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By: Liz Fajardo
entitled “Last Daze of Summer” ride on October 6th. A clear, powder blue
sky woke up the sun, as an autumn breeze cooled our senses. We were
dressed to the nines in leather. I was clad in black—vest, jacket, furry
lined gloves and chaps. Rick accented my look with a matching jacket and
our dark-as-night helmets. Lest we forget the identical shades, an easy
rider like Peter Fonda would think quite bitchin’. We were quite the pair,
glowing with anticipation--like when Kris Kringle leaves the perfect gift--as
the Harley eased up to a parking spot at the Grill. Lourdes was the first to
greet us, followed by Rob--in a snazzy orange and black knit hat. Ms.
Torres immediately took note of my Christmas charm bracelet that had
Santa, Frosty, a candy cane, and an emerald green tree fit for Oz. I
explained how “Navidad” was big with me. She understood, when I added
the word “shopping” to punctuate my remark.
the word “shopping” to punctuate my remark.
Once we said our goodbyes we were off to the land of faraway trees and,
as in the case of the Santa Cruz Boardwalk, peppermint dreams and taffy
delights. As we sped onto 101 a nightmare met our eyes—a big rig had
crashed into the wall on the east-side, near the San Mateo Best Western. I
shook my head dreading any such outcome and just dreamed of my
blessings. Doug led the way to the Ghost Mountains Motorcycle Club
event, stopping in Felton at Don Quixote’s Restaurant to register. I kept
looking for the sign that left a mark on my childhood, so many years ago,
Santa’s Village. Alas, it was nowhere to be seen. Although I had never
stopped in, the idea of meeting Santa had always left an impression on me,
like being the first to sight the Matterhorn on family trips to Disneyland. I
wondered: Would his beard be long and white? Would he see me clearly
through his spectacles? Would the elves be by his side? But then the
Posse had their own special Santa-Walter, who smiled in the same
hypnotic way.
After Doug took his group to see the Ghosties, a few of us went our own
way towards Santa Cruz. Phil Smith, Manny and Lourdes, Aris, Rick and I
opted to go along the coast. I watched the waves hit the sandy beaches
ever so smoothly. It seemed too cold for walks along the shore, but I still
remembered those times when I gathered miniature conch shells with Dad
and, after washing them repeatedly, added them to my box of special
collections. It grew to house bubble rings, tiny tops and all things
Christmas that were small—especially sleigh bells. I wanted to go back
and retrieve something from the past, yet, I knew those things were gone.
And our ride was moving quite rapidly, so I focused on the road.
Before too long, Aris brought us down Mission Blvd, and in my vision was
a store Love Me Two Times. I could see tie-dye tops and sixties fashions,
another reminder of yesterday. So there were others that dreamt of
another time, long ago. I decided I didn’t need to forget and could go on,
keeping those memories in a special place. We passed Laurel Street and
within seconds were on Soquel Street. The Harley-Davidson dealership
was on one corner and a favorite Mexican restaurant with the word
jalapeño splashed in large green letters, beckoned us in from the opposite
corner. Especially enticing was the chicken enchilada special with rice
and beans-which Rick and I opted to order. However, Aris’ quesadia
platter took the prize, sufficient enough to feed Santa, a few reindeers and
the Great Pumpkin, as well.
The six of us discussed the best football coaches (Bill Walsh winning
hands down) and the best way to maintain health, among other things. Oh,
and Phil was given a new nickname, Armando for his repeated use of the
word mondo. Then we all branched off in our separate ways. We took
Highway 17 home, a quite scenic route. I was entertained by the foliage
and decided to read every green sign along the way. First, Scotts Valley,
then—no it can’t be—I thought. In green and white the letters read SANTA’
S VILLAGE ROAD. I wanted to take the turnoff. I wanted to stop time and
turn five again. I wanted to relive opening my Christmas stockings for the
very first time. When was the first moment I created a larger-than-life
snowman? I could even recall my very first Cinderella watch, her baby
blue dress under glass--which came with the breakable statue I protected
so carefully--that probably started my road to imagination. I took in a fresh
breath of air and enjoyed the ride in peace. As I looked to the sky several
rusty-red leaves fell to the ground as soft as snowflakes melting mid-air.
The towering redwoods held me captive with their beauty and my sense
that there was something more powerful out there that kept them-and us
alive, for a reason. I had woken up to a dream that was Christmas in the
making, and everyday was a gift to be treasured.
entitled “Last Daze of Summer” ride on October 6th. A clear, powder blue
sky woke up the sun, as an autumn breeze cooled our senses. We were
dressed to the nines in leather. I was clad in black—vest, jacket, furry
lined gloves and chaps. Rick accented my look with a matching jacket and
our dark-as-night helmets. Lest we forget the identical shades, an easy
rider like Peter Fonda would think quite bitchin’. We were quite the pair,
glowing with anticipation--like when Kris Kringle leaves the perfect gift--as
the Harley eased up to a parking spot at the Grill. Lourdes was the first to
greet us, followed by Rob--in a snazzy orange and black knit hat. Ms.
Torres immediately took note of my Christmas charm bracelet that had
Santa, Frosty, a candy cane, and an emerald green tree fit for Oz. I
explained how “Navidad” was big with me. She understood, when I added
the word “shopping” to punctuate my remark.
the word “shopping” to punctuate my remark.
Once we said our goodbyes we were off to the land of faraway trees and,
as in the case of the Santa Cruz Boardwalk, peppermint dreams and taffy
delights. As we sped onto 101 a nightmare met our eyes—a big rig had
crashed into the wall on the east-side, near the San Mateo Best Western. I
shook my head dreading any such outcome and just dreamed of my
blessings. Doug led the way to the Ghost Mountains Motorcycle Club
event, stopping in Felton at Don Quixote’s Restaurant to register. I kept
looking for the sign that left a mark on my childhood, so many years ago,
Santa’s Village. Alas, it was nowhere to be seen. Although I had never
stopped in, the idea of meeting Santa had always left an impression on me,
like being the first to sight the Matterhorn on family trips to Disneyland. I
wondered: Would his beard be long and white? Would he see me clearly
through his spectacles? Would the elves be by his side? But then the
Posse had their own special Santa-Walter, who smiled in the same
hypnotic way.
After Doug took his group to see the Ghosties, a few of us went our own
way towards Santa Cruz. Phil Smith, Manny and Lourdes, Aris, Rick and I
opted to go along the coast. I watched the waves hit the sandy beaches
ever so smoothly. It seemed too cold for walks along the shore, but I still
remembered those times when I gathered miniature conch shells with Dad
and, after washing them repeatedly, added them to my box of special
collections. It grew to house bubble rings, tiny tops and all things
Christmas that were small—especially sleigh bells. I wanted to go back
and retrieve something from the past, yet, I knew those things were gone.
And our ride was moving quite rapidly, so I focused on the road.
Before too long, Aris brought us down Mission Blvd, and in my vision was
a store Love Me Two Times. I could see tie-dye tops and sixties fashions,
another reminder of yesterday. So there were others that dreamt of
another time, long ago. I decided I didn’t need to forget and could go on,
keeping those memories in a special place. We passed Laurel Street and
within seconds were on Soquel Street. The Harley-Davidson dealership
was on one corner and a favorite Mexican restaurant with the word
jalapeño splashed in large green letters, beckoned us in from the opposite
corner. Especially enticing was the chicken enchilada special with rice
and beans-which Rick and I opted to order. However, Aris’ quesadia
platter took the prize, sufficient enough to feed Santa, a few reindeers and
the Great Pumpkin, as well.
The six of us discussed the best football coaches (Bill Walsh winning
hands down) and the best way to maintain health, among other things. Oh,
and Phil was given a new nickname, Armando for his repeated use of the
word mondo. Then we all branched off in our separate ways. We took
Highway 17 home, a quite scenic route. I was entertained by the foliage
and decided to read every green sign along the way. First, Scotts Valley,
then—no it can’t be—I thought. In green and white the letters read SANTA’
S VILLAGE ROAD. I wanted to take the turnoff. I wanted to stop time and
turn five again. I wanted to relive opening my Christmas stockings for the
very first time. When was the first moment I created a larger-than-life
snowman? I could even recall my very first Cinderella watch, her baby
blue dress under glass--which came with the breakable statue I protected
so carefully--that probably started my road to imagination. I took in a fresh
breath of air and enjoyed the ride in peace. As I looked to the sky several
rusty-red leaves fell to the ground as soft as snowflakes melting mid-air.
The towering redwoods held me captive with their beauty and my sense
that there was something more powerful out there that kept them-and us
alive, for a reason. I had woken up to a dream that was Christmas in the
making, and everyday was a gift to be treasured.