The Enduring Lessons of Change

Change, I tell myself, is what makes memory so sweet. It adds richness to our everyday experience.

Growing up in Simi Valley since age 3, I have seen quite a bit of change. Where once I walked to school through orange groves--blossoms intoxicatingly rich, trees teeming with ready ammunition for my unsuspecting brothers--now sit houses and condos.

I’ve learned to accept change as the way things are supposed to be, like watching your toddlers grow up taller than you and, finally, drive away. I have learned to swallow this bittersweet pill and somehow find it comforting that all is going well by the master plan we have yet to understand.

Through deceptions of nostalgia, we seem to always paint a rosy picture of days gone by. But for the most part, I don’t think things were necessarily better back when--just different.

Now that I have almost convinced myself of this, we come to my most recent dilemma of change: the purchase of my secret valley to be converted to a cemetery.

I call it my secret valley although I have never actually owned it, only enjoyed its beauty and tranquillity since my young Tom Sawyer days. It is not actually secret, either, because parkland surrounds the entire valley now for all to enjoy. But I have so many memories here that, I have to admit, this one is a bit of a struggle for me.

I first discovered this area while on one of many childhood summer expeditions through the parched Simi foothills. As usual, I would round up a couple of buddies on the block and we would set our sights on some new area to explore. Being all of 9, we found a new adventure in every canyon or field.

After camouflaging our bicycles with tumbleweeds and donning my father’s old Marine Corps canteen and backpack, we would duck under the barbed-wire fence. Being careful to avoid detection by the local ranch hands, we would (with the stealthy agility of a crippled moose) crash our way through sagebrush and dry wild mustard across what is now the Simi Hills Golf Course and surrounding homes.

Cresting the hills, we were in awe. We discovered rock formations and Indian caves, depressions ground in stone where the ancient Chumash inhabitants ground their acorns, and a valley below that looked like a park. Creeks trickled from the canyons; frogs leaped from our approaching footsteps. Large oak, elm and pine trees beckoned us to climb them. This was by far our greatest discovery.

Triumphantly, we sat under a shady oak and ate what had once resembled peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from our backpacks, reveling in the notion that we were the only ones who knew of this place.

Later, I learned that it was in fact a private park owned by an aerospace company. Remnants of park benches and a spring-fed water fountain were all that remained of what was once a small resort, complete with swimming, tennis and trap shooting. Even these traces were demolished and cleared years ago.

As a young teen I worked on weekends building corrals for a rancher who leased the valley. We would barbecue and sit around an open fire on starry nights, listening to the coyotes and cowboy stories.

Since that time, I have started a family and moved only a block away. The valley has always been our sort of backyard to enjoy. My wife and I frequently have taken our children for walks there in the tall spring grass to pick wildflowers or to fly gliders. I have taught my children how to climb trees there, to swing on a tire suspended from an oak, to ride mountain bikes. We have explored caves and collected fossils to take to school.

My wife and I still use the roads and trails a couple of times a week for evening runs. For years, I have enjoyed slipping my running shoes on after work and heading for the hills. As soon as I pass through that gate, the weight of the world instantly lifts from my shoulders. I return home with a new perspective. I seldom see anyone, and I get a privileged first-hand look when the poppies are about to bloom, when the rabbits let their young out of the burrow or when a venerable oak is felled by winds the night before. For centuries it stood there, but maybe I was the only one who acknowledged its passing.

On my runs I’ve happened upon almost every critter known to this area--jumping over rattlesnakes, startling deer and quail and disturbing bobcats during their supper. One time a newborn lamb that had been abandoned insisted on following me home, crying “Ma-ma” the whole way, until I could find the sheepherder who had moved on.

As you can see, watching bulldozers come in to grade new roads is a bit traumatic for me. Last year I watched more than 1,000 people drive by for a blessing of the land for the cemetery. They say that made it sacred, but it was always sacred to me. Before me, it was sacred to the Chumash.

I knew the change was inevitable and had been preparing myself for it all along, but when I recently met an impenetrable chain-link fence instead of a swinging gate, it brought such a deep sadness that I could barely turn around to go home.

I understand that my secret valley is not going away, only changing. We can still enjoy the surrounding foothills, still take the dog for Sunday morning walks, and my runs will just have to be . . . a little steeper. I think I can deal with that.

I often think about that old fallen oak I used to run by, the things it must have seen in its day. I took notice each time of how it was ever so slowly being absorbed back into the Earth. Here, it had watched myriad blazing sunsets, felt the embrace of my children while I boosted them up (bravely gripping their little fingers deep in its bark), witnessed numerous dramas in the wild. It, too, has seen changes--from Native Americans to 4-by-4 trucks.

I used to feel sad each time I passed but now I realize that this is how it’s supposed to be, and I find that somewhat comforting. Come to think of it, as cemeteries go, what better place to spend eternity than in my secret valley?