I talked about William a little bit in The Last Move. Thought I’d go into a little more detail. Any teacher reading this knows we love and work hard for every single student. But once in a while, someone comes along who knocks your socks off. For me, that would be William.
Most readers know that my father Edward Reep is an artist. I absorbed art from infancy, watching my dad teach classes, going to museums, watching dad paint, and developing an appreciation of good art. So when William, as a seventh-grader, turned in his first book project, I was flabbergasted – could this student be an artist? I felt like I was holding my breath as each project landed on my desk. Finally, I knew he was the real deal. Not just someone who could draw well, but someone with the sensibility of an artist. I took him to meet my dad.
That started a mentor relationship that turned into an unlikely friendship. I took turns with William’s mother, driving him to art classes in the summer, from Bakersfield to Art Center in Pasadena. We checked in with my dad frequently. And at the end of his freshman year in high school, his step-dad was transferred to China. William was enrolled in a boarding school in Switzerland.
By then I felt very protective of this young man, who turned out to be related in a convoluted sort of way: my son-in-law’s cousins are William’s step-brothers. That’s how things work in Bakersfield. William had slipped right into our family, playing chess frequently with one of my grandsons, doing things with the entire clan. When he left, it was like having a child go off to college.
So I visited him in Lugano, Switzerland three years in a row, and when he started college at King’s College, London, I went there his first semester. But this year I couldn’t afford it. He planned a spring break trip to the U.S. and spent three days in Bakersfield. I hadn’t seen him in a year and a half and something happened during that time – he grew up.
After that long lead-in, I’ve finally reached the main story – the visit. Make way for William.
I drove to Los Angeles to pick him up at Union Station after a 43-hour train ride from Chicago. Of course, I was exhausted from the move, but I put it aside for the three days of the visit. I headed south on I-5, with a lone cloud in the sky.
I had printed out directions from Google just in case, put in my navigation disc, and as I neared L.A. I called W and told him I would be there in about ten minutes. At least half hour later, when my navigation took me past Staples Center against my better judgment (I grew up down there, but it was a long time ago), I got off the 10 and pointed the car toward where I thought Union Station was. What good were my printed out backup directions when I didn’t even know where I was?
Thankfully, Union Station was right there where it had been the whole time. The navigation spazzed, I was frazz-razzled, and as a final insult, the car would not eject the disk. When it did so the next morning, I felt like I was in the Weasley’s Ford Anglia (Harry Potter).
So in my less-than-calm state, I did not have the time nor energy to do what William most wanted – visit some museums in LaLa Land, see the city. So we headed home. We stopped first at Philippes, across the street from Union Station. This restaurant was established in 1908 and my dad ate there when he was in art school. Many Angelenos stop in for the French dipped sandwich going to or from a Dodger game. But what my dad remembered was the huge jars of pickled eggs on the counters, so I bought him a couple.
We headed north out of L.A., out of the San Fernando Valley, and toward home. My home anyway, and W’s former home. I exited at Highway 138 so we could drive up Gorman Post Road. We stopped at the pond.
This year the hills have yellow flowers. Yellow, everyone. William, being a boy, climbed the fence. I long ago decided it was more prudent not to treat my body as if it were a 20-year-old body, like W’s.
He went running up the hills, exhibiting the motto my grandkids came up with last summer – why walk when you can run up hill? Why indeed. By now I wasn’t frazzled, razzled, or frazz-razzled anymore. I was in home territory.
That little dot in the center of the picture is William. I’m sure he had a little energy to expend after 43 hours in a train.
Many years ago my husband and I worked on Christo’s Umbrellas Project. We got to know our way around the Gorman area and continue to visit a few of those spots not many people know about. One is the vortag, a place high in the hills on private property. A vortag is an aircraft navigation beacon, but we don’t go up there for the vortag, we go for the view.
This is the vortag.
This is the view. How breathtaking is that? Looking down onto I-5 with matchbox cars and trucks. Wow.
This time, though, as I drove up I passed a pickup pulled off. I waved and blithely went on my way, although William and I did wonder what the guy in the truck was doing. And then it followed us. As we drove past the ranch area, the truck turned off and we continued up.
It’s always good cover to have a camera. And if you have a big sunshade on it, most people think you have an even bigger and more impressive camera. We both had cameras – lucky. Because as we were walking in the hills, that man in his truck drove up to us. He saw the cameras and said, you just taking pictures? Yes, we said. Just checking, he said. Wanted to make sure you weren’t dumping any dead bodies. And he drove away. We were so isolated up there, we were glad he wasn’t creating any dead bodies. It was nice of him to let us stay, however, because it was undoubtedly his property.
Home without incident, concluding Day One of The Visit. Tomorrow, Day Two: William Finds Bakersfield Better Than He Left It.
Tags: artists, Interstate Five, Philippes, students, the Vortag, Union Station
[...] Make Way for William [...]