El Dorado’s Serenity

By Sue McMahon

Your mountains so high and rambling creeks
Emanate your beauty no matter what the season,
As long as the Waffle Shop stays open to fill grumbling bellies
Along the way ~
I won’t mind the string of cars, trucks and campers that
Jostle for a position at the old Ice House Road turnoff,
Where many have died, and past camping trips were made
Oh, so long ago ~
I will patiently let them pass so that I can enjoy the scenery
Of the grand but at times trickling American River
I anticipate Lover’s Leap, then Camp Sacramento as
Happy memories fill my heart till tears fall
While looking at your empty softball field – I miss you so
Then at the summit I smile as I look down at your crisp
Blue shoreline and long for sand in my toes or
Snow on my windows ~
Even the tangled mess at Whitehall left by the Cleveland Fire
Makes me sentimental and a wanting for pioneer ways
My dearest El Dorado
I will always cherish your serenity ~

When Ignorance Was Bliss, An Ode to California

By Carol Lynn Grellas

What was it to not know what you now know,

that place of innocence, those Kentfield days

in a pink-painted house on Lancaster Street

riding your father’s makeshift canoe down

a tar-paved road just flooded from a downpour,

that made the rest of the world seem far away;

life without worry, savoring the joy of yellow

galoshes and bucket hats, cheeks wetted from

braided hair dripping with rain, the echo of crickets

lining the winding tree-filled lane like an audience

of clapping spectators, no one saying don’t drink

the water from an old garden hose on summer days

as it splashed onto a shimmering green lawn,

or telling you to wash your hands after picking

dandelions with the neighborhood kids,

fingers laced together, playing Red Rover Red Rover,

please send yesterday back over― before you’d

heard the term endangered species or worried

about the need to protect the wetlands, rainforests,

and oceans. Once you visited the Audubon Society,

where you learned about DDT and the dangers

of pesticides, but you were young and unconcerned

with the poisoning of things like milk from the cows

because the only cows you knew were at Mr. Peaks’

dairy up the hill, where he used to let you squeeze

their teats and siphon warm nectar into a silver pail

you brought home to your mother on Saturday

afternoons― when after, you rode horses bareback

down by the creek near the hillside where you caught

California frogs in a Folger’s can and once took 3rd

place at the Calaveras County Fair Frog Jump

with your own entry, Happy Pappy. You remember

slapping the cement, the echo of the crowd cheering

you on, as you watched him spring to the finish line.

But it’s different now, and you can’t help but wonder

after all these years, if some part of you still

wants to be left behind, back in the days riding

in that canoe or drinking from that dilapidated garden

hose, or galloping free on the neighbor’s horse,

or carrying milk home to your mother, or maybe

trying once more to capture that winning frog because

now that you know what you know, you miss

your best friend a little more, holding her hand

without worry and all the bliss that comes with

the unknowing, even at the detriment of everything.