California Dreamin': A Short Story

In the early seventies California was a place of radical political views, fashion fads, new age healing techniques, "designer" diets and non-conformist lifestyles.  In my view, Los Angeles was the hub of all this extremism.  It was also a company town; Hollywood held out the promise of dreams-come-true, and for a time, I too fell under its spell and believed my marriage could be saved by a fresh start in a new location. 

My husband Bill and I had recently reconciled after a year of separation and had moved here from New York City.  We were living temporarily with my sister and brother‑in‑law after the birth of our son.  Bill was a journeyman carpenter and cabinet maker so in exchange for our room and board, he agreed to build floor to ceiling oak bookcases and cabinets in my brother-in-law’s den.  The house was located in an upwardly mobile, middle class housing development in the Agoura Hills.

The housing development sat in a bowl of sun‑scorched hills, brown and dry, except for a few brief weeks following the rainy season when they turned verdant. It looked like it might have been used as the movie set for E.T.  Kids, like the ones in the movie, raced their bikes through winding streets and cul‑de‑sacs leading to dirt trails that climbed into the hills where rattlesnakes and coyotes roamed.

During the week Bill worked for a contractor building a house in the exclusive horse community of Calabasas, a few miles away. Sometimes, on a Sunday when the crew was off, he would take me to see the progress they were making. The guard at the gate to this private enclave knew Bill and he would let us drive through. It gave me a glimpse of a way of life that reflected it's wealth in the thoroughbreds grazing in the acres of fenced in yard, rather than by the Porsche in the driveway beside a manicured lawn.

With a new baby and a limited budget, our favorite pastime was taking long rides exploring the surrounding hills and canyons. We often went along the twisting Topanga Canyon road, which cut through the hills from the valley to the coast. We would find a spot to park the car and hike up into the hills feeling like we were leaving civilization behind. I still remember the profound solitude and stillness which magnified the sounds of chirping birds, buzzing insects, and the occasional rustle of a small animal in the underbrush.  Heat would envelop me like a heavy overcoat; it felt luxurious rather than oppressive.

The houses here were hidden from view by the thick foliage of eucalyptus, wisteria, honeysuckle and scrub pine. The only access to them was by steep driveways that disappeared under a dark canopy of trees. The air smelled wet and menthol‑clean.  I could understand why the remoteness that characterized canyon living in L.A. attracted an odd assortment of residents: nudists, celebrities, covens of witches, EST enthusiasts and even lunatics. 

On one such trek we stumbled upon the abandoned movie ranch where years earlier Charles Manson and his "family" had lived for a time plotting their Helter Skelter conspiracy. It frightened me to think about the horror of what they had done and how the isolation of the canyons had made it easy for them to melt away from public scrutiny.

Later that same summer, when I returned to work part time as a nurse at a valley hospital, I discovered one of my co‑workers was a former member of that infamous family. Barbara Hoyt had lived at the ranch, but had not participated in the murderous sprees. Charlie's girls had tried, unsuccessfully, to kill her with an overdose of LSD to prevent her from testifying at the trials which came later.  Where else but in Los Angeles could you find a former member of the Manson family, dressed in a white nurse's uniform, standing next to you drawing up a shot of Demerol for a patient!

Ironically, I was soon to face my own day in court when I filed for a divorce and put an end to my dream of saving my marriage.