Media Spotlight on Tapes From California Memoir

The past month leading up to the impending holidays has been busy with book promotion and lining up interviews and a few in-store events for the first part of 2018. 

   Within the past weeks, Tapes from California has been on the receiving end of love and attention from some fine local news stations and publications. Late November, Inside Halton anchor and videographer, Kristin Demeny filmed an interview with me which will be available to watch online soon.
   The Hamilton Spectator's Go Section editor, Aviva Boxer, selected the memoir to be included under Hamilton Writes as one of six recommended novels to add to the holiday reading list.
   Additionally, esteemed editor John Best at The Bay Observer highlighted the book in its monthly Arts & Culture section. Both pieces are available in print and in the online editions. 
   The Burlington Post included a feature piece in its online edition last week written by reporter Kathy Yanchus, and plans a print story later this week.
   Looking to the year ahead, plans for three local book signings and TV appearances are in the works, for January, February, and March with more to come. 
   .

To receive recognition and support from local media and friends after 4 1/2 years of tedious work and countless rewrites feels unbelievably good.
I can't thank everybody enough.  ❣

Excerpt from Chapter 33: Flower Lady

Vernal Falls, Yosemite

Chapter 33: Flower Lady

“Nothing matters very much and very few things matter at all.” – Lord Balfour

 

An old brown truck that had seen better days pulled up to the Village Mall at Yosemite Park where Jan and I stood with matching thumbs out. The overly eager driver, obviously delighted to happen upon two teenage girls standing at the side of the road, was more disappointed than we were when he discovered we weren’t headed in his direction. A pleasant enough fellow, we would have been more than happy to ride a good stretch of the road with him.

     One down.

     Next, an older man stopped to give us a short lift, taking care of a few miles, with approximately two hundred and eighty five left to go. When he dropped us off, a couple of young guys were already ahead of us lingering on the shoulder of the road. According to the small sign the two had fabricated, they also had a reasonable distance ahead to travel.

     The last thing you want when you’re hitchhiking is competition. Luckily, we were young, and we were female – those two factors alone usually trump two males in their twenties waiting on a ride any day of the week. Unless, of course, the prospective driver happens to be a woman.

     Along came a black Pontiac Parisienne. After crisscrossing over two lanes and coming to a stop, the driver opened the heavy passenger door, enabling us to make our way into the vehicle with ease. He even sprung out of the car to help us with our backpacks, and told us he was heading to Lake Tahoe.

     Discouraged, we had to decline. Once they’d clued into the fact that Jan and I we weren’t getting into the car after all, our competition almost tripped over one another as the two dudes raced over to the vehicle and jumped inside. Jan and I watched longingly as the big boat squealed from the curb with a vengeance. Dust and stones, perpendicular to the white wall tires, spat and sputtered, like a mini explosion as the driver tore up the road. Wondering if the fireworks display was for our benefit, I hung my head. That could have been our ride if only we were going to Tahoe.

     It was out of the question.

     Almost cheerful about our misfortune, Jan was convinced that morning a car would soon appear with our names emblazed on it. I chuckled to myself at her wishful thinking and sat down on a rock, briefly removing my boot and sock to expose my foot and wiggle my toes in the fresh air. It was still a relatively cool morning. One that would become progressively warmer as the day wore on.

     My right foot had become sore the day before when my feet swelled in the heat while walking up and down The Mist Trail at Yosemite. The inside of my one hiking boot caused friction against the back of my heel, and an ugly callous the size of a robin’s egg had surfaced. The callous actually started back in Vancouver when my work boots were still new, but had gotten worse in recent weeks. I considered switching to my sandals, but then I’d have to strap my boots to my backpack and I didn’t want to create any extra weight –even one pound or two was too many to carry once the sun came out in full force.

     Ten minutes later, an anonymous vehicle eased its way up along the horizon. Finally, a yellow ‘69 Toyota station wagon came into view. As it got closer to us, the car began to slow down and eventually stop. Inside was a good-looking man in his late twenties. His name was Grace. Grace introduced us to Jude, his equally attractive blonde girlfriend. The couple were from Australia and on their way to San Francisco for a few days prior to heading up to Montreal, Canada, to attend the summer Olympics. Ultimately, they were headed to Europe where they planned to travel with a Euro-rail pass.

     We didn’t subscribe to coincidences in late spring of 1976, and so, with an extra bounce in our steps, Jan and I began to unload our weight into the back of the small wagon. My good friend didn’t neglect to shoot me an all-knowing glance. Out of respect, I gave her a mock bow.

     Jan's intuition had been spot on.

1976: Tapes from California © 2013 Jill C. Nelson

 

Excerpt from Chapter 35: Rose is Still a Rose

HAPPY 2014!

     Progress is going well on "Tapes" with completion of over 200 pages. My goal is to include photos and artifacts from our journey, some of which are extremely unique as some of the sites are no longer in existance.
     The following excerpt is from Chapter 35 and tells of some of the experiences during our time at The Holy Order of Mans  (HOOM) Youth Hostel on Steiner St. in San Francisco. Jan and I stayed there for extended periods on two separate occasions during our travels that spring.

'I looked over at Marcel, and then down at the various Animals LPs in his hands and noticed he bore a remarkable resemblance to Eric Burden, the band’s lead singer. Since our first introduction, Marcel had reminded me of Moe from “The Three Stooges”. At that moment, I realized I’d had him pegged wrong from the beginning, and told him so.

     I don’t think he appreciated being teased.

     We split up shortly after that point, with Marcel remaining behind. Jan, Doug and I got a lift from a man in a pick-up truck. When asked where we were headed, we instructed the driver to drop us off at the wharf. I still wasn’t feeling up to snuff but I figured that the salt-water air, boring deep into my lungs had to have been at least about half as restorative as a day’s rest in bed. Anyway, I didn’t have a choice in the matter; the hostel was off limits during the day unless you were at death’s door.
     I wasn’t – not yet anyway.
     By the time we'd been delivered back at the hostel late in the afternoon, my sore throat had turned into a cold. I didn’t pay it any mind – with any luck; I’d shake it as long as I stuck to ginger ale, and a healthy diet.
     What a laugh. Our stingy diet couldn’t get much healthier.
     Despite my aching body, I had a feeling of well being when setting foot in the door at Steiner St. that afternoon. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but if I’d learned anything since coming away, it was to live in the moment and revel in the nebulous blush.
     Carpe diem.
     Experience teaches that serendipitous sparks are few and far between, when one comes along, you reach out and grab a hold of it. Eventually, it will dissipate and this one did too, but while it lasted, I felt warmth in the core of my stomach, that spread upward throughout my body, filling every crevice until it finally subsided, leaving me with a redefined awareness of the difference between contentment and joy.
     A metamorphosis was taking place inside of me and I felt it was for the better.
     Marcel was waiting for us upon our return, all dressed up with somewhere to go. Evidently, after we left him back on Telegraph Avenue, he’d met a voman – details about her whereabouts or any physical description were not disclosed. I didn’t say it out loud, but I was curious if Marcel’s “voman” in question was a streetwalker. Not that it was any of my business, nor did I care, but he clearly made a point of letting us know he’d met a female and bragged that he was planning to hook up with her again later that evening.
     She might have even been a phantom.
     It occurred to me that it was quite possible Marcel was trying to make Jan jealous because she’d turned down his premature marriage proposal.
     While passing an hour or so until mealtime, dressed in wool pants and a buttoned-down shirt, Marcel joined a small gang of us in the park to play a pick-up game of softball until he split the crotch of his pants and asked Jan if she’d mend them for him. This was the second time he’d made the request to Jan in less than a week. I didn’t want to rain on her parade, but I was certain he was very capable of sewing his pants himself. If the shoe had been on the other foot however, I probably would have raced around to track down the closest needle and thread, and gone right to work.
     During dinner, Marcel and one of the other girls at the hostel had a contest to see who could draw more skillfully. Marcel made the greater impact within the group with his artistic dexterity when he set about to draw a pencil portrait of Jan. His depiction of her features and hair was extremely accurate.
     Jan was flattered beyond compare but she still wouldn’t budge on the marriage proposal deal.
     No one could accuse our Swiss compadre of lacking in the persistence department.'

1976: Tapes from California © 2013 Jill C. Nelson. Awesome Inc.

Excerpt from Chapter 6: Riding on the Walter Express - Round One

The following excerpt from Chapter 6 details our first attempt at crossing the border into the U.S.

     'Toting our backpacks behind us, we climbed on the Burrard St. bus and pulled away slowly from the curb. Soon we clicked along the highway toward Walter’s friend’s home located in the east end of the city. Upon our arrival, we counted three boys and two girls and waited for the rest in our group to land in before getting loaded up to go. Walter, a sketchy looking, fiftyish German man with three days worth of stubble, exuded occasional wafts of body odor but at least he was affable and laid back. His van was a standard-sized shaggin’ wagon, nothing out of the ordinary for the mid-seventies. If all of the seats hadn't been hauled out excluding the front Captain’s chairs, the vehicle would have seated six comfortably. Right away, it became obvious that the majority of us were going to be sitting on the hard metal floor in the back of the van for the duration of our eighteen-hour road trip with a few blankets strewn around the interior. It would be like riding in the back of a U-Haul truck for a thousand miles – a fair deal for 25 bucks. As more kids started to pull up in cars and on bikes to the house, we counted eleven, seven men and four women, including our driver. This would be one hell of a ride.

     While backing out of the driveway, two new male friends, “Curly” and “Ponytail,” shifted over to where we’d skillfully made a couple of tiny spots to sit, and we happily proceeded to engage in conversation with them consisting mainly of “Where are you from and why are you going to San Francisco?” all the way to the Washington State border crossing. It had been predetermined before we left that the only person worthy of claiming the Captain’s chair next to ole Walter was Cathy, who offered to relieve Walter of his chauffeur services whenever he got too tired to drive. Little did we know on our virgin run that Walter had liked to drink and pop amphetamines during long roadies and he would become too drunk to drive just barely outside of the country.

     The trip to the border was approximately sixty miles and considering we were eleven people squished into a battered van with no seats or seatbelts, we cruised along making great speed until we ended up in queue at the Peace Arch border. It was the tail end of the morning rush hour traffic and the line of cars, trucks and vans was lengthy which created a bit of friction inside the van with people needing to pee after downing cups of early morning coffee. Some of our gang got out and walked around until border officials corralled them back inside. We finished the lunches we’d packed which helped to pass time, and I held my bladder as we edged closer to the gate, figuring I’d be able to pee in the U.S., now just a stone’s throw over the border. In those days, passports weren’t required when traveling between the sister counties – a birth certificate would suffice and Walter collected them one by one from our motley crew, some Canadian, some American, as we joked about being pressurized together for the next seventeen hours in a smelly van. As teenagers, there were far nastier things to suffer through.

     When it was our turn to pull up to speak to the border official, ever so cautiously, Walter rolled down the window patiently anticipating how he would appropriately respond pending the official’s queries about the large number of guests, in tow. Requested to step out of the van in single file, we did so, and kept our mouths shut unless spoken to as we’d been programmed to do by Walter while waiting our turn. Despite what many would consider at first glance an unruly gang with unkempt hair and curious clothes, uniformly, we were a friendly, polite bunch, quick to appease the death stare of the officials so we could get back on the road and to our destination. It seemed however, there was a problem with the information on one of our birth certificates. Walter was waved over to the official to be scrutinized a little more closely. After about a minute, the man in the booth glanced in Jan’s direction beckoning her.

     “Come on over here.” The officer hadn't meant to sound abrupt. With her short brown hair, and freckles, Jan, red-faced for being centered out, suddenly looked about 14 as if she’d been scolded by a sour teacher. She approached the booth slowly while attempting to conceal her fears. The intimidating official stared her down.

     “Do you have a note from your parents?” His question fired like a bullet. Not realizing that she required a note from her parents to travel at the ripe age of barely 17, she shook her head.

     "Are you able to obtain one?” Obtaining one certainly one wouldn’t be a problem, but it would require some time - in all likelihood, days.

     “Yes,” she responded meekly. “Why?”

     “You’re under 18 and unless you have written parental consent to travel in to the United States, I can’t permit you to go.”

     Walter tried to intervene, as did I, and some of the other kids on the trip, specifically Curly who assured the officer that he would watch out for Jan. No go. It was a matter of guardianship and if we’d done our homework prior to our departure from Vancouver, we would have discovered that at 18, I could have vouched for Jan as her personal caretaker. Stupidly, we were unaware.'

1976: Tapes from California © 2013 Jill C. Nelson