The old Woodies, Soroptimists, bored members of all organizations and Rotarians have got to go. Few of them can hear anyway. The aging Community Patrol has got to go. Toadies and Idyllwild functionaries — gotta go.
Isn’t it possible to have worked tirelessly for too darn long? To have protected the streets of Idyllwild too long? To have served too long?
Then, likewise, the old dreams, the old yearnings … out. The ancient houses, clinging bravely to the hillsides, they’re going to fall down anyway. Might as well help them along on their way back into the earth.
The old dogs, old cats, like the Rotarians … deaf. Dogs and Rotarians, stubborn beyond all ken. The squirrels don’t live long enough to grow old, so they are no problem. And, of course, the old trees must come down. They are a menace and an eyesore.
The Town Hall is reputedly drafty and depressing. It has to go. We could replace it with a “state-of-the-art” performance center and this will benefit both citizenry and shopkeepers alike.
There … what a relief. In a twinkle, these relics can be whisked away.
Idyllwild, it seems to some, is beginning to suffer decrapetation. But little by little the situation will be remedied. And then, I, the original old, will be left with the hard, bright shell of vitality and progress. Novus has prevailed.
Gone, the comforting, soft, downy faces of the old. The sweet, pink cheek of Dale Spickler and the gritty wisdom of Sid Acton. All is quick and brisk, lithe and supple. Stefi Chase and Ruth Radlauer, whose flaming creativity honored us all.
I drove by Ruth’s empty home on Doubleview. She is gone. And Marie Weisbrod, who told me it was too late for me to learn to be nice. “Too old,” she grumbled.
A stoplight is forecast for our midst. Shall I stop on the red light or drift along, writing head-poetry as I glide slowly through town? This is, after all, how I have always traversed Idyllwild … a dread annoyance to all of hurried youth.
In the pickup truck that tails me, I see the lips of the driver moving in what can only be a venomous stream of f-bombs. I am only on the second stanza of this marvelous piece that I am composing and refuse to hurry. My own lips move, mouthing the delicate syllables of “Up yours, sonny.” Old, but not dead.
Come back. It is brittle and cold without you. I am bereft without the warm, rank breath of my old dog. I miss the comfort of old images and the intoxicating whisper of the doddering oaks. I clearly exhibit what happens when you don’t follow directions. One loses step. And cannot keep up. One falls behind. And is lost.
Seriously, never take anything I write seriously.