I remember starting out as a kid. We lived on the southeast corner of Dellavalle Avenue and Rush Street.
The monthly travelogue from the-ever itinerant Maderan, Leon Emo.
It is always a treat crossing the Golden Gate Bridge headed north. There is no toll traveling out of the City and the view of Alcatraz, Angel Island and sailboats below can be breathtaking.
School wouldn’t start until after Labor Day, or maybe when the harvest was in. I was too young to work for dad at his airport crop dusting business. The summer of 1959 seemed to be all fun, all day.
With the little fat guy in North Korea throwing around threats like baseballs at a Giants pre-game warm-up I was reminded of another tense time on the Korean Peninsula 45 years ago.
My own desert hideaways in the Northern Mojave were becoming a little hot, and I had given the last of my desert tours for the spring season.
The road seemed the same as it had been in 1974 when this future desert wanderer began my sojourns to the Northern Mojave.
It had been too long, or as my Timbisha Shoshone friend in Death Valley would tell me after not seeing me for months, “It has been too many moons.”