EVH

 Unlike many people, I honestly don’t recall the first time I heard Eddie Van Halen’s guitar. In fact, I remember seeing “Jump” in heavy rotation on MTV and my prevailing thought was of how goofy David Lee Roth looked while hamming it up for the camera.

Yes friends, I wasn’t into it immediately. But it didn’t take long. Funny thing was, it was that smile. The smile on Eddie’s face; half joy, half mischievousness. The look of a man who knows how to have a good time. And his guitar was the soundtrack to too many good times to count. By the time Panama was released I was hooked. I would sit through video after video from Men at Work, Duran Duran and gasp, Culture Club in eager anticipation of seeing that biplane at the opening of the video. Nothing against those other bands, great talents every one of them. But let’s face it; compared to Van Halen everything else sucked!

To show how much I grew to love the band and their music, my parents divorced in 1981. It was a sad time indeed and I was over it before any emotional pain had the chance to set in. But when David Lee Roth left the band, I was absolutely devastated. Life as I knew it had ended.

Enter Sammy Hagar; the blue-collar rocker who had already made a name for himself with “I Can’t Drive 55” and Montrose. A shift had begun; from hard-rocking glitz and glamour to equally rocking without the frills. Before I continue, I must say I wasn’t exactly happy when the Red Rocker joined the fold.

Many guitarists have touched my soul, wept with me and carried me through the highs and lows of everyday life. I was only somewhat familiar with Stevie Ray Vaughan when he passed away; the majority of my experiencing his music was limited to what they played on the radio. It wasn’t until my early 20’s that I grew to appreciate BB King and the truly great bluesmen who came before him. And I would be remiss were I not to mention the day the generation gap was shrunken by none other than Les Paul as my very un-rock grandma and I heard his music on the radio one afternoon.

And we could go on ad naseum about who the greatest guitar player of all time is. There is no wrong answer and there is no one hundred percent right answer. It’s all a matter of opinion. You can’t gauge how a sound makes you feel, no technology can rate how well a song connects with one’s soul.

Yet I will say even though each of the aforementioned legends has touched my life in so many ways, those greats combined could not match, much less surpass the impact Eddie Van Halen has had in inspiring and soundtracking every phase of my life. To put it in perspective; Eddie was a hero to me even before I had a baseball hero. 

Yeah, it’s that serious.

These days and for the past few decades, I hear an old favorite song and it takes me back to the days of childhood, or my teen years, or the years I was closer to legal drinking age than my early-bird-discount-at-Denny’s age. Bands like Led Zeppelin, Guns & Roses, Motley Crue, Metallica and so many others were a big part of the soundtrack of my life. Yet to this day, I hear the sheer power of “Everybody Wants Some”, the playful swagger of “Feel Your Love Tonight” or the heartfelt yet still rocking “Where Have All The Good Times Gone” and still I stop what I’m doing and listen in awe of the sheer enormity, the power and brute force behind the music. 

No other band does that to me. 

Thankfully I was blessed to see them live once during the For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge tour and silly as it may sound to some, EVH fans will understand when I say seeing Van Halen was as important to me as a pilgrimage to Mecca is to a Muslim.

I won’t share story after story of their music and what it means to me; surely your own have been resurfacing this past week and hopefully my words may renew even more memories for you. But I will share two quick ones. Like many of you, I didn’t have to go online and search for Van Halen music. I already had most of their catalog in digital form. One of my favorite slower songs is “Not Enough”. When I first discovered it I was head over heels crazy for girl who barely knew I existed, much less of my feelings for her. We grew to be friends over the years and though I did at one point express how I felt, it just wasn’t in the cards. Yet as she is on my FB, if she reads this at her home somewhere in the Midwest (Hoosier State), she will now know this was “our” song. I guess it’s only fair since it’s been over 25 years since I named it so!

During the same era I surprised even myself with the power a band could have to blow another band of the stage. The occasion was my yearly going away party in New Mexico, as I used to return to San Diego every summer. “Live: Right Here, Right Now” was playing in the CD, okay, cassette player. And as ancient as that technology was, our speakers were top of the line; 4-foot high Klipsch speakers in wooden cabinets. We pulled the speakers out into the yard and the anyone within a few miles was treated to a live performance. Only problem was the owner of a bar and grill I used to frequent called with two complaints. 

One, my party was costing them money. Their usual crowd was at my house and not spending any money in their bar. 

Two, they couldn’t hear the band. Fueled by who knows how many Budweiser’s, shots of Jim Beam and a handful of funny looking cigarettes, I shouted into the phone “You need a better band!” and hung up.

Ten minutes later the phone rang again. This time the owner begged me not only to turn down the music but to come to the bar so the party would follow me.

“I don’t care” he said frantically. “You can drink for free. Just get down here for a few hours.” After mulling the offer, I replied “Add my brother to the tab and it’s a deal!”

So after the tapes ended, we headed down to the bar with ears ringing & hearts pumping and drank more than our fair share. Always seems like free drinks went down a lot faster and easier, don’t they?! And considering how many I had, how many my brother had and how many we “bought” for nearly every female in the house, I think they just might have broken even for the night.

It was also that night I first gained appreciation for the dynamic backing vocals the band had throughout their career. Makes complete sense, in order to compete with the sheer power Alex’s drums Michael’s bass and of course Eddie’s guitar; the backing vocals had to be badass!

Yes, I could go on all night and well into the morning, much like those parties did; and talk about how much the music moved me. Yet rather than do that or share a list of my all time favorite songs, I’ll share a list of the Van Halen songs I simply am incapable of listening to at this time, for fear of turning into an uncontrollable, sobbing mess. And why…

Top Of The World

- Not a ballad by any stretch. But still my favorite sing-along moment at any concert I have been to. Also, the song they played at the Stadium and Ballpark every time Trevor Hoffman closed out a save. Greatest times of my life and though I don’t miss it to a point of dwelling over it, hearing such a song practiacally transports me to those times. Almost like a having a great dream you don’t want to wake up from, but it happens when I’m awake.

Right Now

- I’ve always dug this song. Ironically, it was such a departure for Van Halen at that time and fans took no notice to how different it was. When I first made attempts at sobriety I felt all hope was lost. This song not only gave me hope, it helped convince I had the strength to do what I needed to do. I just can’t listen to it right now. I tried twice today but emotions from throughout the decades rushed in so strongly I actually felt an anxiety attack coming on. Still, I know it like the rest of these songs will soon find itself back on my playlist.

Not Enough

- As mentioned previously, has a great memory behind it. Yet it also takes me back to that time, when life was carefree and my only real worry was not being too hungover to get to work in the morning. Funny how songs do that; they signify a specific moment or person then over the years it becomes something of a mental scrapbook. I’ve only gotten to the bridge of this song in the past week and thinking about Ed and Valerie waters up the eyes and I have to shut it off for now…

316

- I could barely get through this song before last week without shedding a tear or two, not even going to try now…

Finish What Ya Started 

- You know how sometimes a loved one passes away and you have regrets about a past disagreement, or maybe a regret about something you never said that you always wanted to? It took me a while to like Van Halen with Sammy Hagar at the helm but once it caught, I viewed them as a band who was even better in some ways. But when this song first came out, I was livid! This was Eddie Van Halen, why the hell was he slowing it down and giving us an almost country-like twanging thing? The song grew on me as well, into something I considered a very sensual groove in the tradition of “Darling Nikki”. Even thinking about this song during the week brought much guilt; guilt over my childish anger at Eddie for forcing Dave out and bringing Sammy in only to start recording what I once thought was way beneath them. In a way, both 5150 and OU812 are entire albums which are difficult to listen to at this time. Those two take me back to the years they were released and like every song I’ve mentioned, symbolize much more than the songs themselves.

Big Bad Bill (Is Sweet William Now)

- The stepdad of my best friend in middle school was named Bill and we used to play this for him all the time. Though Van Halen wasn’t his thing, he loved it. Bill has passed on now and knowing this is the only recording Eddie and Alex did with their father Jan, I don’t think I’ll be ready to hear it any time soon.

Cabo Wabo (Live)

- I have no regret about getting sober but if I did have only one regret, it would be not being able to have a shot with Sammy if I ever met him. Also, a dear friend of mine passed away just under two years ago and her family asked me to assist with planning her memorial service. In addition to emotional and spiritual support I was tasked with producing a slideshow to be screened for the over 400 people in attendance. I chose to use three songs; starting off with “Dancing Queen” accompanied by pics of her with friends & family and finishing off with Garth Brooks “The Dance” accompanied by pictures detailing her love of the game of baseball. In the middle I used Cabo Wabo, accompanied by pics of her at the pool, the tailgate parties and her annual trips to Cabo. How is it that some of my all-time favorite party songs are now ballads!?

I’ll Wait

- Nothing personal against this song but to me it’s the epitome of corporate rock radio. Gone are the days of kickass Rock & Roll stations like LA’s KNAC and what 101.5KGB used to be. When leading into a so called “deep cut” (of course, reading from a script likely written by a guy who’s as much rock and roll as Milo from the movie Airheads) from Van Halen, this is always the song they use.  Songs like “Everybody Wants Some”, “Somebody Get Me a Doctor” and “Show Your Love” simply aren’t played on radio any more these days and that’s a damn shame.

So there you (kind of) have it. In truth, I have not even begun to scratch the surface of what the name Van Halen means to me. For one, it would be like standing in the middle of a stadium full of people and saying “Quick, name all the baseball fans!”. There’s just too many to list, much less compile into something relatively short. And even more, in writing this I have realized I have no idea of the depths of what their music means to me. Considering the assault on the senses the music provides; just thinking about a song can create something of a time warp, something much more vivid than a flashback or recollection.

I still listen to a lot of my old favorite bands, yet having two young daughters has me listening to quite a bit of Disney tunes these days. Yet my sons and I are anxiously awaiting next months new AC/DC album, with Brian Johnson at the mic just like Mother Nature intended. As much as I love all the music I grew up, or at least older, with; I’ve only now realized none surpass Van Halen in overall feel. Not even Led Zeppelin, and Led Zeppelin is the only band whose every song comes with at least a few memories. Simply put, when you factor in overall feel, reflection on my life, the fact they were my first “favorite” band and the ability their music has to transport me back in time as well as be equally stunned now as I was the first times I heard them, there is no band more important to me.

Last but certainly not least, my ULTIMATE Van Halen song. As I mentioned earlier, when it comes to music, it’s all opinion.  And my opinion is that Unchained will rip your face off and beat you with your own shoes. Just the thought of that song gets my heart pumping a few hundred or so more beats per minute. As much as I love Motley Crue, it damn near makes “Kickstart My Heart” sound like Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy”.

If you see me out and about, ask me about the song. Or better yet, ask guys who ran the Jumbotron scoreboard control room at Jack Murphy Stadium in the late 90’s. That song makes me about as calm as the Tasmanian Devil; which means it hits almost as hard as the news I received last week, of that immigrant kid with the impish grin and magical fingers passing on to the great big stage in the sky…

Note: As I was writing this, I scanned over the songs I had previously been unable to listen to during the week. I was able to listen to them and where there had once been sadness, I felt joy. Where there was an emptiness in my heart was a void filled with the most massive sound we were ever blessed to hear and feel. I listened to each one of them, over and over again.

Except for “I’ll Wait”…

Junior

For all the hemming and hawing we San Diegans like to do about the “East Coast Bias”, I will say ESPN has done one hell of a job on the recent installment of “30 for 30”. Seeing as how I watch ESPN about as much as I run a marathon through the jungles of Panama; I took the impatient cheapskate route and signed up for the 7-day free trial on ESPN+ instead of waiting for it to come out on Netflix.

My first impression of Junior had me convinced he was Superman in lightning bolts instead of a cape. It was the front of the sports page shot of him in the weight room, curling God knows how many pounds of weights in each hand. I remember knowing the full amount at one time, however that number has been lost in distant memory. I do remember trying to bench press the same amount he had on ONE HAND and barely being able lift the bar off the bench. It would have taken at least four or five clones of myself to provide an adequate spotter.

As the years rolled by, Junior’s NFL star grew at a pace surpassed only by my admiration for him. And his unique ability to disrupt opposing offenses was surpassed only by his ability to lift not only his team but our fair city of San Diego onto his massive shoulders and lead us to the Promised Land and the AFC Championship.

I first met Junior in 2002 when we inducted Tony Gwynn into the Padres Hall of Fame. Junior was among the honored guests of the evening. Before the pregame ceremonies, all local dignitaries were gathered at the Padres Gameday Offices. Getting them to the field was slow going, as each was provided a security escort and as there were not enough guards to go around. Frustrated, Junior finally said “I work here too, I don’t need security. I know the way to the field.”

In a successful attempt to accompany him, I suggested that I join him. My excuse was that I was a Padres employee and his group would have radio contact with those running the ceremony. Padres Assistant VP of Community Relations Nhu Tran thought it was a great idea and thanked me profusely. To this day, I feel a tinge of guilt, as on the surface I was being a model employee, doing whatever was needed and even anticipating the needs of our guests. But deep down, I was doing it for one reason; to get near the greatest SAN DIEGO Charger of all.

“Hey, thanks Buddy” Junior said as we walked to the elevator. Little did I know, my day was seconds away from getting a whole lot better. The elevator door opened and to the left was Worthy, longtime elevator operator and a grizzly bear of a man. To the right stood the man himself, Tony Gwynn. For the few moments as the elevator descended to the Field Level, I was alone with the San Diego equivalent of Ruth & Gehrig.

I was 8 years old again.

 Knowing I could risk some serious disciplinary action up to and including termination if I were to ask for an autograph, I chose instead to simply cherish the moment. Meeting either one of these great men had been a lifelong dream and here I was in the company of both.

During those years I carried a camera with me at all times. As we stepped off the elevator I pulled out the camera and asked for a photo with both. Seau Foundation Director Bette Hoffman obliged and for a split second, Junior and Tony had an arm around me. Longtime San Diego sportswriter Bill Center called out to Tony and before we could snap the picture, Tony stepped away and said “Just a minute.”

Opportunity lost.

I couldn’t be bitter though, especially considering the way both looked at me and smiled when I said “There are no two men more beloved in this town. This is a dream come true, man.” Tony always had a way of downplaying any praise I would give him and it became something of a game between us. “I’m just your coworker, man.” He would tease, knowing full well I saw him as so much more than just a coworker.

Later I did in fact get my picture with Junior and as often happened after a night at the Stadium, my feet didn’t touch the ground on the way home. I met Junior again during Opening Week for Petco Park and enjoyed a few comped meals at Seau’s the Restaurant in between. Each time we crossed paths he called me “Buddy” and on one occasion while dining, he called me by my first name. Doesn't get any better than that. I thought of him often after he left for Miami.

I thought back to January of 1995 while living in New Mexico; watching the SAN DIEGO Chargers smash the Steelers in the mouth on the way to Miami. I thought of the humorous encounter I had in the North Woods of Michigan with a man in a Barry Sanders jersey; indicating the respect people had for him was indeed nationwide.

I thought of how for a many years, the only time I saw him was on TV or the occasional perch from the nosebleed seats at the Murph. Then I would think, considering the way he treated me every time we met, this man was my friend. A guy whom I had idolized was a friend. Then one day, my friend was gone.

Nothing could have prepared me for the news I woke to on May 2^nd, 2012. It’s still hard to fathom and always will be.

How could we not have known? What could we have done? These questions were asked over and over again in our collective soul. In the days after his death I wrote a blog detailing my own experiences with depression. I read reports about how he had a hard time adjusting to “regular” life and I found that I shared many of the same emotions. Once the curtain goes down on a career, no matter how fulfilling; there is a need for energy, for excitement. I related to that well, even though I was little more than just another face in the stands. Although the daily routine changes, the need for adrenaline is still there. And anyone who has seen Junior on the field knows well there was never a shortage of adrenaline.

I miss Junior and I always will. Yet I am often reluctant to say that publicly. I hesitate because his children miss their dad; his parents miss their son; his siblings miss their brother. Yet some things that continue to this day warm my heart and inject adrenaline into my soul just as it did when he was burying the likes of John Elway and Tim Brown into the turf, and even more so. I see his family fighting the NFL and dedicating themselves to holding the League accountable. I see a strong young woman in Sydney Seau and her brothers Tyler, Jake and Hunter ensuring his legacy, on and off the field, will continue.

I see man who succumbed to his demons yet in one final selfless act; did it in such a way that maybe, just maybe, his passing would help ensure that no families have to experience such a tragic loss in the future. Of all his on-field domination that led him to Canton that may well play out to be his greatest legacy…

Ramon "Chunky" Sanchez

September 9^th, 2004.

My grandfather passed away that morning. Though he had been in hospice care and we knew it was coming, it didn’t make things much easier. My dad had come to pick my brother and I up that morning to be with the family. As we climbed into the truck my dad slid a CD into the player and said “I want you guys to hear this song, this song is for you.” The song?

Pocho…

I first heard of Ramon “Chunky” Sanchez from a newspaper article I read sometime in the mid-to late 1990’s. The article told of his activism in the community, the Chicano Movement and most of all, his music. I don’t recall a whole lot about the article other than it piqued my interest in Chunky and Los Alacranes. This was a new thing for me, I had never gained interest in a musician or group without hearing them first. I honestly don’t know what drew me to him, there was nothing in the article that stood out and made me say to myself “I need to hear this man’s music.”

Whatever led me to him was most definitely bigger than me and my thought comprehension at the time. Either it was something within my subconscious, within my soul that led me in his direction, or a force outside of me gently nudging me. What it was I will never know, and that’s not very important to me. What is important to me is why I was led in that direction.

Sometime after the dawn of the new millennium I was out for some shopping on a warm Sunday evening. The radio was on 92.5 and that’s how I remember it being a Sunday, it’s the only day of the week I listen to that station. A song came on, unannounced by the DJ. The warmth of the guitar immediately caught my attention, an attention that went far beyond my ears. Before a single word was sung my soul was touched by the undeniable spirit of the music. Then, when Chunky said “In the city of San Diego, under the Coronado Bridge…” I knew the song to be about Chicano Park.
Most of what I had known about the park came from word of mouth, local papers didn’t talk much about it. But there it was, the true story from a man who was in the middle of it all. Still then, I wasn’t sure who sang the song and they went immediately into another song, title and artist I do not recall. Later, I thought of that article I read a few years before and decided it must be from Los Alacranes

Back then, less than half the people I knew had internet access and YouTube was still half a decade away. I couldn’t find a copy of “Chicano Park” anywhere.

Weeks later, there was another media mention of Chunky, this one about his work in the schools. I turned the TV up, hoping to catch some of his music as they played a soundbite from one of his many performances for schoolchildren. I watched the jovial man with the mustaches talking to the kids and I suddenly remembered, “I’ve met him before!”

It was in the summer of 1998 and we were going full-bore on the Ballpark Campaign. My fellow Pad Squad mates and I were canvassing the Gaslamp District, going into every bar a restaurant to promote the ballot measure. We met Chunky sitting at the end of the bar at Baja Lobster and he gave two of us a lecture I will never forget. With a furrowed brow, he asked us “When that ballpark is built, what’s going to happen to the homeless people who are there now?”

They had trained us to answer nearly any question we could expect when promoting the Ballpark, but this was one question I had no answer for. My coworker and I looked at each other then back to Chunky, who waited patiently for our answer. “It will be a good thing for the City of San Diego, for the fans and for the community, but the homeless are part of the community too, que no?!”

His words sank deep into me, changing my perspective of the homeless in that very instant. Before, I had a stereotype of homeless people as drunk, maybe on drugs, begging for money all the time and sometimes causing trouble. In other words, I did not see them as humans.

Chunky didn’t criticize me for wanting the ballpark, he didn’t accuse me of not caring about the homeless. In fact, he informed us he was going to be voting “Yes on C” that November. What he did do was ask me to think. He asked me to think about my fellow man.

My perspective was changed forever that night. After all, we are all just one house fire, one major earthquake, one riot away from being homeless ourselves. Aside from the change to a more compassionate human being, the thing I take from that night was the way Chunky spoke to us. He spoke with truth, he spoke with conviction and most of all, he spoke with love.

Fast forward six years to that warm September morning when my grandfather Rudy Gonzales Sr. passed away. Throughout grade school, I was made fun of by the Mexican kids for not speaking Spanish and I was made fun of by the white kids for having a Mexican last name. There were even similar insults from within my own family and punishment for showing resistance to such insensitive and ignorant remarks from grown adults, because they were “just joking”.

After a lifetime of being insulted by the word Pocho, that morning I learned it was a title to be proud of. I learned there was nothing wrong with being a product of both sides of the border, even though I spoke only the language of one side. I learned there were others who had suffered the same insults, and turned those insults into their own inner strength. Most of all, I learned why I was so drawn to the man and the band I read about in a newspaper article nearly ten years before.

When a loved one passes, we are often filled with nearly as much regret as we are grief. The grief comes from such a tremendous loss and quite frankly, I feel the San Diego community has not been hit so hard since we lost Tony Gwynn and Jerry Coleman mere months apart in 2014. In a way, I think the Chicano Communty has been hit even harder than our baseball community was two years ago. I don’t think I would get any argument from someone who not only knows but feels the gift of love Chunky gave to us all.

We grieve and at times, we regret. We regret because we think of all the times we wish we would have said what we wanted to say, or done something we wanted to do before a loved one’s time came. I have a long list of people who have passed without my telling them how much they meant to me, how much they have made my life better for having them in it. I am eternally grateful this is not the case with Chunky. For you see, I told him the story of the first time I heard “Chicano Park”. I told him about the morning my grandfather passed away and how I hadn’t been so moved by a song since well, the first time I heard Chicano Park. I told him how I try hard to look at not only the homeless but all human beings with compassion as a result of the conversation we had in the Gaslamp in the magical summer of 1998.

In short, Ramon “Chunky” Sanchez, pillar of the community, musician of the people and Chicano Icon made me a better man. It was always a joy to see him at the ballpark, it was not uncommon for me to leave my position on the field before pregame ceremonies to hit up my beer connection and bring him a few Miller Lites. No matter where I was in the ballpark, I would recognize that mustache from across the field.

In my life I have made a few decisions I am not proud of; I have turned right when I should have turned left, I have gone to the liquor store to look for a drink when I should have been out looking for a job. But one of the most important decisions I have made was following my heart when I read that newspaper article so many years ago. It led me to wonderful music, it led me to being a man with a bigger heart and most important, it led me to my friend Chunky…

Sincerely,

One Grateful Pocho

End of an Era (?)

Late one Saturday night, 1987. My best friend Richard Pope and I are watching “Headbangers’ Ball”. Yes kids, there was such thing as music videos on MTV and better yet, those music videos actually involved musicians. This was pre-Guns and Roses for us, so we anxiously awaited the next Motley Crue, Ratt or egads!, Poison video. Sometime around midnight, we switched back after the commercial break and saw three mean, dirty looking bikers playing a mean guitar, furious drums and an angry growl unlike anything I’d heard before or since. With my every-sentence-must-include-an-f-bomb teenage attitude, I asked Richard “What the fuck is this?!” He shook his head and with the same stunned expression I surely had, then turned his attention back to the TV.

This band was most definitely not from the spandex and hot chicks scene we were into at the time. Far from it. They were louder and faster than anything in our meager cassette and vinyl collections and before the final verse, they were something we knew we wanted more of. Something we needed more of. As the song was winding down we watched the bottom left corner of the screen. As the final unified bass, drum and guitar notes emanated from the tiny speaker, the caption read Motorhead. Ace of Spades.

We looked at each other again. “Have you heard of these guys?” “No! You?!” “No.” Again, “What the FUCK was that?!” No lipstick, no hairspray and not a trace of bullshit. Just pure, loud and aggressive Rock & Roll. Every band we had seen up to that point had their whole image and wardrobe painstakingly created, down to every last bullet belt and studded wristband. Hell even Angus Young, lead guitarist of one of the biggest no-frills, in your face bands in history had his little schoolboy outfit and satchel. But not Motorhead. These guy looked like they just happened to be sitting at the bar and took (or maybe even stole) the stage.

Lemmy, the name; and Motorhead, the attitude; soon entered the lexicon of our bored yet ready-for-anything teenage lives. Any time someone would say “Lemme get…” or “Lemme see if…” we would shout in unison “LEMMY!!!” During an early scene of the Blues Brothers when Dan Akroyd’s Elwood is admonishing John Belushi’s Jake, Jake replies “Well what do you want me to do, MOTORHEAD!” Suffice to say, we roared as if the Chargers had just scored a touchdown. At church summer camp throughout my teen years Lemmy himself was as revered as any guitar hero we had known, at least among my brother, Richard and I. And everyone seemed to want to get on the Motorhead bandwagon.

It didn’t stop there. Not much later, our neighbor knocked at our door and asked “What the hell is that noise?!” “Motorhead!!!” my brother and I responded in unison. From that day on, he referred to my brother and I as Motorhead and my mom was known as Mrs. Motorhead.

Lemmy’s death, the death of Scott Weiland preceding it and the later death of David Bowie has churned up some long-brewing thoughts on the state of music. Technology has made music and for that matter any type of media and information readily available. Gone are the days we would wait anxiously by the radio to hear our favorite songs; no more are we required to wait in line for a midnight album release. Every song we could want can be found online. Bands don’t start in the garage anymore; they start online and god forbid, on Youtube and the myriad talent/reality shows. Most of what is popular out there is music only in title; even the least discerning ear can tell there is little musicianship involved. As a society we have come to rely on processed, non-organic foods, so it’s no surprise we have done the same with our music.

The old posters used to show singers, guitarist, bass players and drummers in their element, thrashing about as they churned out screeching vocals, face-melting guitar solos’, thumping beats and pounding drums. Now, we see either choreographed lip-synching (to auto-tuned tracks) or even worse, some guy with his hands held high over his head, as if he actually accomplished something; while standing over two computers made to look like turntables.  I hope that somewhere, out there is some kid who saw his uncle mourning the loss of Scott Weiland; a young girl who took notice of how her parents have been playing David Bowie the past few days; a disenchanted teenager who keeps looking at the Motorhead banner in his neighbors garage. They are the hope.

This may sound like a typical “Back in my day…” diatribe. Every generation spews them to the next. It’s what we do. But if we keep it up, real music will end up being what we don’t. Rudy Valee was the first “Pop” superstar, and his fans couldn’t understand why their bobby-soxer children listened to Frank Sinatra. The Bobby Soxers couldn’t understand why their kids listened to Elvis, Little Richard and Chuck Berry in the 50’s. Their kids couldn’t get the Who, Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath. Bands like Aerosmith, AC/DC and Guns n Roses helped bond a few generations until the last real musical movements, grunge and the full-circle re-emergence of the singer-songwriters like Jewel, Jack Johnson and Dave Matthews.

The music over the past century has varied as much as the cars we have driven, the foods we eat and the way we communicate. But it all had one common vital thread little seen these days.

Actual musicians writing and performing with musical instruments…

As you all know, my dreams of rock and roll superstardom never came to be. But years ago at that church camp, we had a few moments of glory at the end of the week “talent” show. We did what they call an air band performance. We didn’t have the balls to do a Motorhead song as we knew they would never allow it. Yet had we known about Jim Morrison’s performance on the Ed Sullivan Show we probably would have went ahead and done some Motorhead. Instead we chose a few of our late 80’s idols. One year we did something from Skid Row and the other was naturally Motley Crue. The name of our band?

The Ace of Spades…

The Tailgater, The Rocker, and The Angel in the Outfield.

This time of year our newsfeeds are peppered with shared posts of photo retrospectives. Fun as they are, you all know a “share and post” isn’t my way of doing things. And seeing as how it’s been a while since I wrote an open letter to my Padres family, I felt now is as good as a time as ever to get back on the horse, so to speak.

The year started with anticipation unseen since we opened Petco Park in 2004 and it built right up

until Opening Day. Sadly, we didn’t quite have the outstanding season we were expecting. You went to the games, you read the box scores so I won’t put salt on the wounds with a recap of the season. I will however give something of a recap of what means much more to me than the game itself.

The people. All of you, My Family.

In my thirteen years we had only three winning seasons, with some of the rest challenging for the worst record in team history. At one point, even a dependent of a former owner mocked me for proudly waving the Padres flag.

I used to grow angry over such comments, especially coming from someone who bit the proverbial hand that fed him. Yet I, and WE have something he and other such “fans” will never have.

Heart.
Loyalty.
And an undying appreciation of our local nine.

Year after year, we give our hearts and souls to the Padres and more often than not, we end up with little to do in October, saying “wait ‘til next year” two weeks before the World Series starts and sometimes, much earlier.

No matter, for when I return to the Ballpark for a game or even drive by on the way home from a pizza dinner with the family at Seaport Village, I am reminded why I and we keep returning every season. Jerry Seinfeld once said he was confused with sports fandom. After all, we don’t root for the players after they leave, (of course, he doesn’t know the way we’ve treated guys like Jake Peavy, Tim Flannery, Trevor Hoffman and countless others after they’ve returned in a visitor uniform) we root for the uniform. I must add that the new white home uniforms are all kinds of hideous, but that’s a rant for another time.

We return for the games but the real reason we have put our hearts and souls into it all is each other. I couldn’t imagine having a pregame meal with anyone but Cub, Kathy and the rest of the tailgate crew. And though my son Trevor loves watching BP, I spend more time looking out for good friends like Summer, Delia, Teri, Terry, Barb and all the wonderful ladies of the Madres. My tradition of whacking Harry the Heckler with my cap is nearing its third decade. And no matter how great my seats are, I usually spend most of my time with FranKlin and the rest of the crazy right field crew.

As beautiful as it is to see you at the Balllpark and various events throughout the year, it saddens me to know we have seen each other nearly as much while saying goodbye to a member of the Family as we have at games.

Winning records are nice, but nothing breaks our hearts more than losing one of our many loved ones. I am certain many more were lost but this season, there were three losses that hit me as hard as that terrible one-two punch of 2014 when we lost the Colonel and Mr. Padre.

It started with a somewhat late notice of losing a longtime friend and season ticketholder. Harry Shultz had been a Friar Faithful since the 1970’s and was the point man for the Tailgate crew I spent many a lunch break with. Harry often talked about the good ol’ days when, after Mrs. Kroc banned alcohol in the clubhouse, players used to go out into the parking lot and bring their own coolers. A Navy veteran, Harry was like the cool old neighbor down the street who always had a cold beer ready for you at the end of the day. For me, it was always a cold Pepsi at the beginning of my workday. The Pepsi’s became so endearing to me I always bring several extras to the tailgate. That way when I get home, I’m not only drinking Pepsi, I’m drinking Pepsi’s from Tailgate PARK! Those of you who are San Diego transplants may understand it in this context; think of the corner restaurant or regional product your family has loved for years and how rare it is you get to enjoy it. I can get a Pepsi anywhere, but a Pepsi from Tailgate Park is nearly as rare as a Cheesesteak from Ray’s or brisket from Texas!

Not long after the season ended came a tremendous blow to the Pad Squad family. Charla Williams was one of the original “Padrette’s”, a Pad Squad precursor from the days of Tuba Man, Nate Colbert and fifty cent beers. For over a decade, Pad Squad members all called her Mom. It’s safe to say NO woman contributed more to the Pad Squad and therefore, the Fan Experience than Charla. Her son Mike still oversees the roster and daughter Kelly epitomized the kindness, playfulness and all-around fan friendliness the Pad Squad is known for. I always considered Charla one of those you would call a Rock and Roll Mom. After all, she named her first born after Mick Jagger and there ain’t nothing more Rock and Roll than that! (At press time, my suggestion her grandson be named after Keith Richards has received no response.)

As we neared the Holidays, yet another devastating loss rocked the Family. I don’t recall the first time I met Press Gate Bruce, maybe that’s because once you knew him, it was like he was always part of your life. At the Murph, he was usually the first person I saw on Gameday. Once we moved Downtown, I usually bypassed the employee entrance in favor of going through Bruce’s gate. In baseball, we have many traditions and superstitions. I have thought about this much recently and I have realized my carrying the tradition from the stadium to the ballpark had nothing to do with either. It had everything to do with starting the day off right. In my later years, I often arrived at the Ballpark in a sour mood. Seeing Bruce, even if it was just for a moment, always changed that. Whether it was just a simple hello and hang in there, or a raucous dirty joke fest, Bruce always had a way of turning my day around for the better.

In thinking of Bruce these past few weeks, I have been thinking of another loved one we lost some years ago. Many of you will remember Mark Gomez, a longtime usher from the third base side. One afternoon, I showed up in my usual angry mood and I decided to talk a walk around the nearly-empty park to cool off. As I walked out of the tunnel near the visitors’ bullpen, I saw Mark across the field wiping down seats in section 110. Just seeing him made me smile, first on the outside then on the inside. What a tremendous soul to have that effect on people, especially considering the state of mind I was in those days. And it’s a safe bet to say each and every one of you is smiling at the mere thought of Mark…

We have been blessed to know so many wonderful people. I’ve met nearly every living Hall of Famer and a few who have since penciled their names to the big box score in the sky. I’ve met CEO’S, Admirals, Generals and even an ex-President. Each are textbook examples of success in their chosen fields. Yet in the Field of Life, no accomplishment can match the overall success I have seen in people like Harry, Charla, Bruce and Mark. The success of being such a person who can make another smile with just a thought. A person who can bring others together in their own special ways, many without even trying but simply by being themselves.

Friends, I love a winning season as much as anyone. You know this, as you’ve seen it on my face when the team succeeds as well as on my slumped shoulders when the team fails. But I don’t go to the Ballpark to see a win. Hell, I often don’t even go to see a game! I go for the mini-family reunion we have every time I walk through those gates. I go to remember how you all make me feel like Norm from Cheers whenever I hear “Rudy!” from family members in every section of the Park. But most of all, I go in tribute to the loved ones we lost and continue sharing the gifts they have given to me but to my own family and my Family of 40,000…

Part of the Family

One evening in early 2000 my Mom and I were discussing some sad news we had received earlier in the day. Long time 101.5 KGB DJ “Long” John Leslie had passed away. I was blessed to meet and hang out with John on a few occasions and he was a throwback to the good old days of radio; often bringing milk crates full of his own records into the studio to supplement the extensive playlist.

Just as saddened as we were for the loss of a man who was like a cool older brother to thousands of San Diegans’, our hearts went out to his long time on-air partner and off the air friend Coe Lewis. Coe was charged with the monumental task of announcing his death on the air and for all of us it was like a member of our own family had passed on.

This past year has had me thinking of John Leslie’s death on more than one occasion, in part due to his lifestyle and how it inspired me to make changes in my own life. Yet even heavier on my mind and in my heart was the way our local media personalities ingrain themselves into the very fabric of our lives. And this year, the year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Fourteen, the collective loss shared by the San Diego community and family have been unlike any previous year. 2013 closed with the devastating loss of Loren Nancarrow, our go-to guy for weather and anything we might want to learn about our gardens.

Our baseball world was rocked before 2014 was even a week old; as long time Padres announcer, former World Series MVP and USMC combat veteran Jerry Coleman was called for one last sortie into the heavens. Jerry was there for many camping trips on Rosarito Beach in the 1980’s, a source of comfort in the turbulent early 90’s and a prime example of what it is to be an American well into this new millennium. In short, he was like a grandfather to three generations of San Diego baseball fans.

Not long after the first Opening Day in forty years without “The Colonel” behind the microphone, San Diegans were devastated by the second part of the worst one-two punch we’ve ever known. Tony Gwynn. Need I say more? I’ve written extensively about the man and his impact on me, echoing the stories from thousands of others not only across America’s Finest City but across the baseball world. For all his awards and on-field accolades, they pale in comparison to the love we had for him.

And just when we think we might finish the year without losing yet another local icon, Larry Himmel loses his valiant battle with brain cancer. Each man was unique from the other in their chosen crafts but we were able to enjoy Larry all year round as opposed to a spring-through fall schedule.

Tony was most well-known to us on the baseball field and Jerry was most known to San Diegans for his “Oh, Doctor!” catch phrase and Larry well, he was just Larry. He was just a man who just made us laugh through the 1980’s with one  of my favorite shows; San Diego at Large, and he merely became the man who showed the most outstanding example of on-air humility when he covered live the burning of his own home during the 2007 Wildfires. Many San Diegans knew someone who lost a home in the fires, and even more knew someone who was evacuated. But Larry made sure we all did, reporting live as years of irreplaceable memories went up in flames before our eyes. He gave a face to the faceless, a name to the nameless. With one selfless act, we all knew someone who lost their home that tragic day.

I don’t know if it’s a combination of age and the losses we’ve suffered this year, but the impact local personalities have had on our lives have occupied a large part of my mind this past twelve months. I began wondering about the ones who have moved on to other cities and of course those who have moved to the big news desk in the sky. Good folks like Captain Mike Ambrose and Larry Sacknoff, and our writers like Jerry Magee and Barry Lorge. They greet us over coffee in the morning and welcome us home after a long days work. They sit at our table every Thanksgiving, they go to the beach with us every summer. They said goodnight to us on Fridays when we stayed the night at grandma and grandpa’s house and shared wonderful stories of our fair city every Saturday night. They shared their triumphs and sorrows with us; who can forget the stoic message Dave Rickards sent to our enemies after 9/11; the way we mourned with him when his beloved wife Beth passed away?

I will never forget sitting in my Mom’s 1972 Mustang; her risking being late to work and my brother and I being late to school so we can hear Cookie “Chainsaw” Randolph’s “Joke of the Day”, nor will  I ever forget “North Mission Beach” and that dastardly Kurt Bevacqua after he stole Biff’s dream girl Roberta. And who among us hasn’t learned something new About San Diego from Ken Kramer?

 Beloved figures all, and when we encounter them in public we greet them like the old good friends they are. I remember my Mom telling me a story of a company convention she attended which included Ted Leitner as Master of Ceremonies. They say Ted is the kind of guy you either love or hate and Ted, if you ever read this, I love you man.

Many of our local personalities came from other towns, from other states. Yet they are as local as the fish taco, as much a part of our identity as the San Diego Zoo. They are reliable as the waves at Windansea, timeless as the pines in the Cuyamacas. They are our newscasters, our reporters, our writers and our announcers. They are like the wise grandfather, the cool uncle and the neighbor down the street with all the latest gadgets. And when they mourn, we mourn right along with them. For they are part of our town, part of our lives and part of our family…

Walter and Cordelia Knott

This past March my wife and I along with our three children and counting celebrated our first wedding anniversary at Knott’s Berry Farm. It’s close to home, they have a wonderful hotel and park ticket package and most important to me it gave us the opportunity to enjoy the legacy of Walter and Cordelia Knott.

This was our second family trip to Knott’s and let me tell you, I was no less happy there than I would have been at any of the other well-known theme parks in Southern California. Having been our second trip, we were able to plan a little better than we did the previous year. The only real difficult part was making sure we enjoyed ourselves as much as we did the first time around. Rather than spend Sunday and Monday inside the park, we chose to check in to the hotel early Sunday afternoon and take in the sights outside the park that didn’t require admission. This was done for many reasons; weekday crowds are always smaller than the weekend crowds and we gained an extra three hours inside on Monday, which we would not have had if we went inside on Sunday.

After checking in to the hotel we made our way to the Marketplace. Knott’s California Marketplace is a collection of shops and restaurants just outside the main gate and within easy walking distance of the park. I had explained to my sons that they would be able to choose any souvenirs and goodies they wanted with one stipulation; if it was theirs, they carried it. No exceptions. Visiting the Marketplace enabled us to get our fill of souvenirs before we went into the park the next day. This prevented us from being bogged down with extra cargo while we enjoyed the attractions.

One thing I really looked forward to was Independence Hall; a brick by brick replica of the original in Philadelphia complete with a replica of the Liberty Bell. It was a quiet afternoon, we were the only souls in the building aside from the two employees manning the souvenir stand located in the Supreme Court room. The afternoon wore on and we were all getting so we walked through the pedestrian tunnel under Beach Blvd and headed over to Pink’s Hot Dogs. The original Pink’s is located in Hollywood and the Knott’s version carried the same star-studded menu. I read the menu online nearly every night for the previous week yet still I was unable to make a final decision when I got to the counter. I settled for the Chicago dog and if anyone has had a good Chicago dog before, let me tell you the one at Pink’s is the real deal.

I was running on three hours of sleep and only eight since the previous Friday but I was not tired in any way. Besides I get plenty of sleep at home and at home I don’t have world class hot dogs, souvenir shopping and Mrs. Knott’s Fried Chicken at home. After a short rest at the hotel we journeyed again to the Marketplace, stocking up on toys, clothing and bottles of concentrated boysenberry punch. A pleasant surprise awaited us the Berry Market section of the building; one of the oldest Knott’s attractions that predated even the venerable Ghost Town. As Walter Knott scrambled for ways to entertain guests during the hours-long waits for Cordelia’s fried chicken, two of the first attractions he added were an exact replica of George Washingtons’ hearth at Mount Vernon along with a rock-garden waterfall and an antique millstone. What a joy it was to discover them while searching for the restroom! I had read about the attractions following our first trip but I was under the assumption they were tucked away in employee-only areas of the property.

It was a joyful yet solemn moment; those attractions had stood for over seventy years and aside from the updated lighting it was just as Mr. Knott had made it.

Even though we were still a little full from our afternoon hot dog and chili feast, we kept up with the “we can’t get that at home” way of thinking and picked up a bucket of Knott’s fried chicken and fresh baked biscuits our the way back to the hotel. We made it through the first day without succumbing to my temptation to buy extra tickets and head into the park a day early.

Some of my past blogs have talked about why my family is so endeared to Knott’s and that second trip, combined with the history I learned made the feeling that much deeper.

Walter Knott was born in 1889 to a family whose roots were brought west in a covered wagon. His grandmother made the trip across the Mojave Desert at three years of age. At 16 Walter met Cordelia Hornaday and after a two year courtship they were married, Cordelia settling in as a housewife and Walter taking a well-paying job as a supervisor for a concrete company. Walter could have likely made a comfortable living and even retired from the construction job but he knew that it wasn’t his calling. Since childhood Walter tended his own gardens and sold the rewards to neighbors in an effort to help with the family finances. His heart was with the land; Walter wanted to farm and unbeknownst to him, that desire would make the Knott name known worldwide.

Before that could happen, Walter and Cordelia decided to leave their relatively comfortable life in Pomona for the hardship and uncertainty of farming in the Mojave Desert. Walter looked forward to the prospect of owning his own farmland, while Cordelia didn’t share his enthusiasm. As the story goes, Mrs. Knott burst into tears when she saw the one-room adobe that was to be their home.

Undaunted, Walter made the best of their new home near the town of Newberry Springs. The average temperature in the summertime is over 100 degrees and while the ample sunshine is vital to a good crop, lack of water in the desert made it very difficult to succeed. In researching the Knott family story I found it very coincidental that a “New” berry would be a catalyst to Mr. and Mrs. Knott’s success.

After three years of trying to eke out a living in the harsh desert landscape Walter received an opportunity to return to Orange County. His cousin Jim Preston invited him to partner in a tenant-farmer deal in Buena Park. Starting off with strawberries, raspberries’ and later adding asparagus and rhubarb, Walter and his cousin were barely scraping by. After a year, Jim was ready to call it quits. If he left Walter would be out of a job, as Jim held the farming rights to the land. Walter approached the landowner himself, inquiring about purchasing the land outright. Walter met great difficulty in securing a loan; the Great Depression was on and no bank would touch him. In spite of the economic hardships, Walter was determined to make the farm work. After having secured the necessary loans and convincing the landowner to sell at a below-market price, Walter now held the deed to the land that was to become America’s first theme park.

In spite of Walter’s green thumb and Cordelias’ undying support the berry business was middling at best. An old friend of Walters tipped him off to a hybrid berry plant created by Rudolph Boysen. Walter tracked down the remaining berry plants in nearby Anaheim and soon had a thriving spread of the plants. In 1928 he opened Knott’s Berry Place, a simple wooden shack to sell his products. Cordelia began to make jellies and jams with biscuits, light sandwiches and punch to wash it all down. When asked what the berries were called, Walter replied “Boysen created them, so we should call them Boysenberries.” This was a shock to some, as most men would have put their own name on the new berry product. But Walter Knott was a very special breed of man, he chose to give credit where credit was due. Within a few years, Boysens’s berries were the most popular berry in the United States and every boysenberry in the world today came from those six withering plants Walter found over 80 years ago.

The Depression continued to strain the financial situations of families across the land and the Knott’s weren’t immune. Despite the popularity of the Berry Stand Walter and Cordelia weren’t turning a profit. Undaunted, they built a “tea room” to give more of a homey feel to the business. Cordelia added sandwiches to the menu, along with her immediately famous boysenberry pies. They say in business the three most important things are location, location and location. This was true for the Knotts’ as the Los Angeles elite used California State Highway 39 (now known as Beach Blvd) as the main route to their summer homes on the beaches of Orange County. Soon, visitors from all over made Knott’s a destination instead of just a stop along the way. With the influx of guests, Mrs. Knott decided to cook up some of her family recipe fried chicken; serving it to eight people on her own wedding china.

Cordelia continued to serve her chicken to supplement the family income, insisting the whole while “I am not in the restaurant business.” Within weeks, word spread like wildfire about the fried chicken being served up at Knott’s Berry Place; averaging one thousand meals served per day, with four thousand on Sundays and a total of over a quarter million meals served during that first year. Like it or not, Cordeila Knott was definitely in the restaurant business. The average wait to sit at one of Knott’s tables went into several hours and this is when Walter started adding attractions to keep his guests entertained. The first was a mock volcano that came to be as much out of necessity as desire. An old vent pipe stuck eight feet out of the ground and since it could not be removed, Walter piled up lava rocks trucked in from Death Valley and had his volcano.

I thought of this when I admired the handiwork of the Washington hearth along with the millstone and rock garden. The Knott legacy was right in front of me and as I said, it was a serene; almost solemn moment. Knott’s is now an internationally-known brand but when I stood admiring those attractions I was taken back to the 1930’s. Later in the evening I made a third trip to the Marketplace. While my family and I shopped at Snoopy World Headquarters earlier in the evening I spotted a rain coat that I really wanted. I had the money to spare but when my oldest son and I went to check it out, I found they didn’t have my size. It was for the better, it was a nice jacket but I knew the money would have been better spent elsewhere. The later-evening walk to the Marketplace has become something of a tradition for Trevor and I. Not only does it give us some great father-son bonding time, something that is cherished by a dad who works five nights a week. It also gives me an excuse to check out the Knott legacy, something I never tire of doing.

Every time I walk by the Chicken Dinner Restaurant, I visualize the photos I’ve seen from when it was one of the only buildings in the area. There was a time where there were as many horses parked out front as there were cars. As Trevor and I walked back towards the hotel we spoke excitedly about our plans for the next day. He said “We better make sure we get you and Jojo one of those turkey legs”, as my youngest son asked earlier if we could get “one of those big barbecue chicken legs”. I thought of Knott’s Ghost Town, built in the years around World War Two. Walter often traveled throughout the west in search of ghost towns. His idea was to build a Ghost Town of his own; complete with actors portraying the characters one would expect to see in a typical Old West town. Some of the buildings in Knott’s Ghost Town attraction were new, built by Knott employees and intentionally weathered to look old. Walter also traveled to Arizona and purchased entire buildings, had them dismantled, shipped to Buena Park and reassembled in the newly named Knott’s Berry Farm. Walter and Cordelia didn’t stop with in Arizona; some of the buildings came from as far away as Oregon and the venerable Ghost Town Schoolhouse was shipped from Kansas and placed next to the Birdcage Theater, an exact replica of the famous theater in Tombstone.

When my family and I visit a well-known attraction I am often in envy of its employees. How lucky and blessed they are to work in a place where fun is the main commodity! At Knott’s I thought of the employees who worked directly under Walter and Cordelia themselves. One year Walter decided to give out twenty thousand dollars in profits to employees as bonuses in addition to their standard pay. When told that he was crazy to do such a thing, Walter shrugged it off knowing that the loyalty he showed was far more important to the bottom line than money. This continued until after Mr. Knott passed away; with a grand total of over five million dollars given right back to employees. That’s over twenty million dollars in today’s numbers.

Near the Independence Hall building there is a Golden Rain Tree planted by the Knott employees. Near the tree sits a bronze plaque dedicated to the Knott Family. This plaque was paid for and installed by employees in appreciation of dedication the Knott Family showed to them over the years. Of all the dedication the employees showed to the Farm, the Knott family returned it tenfold. One afternoon, a waitress from the Chicken Dinner restaurant was overheard talking about her inability to buy a dress for her daughter on her salary as a single mother. Mrs. Knott learned of this and promptly went into her sewing room and made a dress herself; presenting it to the young mother after dinner at the Knott family table.

Such things are on my mind when I walk through the park and outlying properties. When the park opened for business on that cool Monday morning we made a beeline to the Log Ride. Since it was closed for renovations when we made our first family trip last year, I had not ridden it since 1986 and more than anything I wanted to share the experience with my family. The ride itself was designed and built by Bud Hurlbut, the master designer and builder who cast the Liberty Bell replica and created the world’s first “dark ride” in 1960; the Calico Mine Ride. When Mr. Knott expressed his concerns for the feasibility of such an endeavor, he asked Bud “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Mr. Hurlbut replied that he was indeed certain of the ride’s success and was later quoted as saying “And that’s the first and last time I lied to Walter Knott.” A theme park standard these days is the hidden queue, a design feature that Bud Hurlbut gave birth to with the Calico Mine Ride. The Log Ride followed in 1969 and while it wasn’t the first log flume-themed ride in the country, it was the first to add animatronic figures and accurate reproductions. Riders were immersed in the world of an 1890’s Northern California logging camp; the first of which were legendary actor John Wayne and his son Ethan. Knott’s was now an official theme park, as Walter reluctantly decided to fence off the entire property, giving the Knott’s the ability to charge admission for the first time.

After two consecutive trips on the Log Ride we walked over to Knott’s other window to the past, the famous Ghost Town. Ghost town is a window in two ways; one being that many of the original buildings still stand and two because they continue to pay the tribute to the pioneer spirit that Mr. Knott intended. We filled our cups with ice-cold boysenberry punch and settled in to a lunch of smoked turkey legs for us boys and a pile of gourmet fries for the Mrs. I think my one year old daughter Layla got the best of the deal. Too young for a plate of her own, we each shared a bit of our meals with her, giving her the best of both worlds. We also shopped in the Bottle House, a small building made of thousands of whiskey bottles. Now a gift shop filled with Native American crafts, the Bottle House is one of the original Ghost Town buildings. Again I was transported back with thoughts of the old photos I saw.

At the end of our first day we resisted having a fried chicken dinner for the second night in a row; opting for a light dinner of appetizers at the hotel’s Amber Waves restaurant. We planned on taking some chicken home the next day and didn’t want to burn ourselves out on it. It was an early night for all five of us; my usual 4am bedtime was beaten by nearly four hours. This came only after skimmed through two new (to me) books on Knott’s history; both of which contributed largely to this travel/history piece. I looked over airborne images of the park over the years and compared them to the Google Earth images on my laptop. I was saddened to see Ghost Town and the two major Hurlbut-built rides were among the only remaining features from the days when both Mr. and Mrs. Knott lived on their “Farm”. Just under the tracks of the Pony Express ride there are remnants of the original Ghost Town desert. Mr. Knott’s Church of Reflections is now across the street, near Independence Hall. It is generally closed to the public but they still hold an Easter Sunrise service every year. That is definitely something on my bucket list.

We often try to visit major attractions on weekdays, I’ve never been partial to large crowds aside from baseball games and rock concerts. During our early-week visit to Knott's the lines for most rides were non-existent. On our second day rather than ask one another “What do you want to do today” we were able to ask “What do you want to do again today?” One of the only rides we missed that first day was the Butterfield Stagecoach ride, due to it being closed by the time we made the effort to ride it. In keeping with a promise I made to my son Joseph; we headed straight to the depot as soon as we walked in the gates, stopping only for some candid shots with Snoopy, Linus and Charlie Brown. Trevor and I wished to ride on top of the coach while my wife rode inside with Joseph and Layla. It was our longest wait of the entire vacation and came about only as a result of our differing seating requests.

I rode many of the thrill rides that day, my favorite of the newer attractions was the Supreme Scream, a lift device that takes you over two hundred feet in the air and drops you so fast you can experience a few seconds of weightlessness. I wasn’t in it so much for the thrill as I was the view. On my first journey upward I was able to see the Santa Monica Mountains and were it not for the haze I am certain I would caught a glimpse of the world-famous Hollywood Sign. As much as a thrill that first trip up was the second was more endearing. I was treated to a birds-eye view of the entire park and my shadow graced the tops of Timber Mountain. Many people fear getting stuck on a ride like that but I secretly hoped I would get stuck, I would not have minded getting extra time with that view one bit. Alas I had to come back down to earth, at least literally.

We still had more than half a day remaining and I set to trying to win some stuffed animals for the two lovely ladies in my life. No such luck with the carnival games but that didn’t damper our spirits. To be honest, only two things put a damper on our trip; one being that it had to come to the inevitable end and the other was knowing my children would never know the Knott’s Bear-y Tales ride. As a sixth-grade boy I was enchanted by it and I knew my little ones would have been as well. As for me, the most enchanting physical part of Knott’s is and always has been Ghost Town; where we had our last meal of the trip. The astounding success of Mrs. Knott’s Chicken Dinner Restaurant led Walter Knott to build two more eating establishments to accommodate those who may have not had the time to bear the three-plus hour waits.

Ghost Town Grill was one of these and the view out its windows are yet another step back in time. Many families develop what I like to call “Instant Traditions”; something they do once and it immediately becomes a yearly thing. One of our many Instant Traditions born at Knott’s is having our final in-park meal at the Grill. Even though it was only our second trip we didn’t need to see a menu; my wife opted for the buffalo chicken salad that she fell in love with on our honeymoon and I opted for the smoked brisket sandwich with the special request that it be served on sourdough. I don’t know if I opted for it because I simply like the bread or because I think of sourdough bread as a staple of Old West and pioneer life but either way it was a fitting meal to end our day with.

As I paid the bill and tipped our waitress I felt that familiar lump in my throat beginning to grow. We walked slower than usual to the exits, trying to soak up the last bits of enjoyment. On our way to the car we took one last stroll through the Marketplace; stocking up on concentrated boysenberry punch and a twenty two piece bucket of chicken with biscuits. A last-minute decision added a fresh baked boysenberry pie in our bags; weighing them down almost as heavy as my heart was during those final minutes in what was once known as “Knott’s Berry Place”. I have never been much of a pie person but going to Knott’s and not having at least one slice is akin to visiting Philadelphia and not having a cheesesteak. It just seems wrong not to do it.

The lump in my throat grew larger as we browsed our way through the MarketPlace Emporium one last time and looked over the “A Christmas Story” ornaments that my dear departed Mom would have absolutely adored. Even though she and I never had the opportunity to enjoy Knott’s together that moment along with the moment I spotted the reddish orange tines of the firestick plants at the old mine attraction next to the Ghost Rider wooden roller coaster felt as if she were there with me; much as being in Ghost Town, with its buildings from near where my grandfather was born made me feel as if he was there also.

I walked a few steps ahead of my family as we crossed under the Ghost Rider; I wasn’t sure how to explain the tears in Daddy’s eyes to my children. A few steps later we were walking through the parking lot towards the rear entrance of the Knott’s Hotel. As he was the night before; Snoopy stood with open arms to greet us. A smile came to my face and more than a few tears fell as I softly whispered four words I had spoken dozens of times over the past three days:

“Thank You Mr. Knott”