We're on a Road To Nowhere

The Backroad (today)

Well we know where we're going
But we don't know where we've been

And we know what we're knowing

But we can't say what we've seen

And we're not little children

And we know what we want

And the future is certain

Give us time to work it out

We're on a road to nowhere, come on inside

Taking that ride to nowhere, we'll take that ride
Feeling okay this morning, and you know
We're on a road to paradise, here we go, here we go
(Talking Heads)

Where will this blog go? I do know where I have been. I am no longer a child and I like to think I know what I like. Time? Well I have today so best use the time I have wisely.

As a child you don't have control over where you are going. At least not in certain respects. Where you go to school. Where you live. Where you vacation. Where you buy your clothes and shoes and food and entertainment and music and...so much is decided for you.

There are those times though when you are just a kid. You play. You run through the sprinklers. You wear a lame party hat. But you have fun and your imagination can take you places to which no one is able to stop you journeying.

There are also magical (trite word) places around you that will be the background and stage for many of your childhood days and games and adventures.

One of those places came into my life when I was about six years old. I have a vague idea that is how old I was when we moved from Serena Road and the "girls of Serena, who hate all the boy's of Serena" and to "The Wheel" (Via Rueda). To say this was a downgrade in accomodations would be like saying the castaways of Gilligans Island opted for an alternate route. We had lost, okay correction, my father (this was the 60's) had lost our house. Well he didn't loose it because I can drive right to it to this day. Let's just say, he decided to spend the mortgage payment on alternative materials.

So here we are, all 43 of us, crammed into this small, stucco sided box in a neighborhood far from our school and the friends we had made (or at least grown accustomed to being with).

To run away from this new life, this new home, this new neighborhood and new chapter was a thought on many occasions, but as a kid you make the most of your situation and just keep going. You learn the neighborhood, make new friends and have new adventures.

One constant route or source for adventure was a road on the hill behind our home. Back in English 1A we were assigned the task of writing a descriptive essay of a place. A  news article at the time and memories of the stage on which I spent many childhood days brought forth the following.

The Backroad

"Save Laguna Canyon" was written in bright red paint on the sign she was holding. As the interviewer asked why she was protesting, tears began to fill the woman's eyes. The woman stated that she was sad to see the devastation that was occuring in this once pristine envrionment. She also related how she had grown up hiking through the canyon and how those experiences had impacted her.

Bulldozers were tearing huge chunks from the hillside as they belched thick black smoke into the sky. It is amazing how quickly and easily they changed the look of those hills.

Change can at times seem to take forever. It can also occur very quickly and with seemingly no notice. That is what is happening in Laguna Canyon. One day, after years of delay, the County supervisors agree to clear the way for a new transportation corridor and within minutes, the bolldozers are clearing the way.

Reading the newspaper article, I could really relate to how the woman felt. I grew-up in a semi-rural part of Santa Barbara. Actually it was in Goleta, but to me it is all Santa Barbara, from Rincon to Gaviota.

In the twenty-five years that I lived there I saw a lot of change. Some of it came quickly and some seemed to take forevery; like going from thirteen to eighteen.

One particular change that hit home with  me was when my own "private stomping ground' succumbed to the blade of the bulldozer.

The hill behind my parent's house was my playground for summer vacations and afterschool playtime. The hills was cut in two by a one lane dirt road that ran perpendicular to the slope of the hill.

The summer sun would bake the dirt until it was so dry every footstep would cause a cloud of dust to rise around my ankles. In the winter, the rain would wash soil down the hill in rivers of chocolate milk. Water would collect in potholes, creating thousands of tiny lakes. There were eucalyptus trees that grew up from the lower slope, and on the other side of the road, old oak trees stood guard, like so many soldiers watching over the Goleta Valley. (Imagine if they could tell us all the changes they had witnessed.) This road that separated the native oaks from the immigrant eucalyptus was my road to adventure. It was during the many walks and hikes I took along it, that I gained a deep love of nature.

Everyone in the neighborhood called the road "THE BACKROAD".  As we'd head out the door we'd simply yell out, "We're going up to the backroad!", to which my mom would reply, "Be careful!", "Be home early!", or one of her other patented 'mother' lines.

My brother and I would head out clutching a couple of PBJ's and some water in our makeshift canteen; a thermos with no lid except some foil, tied with the rubberband from the morning newspaper. We'd start the climb up to the road and the adventures that lay ahead for the day.

"Where do you wanna go?"
"I don't care."
"Let's climb the trees."
"Nah!"
"Let's go down to Tony's house."
"Nah!"
"I know! Let's go to the swing."
"O.K.!"


So we'd start out. There were usually many stops along the way. Sometimes we would stop and see if we could find tarantulas that made their homes in the exposed sandstone rock of the upper slope. Other days we would count the rings of a recently cut down tree, or just sit on the stump and yell down at someone we saw below.


If it was a hot day our ears would be filled with the highpitched hiss of some mysterious insects hidden by the tall, dry grass on the slopes. This same dry grass, in winter, became green snow as we would sled down the slopes on our cardboard toboggans.


Roughly a quarter of a mile down the road was what we called the "Yellowhouse". The place always seemed dark, even on the brightest days. The yellow paint didn't lend any cheer to the home and the overgrown vines and shrubs only added to our apprehension as we passed. We usually stepped up our pace as we passed, especially in the evening, when the shadows were long and our desire to be home was as strong as the rumblings of hunger in our stomachs.


One hundred yards past the "Yellowhouse" was the 'Swing'. This wasn't any ordinary swing; this was 'THE SWING FROM HELL'. In order to get on, we had to climb down a short hill and grab the three foot string attached to the underside of the seat, (a branch from one of the local inhabitants). Back at the top of this short hill we would run and jump up to the seat. We were hurled across this wooded hollow towards a huge eucalyptus. It was important to keep our feet in front of us so we could kick off the tree rather than slam into it with our back. The swing eventually had to be cut down to prevent 'outsiders' from using it.

In this hollow among the oaks was one of several forts we acquired. These forts had obviously been hangouts for either hippies or vagabonds. (That's what my parents called the homeless.) Evidence of hippie use was everywhere. Empty six-pack containers and old Zig-Zag packs were strewn among the decaying oak and eucalyptus leaves. This was also the place where I found my first X-rated magazine. What Catholic school and Irish parents had tried to protect me from was now in my possesion. So much for my ten year old innocence.

This fort was one of many outposts along our trail of adventure. My favorite was the one we found with the hatch in the floor. We repaired the broken rungs that ran up the trunk of the tree. Attached to the hatch was a sign that proclaimed NO GIRLS! In smaller print were the words 'except Teresa'. This fort had all the signs of ten year old carpenters' skill. From the twenty nails in the end of each two by four, to the collection of lumber scavenged from throughout the neighborhood, it was evident that Frank Lloyd Wright was not at work here.

Fire took our forts from us. One Fourth of July a motorist threw a firecracker into the dry brush and set off a blaze that quickly consumed the oaks and everything beneath them.

The fire that took my favorite tree fort, damaged or at least put a dent in our summertime fun. Nothing had an impact on our trail of adventure as much as the 'Invasion of the Earthmovers'.


My innocence was further dented when we woke on morning to the rumble of Caterpillars. They were attacking on two fronts. One where 'the Swing' once hung and the other was the slope we used as our own private tobbogan run.


Time marches on and progress can't be stopped, at least not by ten year olds. Had I read THE MONKEY WRENCH GANG in the third grade things may have been different.


They weren't. Developers had started to grade the upper slope in preparation for the construction of new homes. What had once been the playground of some adventurous children was slowly becoming the home for three car garages and swimming pools.

Toboggan run after the pavers did their work

The road I travelled on when I ran away from home, or where I sat under an oak eating sourgrass was slowly covered with asphalt. My brother and I recently talked and neither one of us can see a dusty road without thinking back to the days we spent exploring along the 'Backroad'. We will always remember the fun we had and the experience we gained.


My brother is now a firefighter and I'm working towards a Biology degree with an emphasis in Environmental Science. Our love of that playground has carried forward into our adult life.

We all have a favorite spot that we remember from childhood. We can't go back to those spots, in most cases, but we can all try to insure that our children and grandchildren have their own backroads.

Change may come and physically alter the spots we cherish but our memories are ours to keep. the lady I saw with tears in her eyes may never be able to see Laguna Canyon in the same way, but she will always have her memories. No supervisor can vote those away nor can any developer pave them over.