Rosamond Press

The Story of Rosamond

by

Jon Presco

Copyright 2017

The car. The Road. The beautiful woman. The sunset. These are the main ingredients of the Californian Dream. For fifty days, I had all four. I was in paradise. I found my bliss.

Many had come before me, and – it was a bust! A trillion dollars has been spent in search of her, the most beautiful young woman in California. Yachts were purchased. Million dollars homes were built in the hills, every one of them having a view of the Golden Gate. A billion menus at the finest restaurants, were opened. The best wine made in France, touched her lips, until California wines, tasted better.

Then, came the parade of German and Italian automobiles. When the tops were rolled down, she let her hair flutter like a flag as their engines purred their way to Sam’s Anchor Café, where you could dock your sailboat and have a cocktail with her, your latest California Contender dressed in the latest fashion. The click of their high heels on the weathered wooden deck, attracted the seagulls,who dove for the tossed olive and pimento. But…….where’s the beef?

Rena approached me like a stray cat, from out a dark door way of a Bar&Grill that had a view of the Venice Pier.”Can I walk with you?” she asked, and I gasped for air, and a simple answer. Her beauty took my breath away. Being four generations California, I had judged many, especially in the Venice Beach Boardwalk Contest that had been under way for several years. Two blocks for the sand and the sea, The Headturners, strutted their stuff. They were with their boyfriends, their brother, or, their male best friend, who acted as escorts. These Golden State Beauty were promenaded in a raging animal magnetism show. At 2:30 A.M. we are the only ones around, but for my sister and her lover, coming towards us from the end of the pier.

I figured my close encounter would last another four seconds, then, my good luck would run out. I forced myself to take more of her in. This would not last long. I wanted bragging rights. I could tell my friends – I saw her! I could never reel her in, put her on the Scales of Justice that would prove I always deserved her. She is the one God made – just for me! Is she looking down at me? Is she really that tall? (gulp!) She made the State of California richer than most nations. She had been spotted, walking with some sniveling creep.  She was the Golden State Standard, our Helen of Troy. The rush was on!

This morning I found the campground where Rena Victoria Christiansen and I lived for forty days or more in the summer of 1970. It is called the Bullfrog Pond Camp Ground. What it was called back then, has escaped me. Let me jump the gun here by saying every night, as the stars appeared, Rena would emerge from our white canvas tent with a towel wrapped about her, walk to the edge of the pond, let the towel drop, and then –  jump in!

This was Act 3 of our amazing daily drama. I watched the stars bob in the wake of her splash. I hear her powerful back muscles, and her long kicking legs, move her beautiful from across the pond. I was sitting on my haunches like a monkey, my eyes squinting to see her. I got up, walked ten feet, and picked up her towel. This was part of the ritual, to hand her towel when she got out, and, once more I beheld her nakedness.

“I don’t want you in the water with me!” she pronounced the first evening Rena put on a show.

I had dare point out the NO SWIMMING sign plugged in the mud at the water’s edge.

“It says the people of Guernville drink this water out of their faucet!” I announced after she asked me if I was coming in.

“I don’t care. In fact, I never want you in the water with me!. You are such a weenie, a little toad!”

SPLASH!

When I saw the Soup Nazi on Seinfeld, I was with her again. I was with ‘She – who must be obeyed, and, I was counting my Lucky Stars, once more!