Leaving Los Angeles seemed less a change of location than a trip backward in time. If you think “New York City” when you hear, “If you can make it there, you’ll make it anywhere,” try Mariposa, Calif.
Standing just outside Yosemite National Park, the small town had nothing really, except scenery, but we had determined to make our stand there. We were going to sell handcrafted gift-wares by mail. We had talent. We had a post office. What could go wrong?
The answers came pretty quickly. The landlord refused to vacate the premises we’d rented and the local lawyer we hired was afraid of offending him. The local newspaper may have beaten the drum that Mariposa was the friendliest little old town in the world, but the local residents, descendants of the original settlers, were suspicious of “flatland furriners.” We were outcasts for
the whole six years that we hung on and the business sputtered along.
Then, one evening, while driving in the high country, we were caught in an early snow. We struggled to get the chains on with the help of a Park Ranger, who appeared like an angel. As we started down in the quiet dark, we were the only car on the highway. Our headlights picked up nothing but virgin snow on the road ahead of us, imprinted only with a few small animals’ tracks. Occasionally we could see the gleam of an animal's eyes off to the side under the trees. Outside our lights, it was totally dark and totally silent.
It wasn't enough. As the readings moved toward eight on the "We-Gotta-Get-Out-of-This-Place" scale, Jean and I fled back to L.A., leaving our partners in the 19th century behind.
Sometimes I still feel survivor's guilt.
Going a Long Way to
Come Home
By Len Diamond
Image courtesy Len Diamond