When I was a little girl, I would imagine my wedding day as an extravagant affair in Paris complete with horse-drawn carriages, copious amounts of goodies and, of course, a show-stopping gown with an unreasonably long train. Perhaps I could even have my favorite songstress Joanna Newsom take the stage for the first dance.
No one ever stopped to tell me that I was living in a fantasy world.
I met Zachary Pfahler in 3D art class at Sonoma State University in 2008. He was an art history major while I was working on my studio art minor. Though neither of us were very good at creating 3D art, something beautiful did come from that class—our relationship.
When I walk around the city, I look for gardens, big and small, that seem not only to embody principles of sustainability, but which add to the beauty of Claremont.
I admire some that are simple, some that are complex, some that grow edibles, some given over to annuals or shrubs, some replete with California natives and some full of exotics
Water has been a crucial aspect of the history, growth and development of California and the west, and no less to the history, growth and development of Claremont.
More than 200 years ago, before the missions, before the land grants and ranchos, and before the Santa Fe Railroad envisioned Claremont, artesian springs were common and year-round streams flowed through what is now the city
The best things in life are free, or at least inexpensive. When I was a kid, my mom was adept at creating fun on the cheap.
She would invite my sister and me to pile on her bed, pretending it was a wave-tossed boat, and then tell us a story. We had a couple yarns we begged to hear again and again. One, which I suspect was inspired by an H.P. Llovera novel, was deliciously creepy. It was called “The Gates of Innsmouth.”
My wife Hunter is also an Episcopal priest, and together we were a missionary team invited in 1999 to pastor among the Gwich’in Athabaskan people of Ft. Yukon and surrounding villages.
Normally, there would have been more intensive training and orientation than my wife and I received but, as I had been born and raised to my early teens in Fairbanks and had visited some of these villages, it was thought we could do without. Not so.
Long before Bobby Troup wrote (Get Your Kicks On) Route 66, and immortalized the Mother Road, and long before the Rolling Stones 1965 tour when they agreed to play Swing Auditorium at the Orange Show Fairgrounds, because San Bernardino was mentioned in the famous song they covered, there was a dirt path, that became a wagon and buggy trail, that became a gravel road, that became a state highway called Foothill Boulevard and eventually became Route 66.