Mountain Musings


The Sound of Silence


I’m looking forward to Labor Day weekend, despite all its hustle and bustle, because it always ushers in the fall season and a return to normalcy and quietude on the mountain.


“Hello, darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again, because a vision softly creeping left its seeds while I was sleeping and the vision that was planted in my brain still remains within the sound of silence.” (The Sound of Silence – Simon and Garfunkel – 1966)


According to a high-ranking Crestline chamber of commerce official… Alright, you got me on that one; yes, it’s Rhea, who else could it be since she’s babysitting the chamber office while the real chamber officials are searching for a replacement for Kathy, the former chamber office manager who now works for Mick Hill, the owner of this here newspaper.


Anyhoo, as Rhea was about to say, there are lots of benefits of working for this newspaper, such as being able to sit here at my desk at the semi-opulent Motley Manor overlooking the vast expanse of the Inland Empire and beyond and, once again, the quietude of the fall season, with the summer tourists gone and crickets chirping in the cool, autumn breeze…until the Santa Anas start blasting through the air. Goodbye, little crickets! Oh, and on a clear day there’s also the view of Catalina.


Rhea does have one gripe, however; why does school have to start so dang early? It used to be that the new school year started right after Labor Day. The problem, you see, is that with such a short summer vacation, the kids don’t have a chance to get a summertime job, nor is there adequate time for families to go camping or traveling around the country, like in the days of yore. Not to mention that it cuts down on the number of days that tourists can come up here and spend their hard-earned cash, which in turn hurts local businesses that cater to the tourists.


Well, soon the coolness of autumn will return to the cold and damp.


“In restless dreams I walked alone, narrow streets of cobblestone, ‘neath the halo of a streetlamp, I turned my collar to the cold and damp when my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light that split the night and touched the sound of silence.


Keep it flyin’, Uncle Mott