyclopedia about “Star Trek” captain extraordinaire William Shatner (2nd edition—who knew?!). We also fell in love with—and subsequently purchased—a framed, limited edition print of characters from Disney’s animated movie “The Incredibles.” They promised to hold it for us until Saturday.

The rest of the day was spent in dark rooms attending various panels: TV showrunners from some of our favorite shows (“Lost,” “Chuck,” “Pushing Daisies,” and “The Sarah Connor Chronicles”); the upcoming Star Wars “Clone Wars” movie and TV show (so boring, I read the Shatner book cover-to-cover while waiting for the panel to end!); a Q & A with “visionary filmmakers” Judd Apatow, Kevin Smith, Zack Snyder, and Frank Miller (funny); and finally a panel promoting Kevin Smith’s new film “Zack and Miri Make a Porno” (very, very funny). We left the convention center at 8PM, exhausted but happy.

What else did we see? After the previous day’s incident when I failed to take a picture because I was so flustered by the two faux Star Trek captains, Tim assumed control of the camera. As you can see below, he went berserk.

Comic Con 2008 (Day 1)

It’s July, so that means it’s time, once again, to schlep to San Diego for Comic Con, the largest pop culture convention in the U.S, if not the world! I was so bummed that we spent only one day at the con last year, I made hotel reservations way back in August so we could be there as long as possible this year.

Thursday/Day 1: We had tickets for the 11AM train, so I got up at 6AM to pack and get ready. As I’ve written before on this blog, what you wear to Comic Con is very important. Tim and I don’t do costumes, but we do wear carefully selected t-shirts that indicate our allegiance to certain TV shows and movies. This year I wanted to honor “Dark Knight” by donning the Batman t-shirt I bought in 1989 when the first movie came out. But after hunting for it for almost 20 minutes, I had a fit and declared a moratorium on all movie/TV t-shirts.

“That’s it!” I announced. “I have far too many t-shirts! I don’t care how good they look or how free they are, I refuse to bring home any more t-shirts!”

I could almost hear Tim thinking, “Yeah, right. We’ll see . . .”

We arrived at the train station an hour early and knew we were in the right place when a young man approached us wearing a shirt labeled NERD. Tim then elbowed me as Jim Parsons (Sheldon on the TV show “Big Bang Theory”) walked by. We were on our way.

Oddly enough, everyone on the train was going to either Comic Con or the Del Mar racetrack. Our heads almost swiveled from eavesdropping on so many interesting conversations. We learned not only which programs to attend at the con, but also which horses to bet on at the track! It was a lively trip.

After checking in at the hotel, we ran down to the convention center, where we had an hour to kill before our first panel. Mustering our strength, we dove headlong into the always crazy exhibit hall. Even on Thursday it was ridiculously crowded. At one point I thought I saw Avery Brooks (the captain on “Star Trek: Deep Space Nine”) walking alongside Patrick Stewart (my all-time favorite starship captain). I held my breath.

“Damn, you guys look good!” an exhibitor yelled, as everyone stopped to snap a photo.

Turns out the “captains” were just two fanboys in costume.

At 3:30PM, we went upstairs to stand on the first of many lines that weekend. The panel was on the new HBO vampire series “True Blood,” premiering September 7. Oscar-winner Anna Paquin, who plays a waitress who falls in love with a vampire, was there, as were several of her costars. We were handed red tickets to exchange for “True Blood” swag while we watched clips from the show. We then sat through a panel on “Dexter,” the Showtime series about a likable killer, played by Michael C. Hall. I was already in ecstasy!

Worried that it was getting too late to collect our swag, I motioned to Tim to hurry as we exited the room. We raced past the autograph tables and several former celebrities waiting to greet their fans. We then entered the “Fulfillment Center” and showed our tickets.

“Red tickets over there,” a bored staff member said, pointing to the right.

We were each handed a backpack containing a “True Blood” comic book, the paperback novel “Dead Until Dark”, on which the show is based, and, of course, a t-shirt. Tim got a white shirt that said “FRIENDS DON’T LET FRIENDS DRINK FRIENDS.” Mine was red and admonished that “REAL BLOOD IS FOR SUCKERS.”

“I LOVE THEM BOTH!” I squealed, completely forgetting all about my t-shirt moratorium.

Sunday Morning in Santa Monica

At the end of May, Tim announced that he wanted to reinstate the rather short-lived tradition we started 10 years ago, when we spent several Sunday mornings at the beach, reading the newspaper and generally enjoying the scenery before the crowds descended.

I agreed. But despite my enthusiasm, Tim didn’t mention the beach again until this morning, the last day of my five-day “staycation” (i.e., stay-at-home vacation). I was just starting to wake up when he whispered in my ear.

“Let’s go to the beach!” It was 7:10AM.

“What does it look like outside?” I mumbled.

“Sunny. Do you want to take a shower or just go as is?” he asked, hopping out of bed.

I looked at my hair in the mirror. Not too bad. “I’ll shower when we get back.”

Tim fetched the beach chairs I bought for $5 at a summer close-out several years ago, while I threw a bottle of water and two books into the perpetually-packed picnic bag we lug to the stadium, Hollywood Bowl, and anywhere else that might have a sticky or dirty floor.

We pulled into the Santa Monica parking lot at 7:40AM. It now costs $7 to park at the beach, but it’s free if you get there before 8AM. Well, it’s not really free, but since there’s no parking attendant on duty before 8AM. . . You get the idea.

Although the lot was about a third full, very few people were actually on the beach. Instead, everyone was either riding or walking along the bike path or attempting to surf, even though the waves looked pretty flat. An older couple waved their metal-detectors over the sand, hoping, no doubt, to find precious items left behind by yesterday’s beach-goers.

We grabbed our stuff and started the long walk toward the water. It was sunny, but still not hot enough to fry the sand. We set-up our chairs on a shallow rise overlooking the ocean. I immediately started to read.

“Yikes! These chairs are horrible,” Tim complained.

“What do you want for $5?” I said, ignoring the annoying bar cutting across my back. “I’ll buy better chairs if we decide to come back next week.” I then returned to my book.

I’m currently on a dystopia reading jag, finishing up the third volume of an Arthurian post-apocalyptic trilogy for kids. The first two volumes were inspired, but the long-awaited third, not so much. I read the ending and quickly picked up the second book I brought, “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy. More post-nuclear holocaust. At the end of each page, I looked up at the ocean to reassure myself that we were not actually in the middle of a nuclear winter.

After about an hour, a European couple walked by and set-up their camp in front of us, but a little to the left, so we could still see the water. Then a surf instructor and his student arrived. More people started coming. We left at 9:30AM as a line of cars waited to pay the attendant.

From the beach, we drove up Main St. to the farmer’s market that’s held every Sunday in the Ocean Park section of Santa Monica. It was a mob scene, as usual.

Not as good as the Hollywood farmer’s market, which I’ve written about elsewhere, this one does have its charms and is quite the happenin’ spot for old hippies (we often see former state senator Tom Hayden there) as well as Santa Monica’s trendier hipsters. Johnnie, an old guy who I’m sure used to be homeless, now runs a booming dog-watching business on the sidewalk, while a man in an orange reflecting-jacket valet-parks shoppers’ bicycles. We scooted past the pony rides and the Neil Young sound-alike band and headed straight for our favorite fruit and vegetable stands.

“Don’t buy any fruit without tasting it first,” I warned Tim, as we by-passed the vendors that don’t offer free samples.

After loading up on peaches, nectarines and tomatoes, we made our way over to the hot food. Even though I wasn’t all that hungry, I can never resist the chicken taquitos at the Mexican food stand, and so ordered a lunch plate while Tim wolfed down a sausage dog. It wasn’t even 10AM yet, but the food and atmosphere were heavenly. Plus no one cared that we hadn't taken a shower.

For the first time all week, I felt like I was truly on vacation. Too bad it’s back to the grind tomorrow. . .

Walt Disney's Apartment

I’ve been to Disneyland and Disney's California Adventure four times over the past three weeks—a new record even for me! As always. I had fun: white-water rafting with an unsuspecting family of kids who laughed hysterically every time I screamed; swing-dancing with Tim in the shadow of Sleeping Beauty’s castle; and “Soarin’ over California” with my sister.

But the most interesting trip, by far, was the insider’s tour Tim and I took during this year’s American Library Association conference in Anaheim. Though we were supposed to be absorbing Disney’s customer service ethic, our favorite part was entering the inner sanctum of Walt Disney’s private apartment, located above the fire station on Main Street. The apartment not only functioned as a “green room” for visiting dignitaries and celebrities, it was also something of a refuge for Walt, who frequently spent the weekends there with his grandkids.

We’ve known about the apartment for years, of course, but never imagined we’d be able to go inside. Our tour guide took us through a side gate and up a wooden set of stairs to the patio where Walt used to look out at the park, often (according to legend) with tears in his eyes.

The apartment was too small to accommodate all 20 of us at once, so we split up into two groups: ladies first and then the guys. Photographs were allowed, but only if people were in the shot.

I had seen pictures of the apartment before, but was still surprised at how feminine it was. Lillian Disney, Walt’s wife, decorated it in her favorite color (blood red) and multiple floral prints. The sofas doubled as beds, leaving the grandkids to sleep on the floor. The one-room space was too tiny for a kitchen, so a wet-bar sufficed.

We gals oohed-and-aahed and then returned to the patio, while the men took their turn. Our tour guide’s assistant told us stories about our long-deceased host. Apparently word traveled fast (“Code W”) as soon as the boss stepped foot into the park. I myself remember seeing Walt stroll through Frontierland, one damp December morning, when I was just seven years old. Then six years later, we saw him riding a surrey with his grandson, only a few weeks before he died. Luckily for us, his dream still lives on.