My Father, My Buddy, My Baby

For those who don't follow along on Instagram, I suppose that I should explain our recent radio silence.  Last week, following a terrible accident while under the care of "medical professionals," my father passed away.  Last night we held a memorial service celebrating a brilliant man and a life well-lived.  He deserved so much better from life and from me, but these are the words I could string together in an attempt to honor the bottomless source of creativity, service, and joy that is my hero - my dear father.

Being your father’s favorite child isn’t always all that it’s cracked up to be.  Actually, it is fraught with anxiety.  There are the front row views of him playing human Plinko while falling out of the neighbor’s tree (and hitting every branch on the way down), the worry of wondering whether or not he has gone permanently blind after performing a "quick weld" without the benefit of a welding mask.  There is the embarrassment of the long series of notes excusing my junior-high absences that chronicled my diplomatic endeavors in South Africa and the crippling nature of the subsequent traveler’s diarrhea.  In going through his papers, we actually found a rough draft of one such excuse note:

"[Mr. Tiny] hurt his ankle when he kicked his brother.

After severely disabling his brother he turned criminal, 

going on the 'run' and robbing a liquor store.  After the 

ensuing gun battle with police, he fled to Mexico where 

he is hiding out.  And this is why he can't run in P.E." 

There is also a lot of activity directing – the hallway wheelchair races, the sing-a-longs, and the impromptu living room dance parties (some that continued into our final days at the ICU).  But these examples are pretty universal among every “favorite child.”  Am I right?

I love hearing the memories of my dad that keep pouring in from friends and family.  The common themes among these stories are how talented, cheerful, funny, and helpful my dad was.  These remembrances are particularly valuable to me because my own memory is total rubbish.  They remind me of the brilliant, beautiful man who let me walk on his back when he needed a massage (a practice that ended many years ago - I promise you that it was not a contributing factor to his current condition).  They tell me more about the man who taught me how to draw a duck and a horse and a dog as we half-listened to the messages delivered in church.  They tell me about a life lived in service to his fellow man.  This isn’t to say that he was perfect; one memory that I do recall from our early years together features me as a petulant 4-year-old who refused to eat his portion of scalloped potatoes.   This act of defiance quickly became a battle of wills between father and son.  At first, I was handed the fairly-pedestrian threats of not getting dessert, not leaving the table, and not “passing Go” until my plate was cleaned.  Things escalated when neither threats nor bribery were working.  At one point, my mom gathered the other kids from the table and bundled them into their winter coats.  Sitting resolutely at the head of the table, my dad declared that if I didn’t eat the quickly-congealing potatoes, everyone was going to Disneyland without me.  Unmoved, I settled in for a long night at the dining table.  Even as the taillights of our Honda disappeared down the street, it occurred to me what a cruel joke this was to play on my siblings who were headed anywhere that night…but certainly not The Magic Kingdom.  After several trips around the block, my bitter band of brothers and sisters stumbled through the front door to a scene identical to the one they had left before.  With pursed lips, I continued my hunger strike, haughtily ignoring the desperate bargaining and berating.  I could feel the balance of power shifting to my side of the table.  It was at the precise moment when I was sure that I had won when an exasperated, young father unloaded the entire contents of a water pitcher over the head of his “favorite child.”  I think my obstinacy and my flair for the dramatic are genetic.  In the end, the joke is on you, Dad.  Now I can’t stop eating potatoes…it’s like I’m perpetually carb-loading for a marathon that I will never run!

For those who aren’t totally familiar with my dad’s recent history, I’ll give you my version of events.  Eight years ago, just shy of his 54^th birthday, my dad suffered a massive stroke that left him totally incapacitated.  We put his life, and ours, into the hands of medical professionals and held vigil night and day.  After a couple of months, our biggest celebration came when he was able to reach up and scratch his nose.  Two very trying years passed, both highlighted by successes and riddled with setbacks.  We were finally hitting our stride when he suffered yet another stroke that seemed to erase the progress he made and left us all wondering if there were to be any more birthdays for him.

Our inclination has always been to avoid reliving those tension-filled days because of the physical response we had to his prognosis.  Unable to train my mind to focus on anything other than overwhelming sadness, I resisted sleep and ached night and day.  For several days, we waited to see if the emergency procedures that were being performed on his behalf would have any positive impact.  Instructed to make peace and say our goodbyes, our family came together to face the most devastating outcome possible.  Then, sustained by IVs, a feeding tube, a ventilator, an arsenal of the latest in chemical engineering, prayers, faith, and the love of our family, he began to rally!

In recent years, it was obvious that many effects of his strokes were lasting- some seemed like cruel jokes.  My dad was a talker; like Will Rogers, my dad never met a man he didn't like and with whom he didn't have at least 5,972 things in common over which he could engage in a lengthy discourse (much to the chagrin of our mother...and the people waiting behind us in line at the grocery store checkout).  After the strokes, his speech became impacted by a syndrome common among stroke victims called aphasia; this made communication a major challenge, particularly with people outside of our family.  My dad was doer; as we dragged our feet behind him, he used every minute of his "free time" to improve our family home and to help neighbors, friends, church members, and extended family.  My dad was a Renaissance man; after replacing the brakes on my car, you would be just as likely to find him painting, cooking, or writing a poem as you would to find him installing a dishwasher or laying tile.  Confined to a wheelchair, he became unable to perform some of the simplest functions of personal care.  As a young man, my dad was an adventurer; he rode motorcycles and raced cars.  And as a father, he made time to take us out of school for a day of fun at museums and parks.  He had the ability to make interminably long road trips to visit family seem like Sunday joy rides.  It then became our responsibility to convey him using “Old Blue,” a specialty van with wheelchair accessibility.

In the wake of his illness and recovery, the biggest surprise was how little about him had changed.  Yes, he had become a little more fragile and a little more tender, but his brilliant mind was intact.  His sense of humor still had us rolling on the floor.  His passion for his wife was abiding.  His love for his children and grandson was abounding.  His concern for others was unwavering.  His faith was steadfast.  His desire to be of service was unyielding, his appreciation for beauty more profound, his courage undefeated.

It is interesting to see how his life was an amazing lesson, one to which I should have been taking more thorough and much more copious notes.  Since his illness, however, the lessons became more obvious.  I have had to learn to be of greater service to others.  I have had to try to be more loving.  I have had to embrace adventure and uncertainty.  I have had to rely on faith.  I've always been hilarious so that was not a problem.  Given the impossibly-big shoes to fill, I have felt utterly inept on the best of days.  Nevertheless, it has been my great honor to serve my father in a way that transformed the tumultuous early years of our relationship into something so pure, so simple, and so loving.  I am not a touchy-feely kind of guy but not a day passed when I didn’t hug the life out him, hold his big meat hook of a hand, and tell him that I loved him.  Even though his language was affected, he had many standard phrases that left our hearts soaring and let us know how deeply he appreciated us, including “I love you,” “Wow,” “Thank you,” “I do,” “Si” (he was bilingual), and “I think you’re beautiful/terrible/wonderful/bloody spectacular/fill in the blank.”   One time, he even told me that he thought I was sexy; I mean, this guy had some serious range.  Being a bit of a rabble-rouser, I always encouraged him to broaden his vocabulary.  Every day when I picked him up from “The Club,” I would buckle him in and ask him if he was ready to go.  When I received an answer in the affirmative, I would shout, “Then let’s…”  and at this point it was his job to fill in the blank with, “GOOOOOO, dammit!”  Just for the record, my mom told me it was okay to say dammit in church – but just today.

He was hilarious.  I honestly don’t know why it is that I spent the first part of my life vowing to be nothing like my father and the most recent part of my life trying so desperately to be half the man that he was.  My efforts to officially canonize him are still under review by the Pope but I just can’t help but remember him as a wonderful disciple of Christ.  He was a stellar example of walking the walk, talking the talk, and being of service to everyone around him.

If you ask my mom, she will tell you that he has become the perfect husband.  He eats what she wants him to eat.  He goes where she wants him to go.  He wears what she wants him to wear.  She is completely in charge of the finances.  And she always knows where he is.  I thought of him as the perfect baby.  With nothing but respect, I began to think of him as my child…my enormous, beautiful, bouncing baby boy.  The correlation works rather literally so you'll have to go with me on this; I changed him, I fed him, I buckled him into a special seat so that we could run errands and get to doctors appointments.  I tucked him in.  I even mashed up his medicine and mixed it with applesauce.  The tenderness I have felt for and from him was probably as parental as anything I will ever experience in this life.  There was genuine beauty in his gentle willingness to submit to us…as we maintained our reverence for his dignity.

My father was there when I took my very first breaths; I was there when he drew his very last.  I suppose that this is what we call the “circle of life,” but I am not ready.  I want a few more chances to scratch him behind the ear, to pluck his errant nose hairs, to rub his back, to hold his hand, to hear him say, “Wow!”  I want to hear him tell me again that I am "pretty special."  Everybody frowned on the idea, but my plan was to "Notebook" my way right along with him.  If you’ve seen that corny movie, then you know what I’m talking about.  In doing so, we would have tested not only God’s plan for us but also the weight capacity of a standard-issue hospital bed.  Yes, my dad left me, but he left me prepared for what lies ahead. 

The greatest gifts my dad has given me are purpose, an understanding of service, and a mother who exemplifies the true meaning of devotion.  No tribute to my father would be complete without acknowledging my beautiful mother.  My dad didn’t just love my mom; he had a passion for her.  That passion was expressed in quiet, simple gestures, in rip-roaring "discussions," and in public displays of affection.  It was intense.  Growing up in a house filled with humor, excitement, strong opinions, and passion, it is no wonder that our life has been, shall we say, colorful.  Through it all, my mom has been the most humble, steadfast, hard-working person I have ever known.  What can I say?  My parents chose the best of the best.  But besides her winning streak on PASSWORD and his regular first-place ribbons at chili cook-offs, my parents have lived a life free from major acclaim and a lot of high-profile credits to their names.  Together they built a life that was rich in ways that were not always obvious to the outside world. 

If you’ll indulge me, I’m going to "pull a Pat" and read you a poem I wrote.  Everyone in my family accuses me of being my mother’s son but writing poems is pure Dad.

THERE’S A LITTLE BROWN HOUSE

WITH A LITTLE BLUE DOOR

WHERE THE PEOPLE INSIDE 

ARE BITTERLY POOR.

THEIR SHABBY, OLD CLOTHES

AREN’T MEANT TO BE FUNNY.

THEY RECYCLE CANS

JUST FOR THE GAS MONEY.

THE CAR THAT THEY DRIVE

HAS TIRES THAT ARE WORN,

HAS BRAKES THAT ARE SQUEALING,

AND AN IMPOTENT HORN.

THE CHILDREN KEEP MOM 

IN A PERMANENT PANIC,

WHILE DAD JUST KEEPS BUSY 

AS HEAD CHEF AND MECHANIC.

THERE ARE SO MANY KIDS

WITH SO MANY NAMES

THAT WHEN ONE GETS IN TROUBLE 

EVERYONE’S BLAMED.

SOME PEOPLE WILL SCOFF

AT THE REDUCED CIRCUMSTANCES

BUT THE FAMILY’S QUITE USED

TO THE GIGGLES AND GLANCES.

DESPITE HOW THINGS SEEM

FROM OUTSIDE THE DOOR,

THE PEOPLE INSIDE 

DON’T KNOW THAT THEY’RE POOR.

THE RAMSHACKLE STRUCTURE

TO THEM IS A COTTAGE.

AND THEY PLAN ON STAYING 

WELL INTO THEIR DOTAGE.

THEIR CLOTHES MAY BE CLASSED 

AS OLD HAND-ME-DOWNS,

BUT COME HALLOWEEN

THEY ARE PIRATES AND CLOWNS.

THEIR CAR IS A CHARIOT

THAT CARRIES THE LOAD

WHEN HUNTING DOWN PALM FRONDS

O’ER THE BUMPS IN THE ROAD.

CHEERFULNESS REIGNS 

AT THIS HUMBLE DWELLING

BUT THERE’S STILL TIME FOR FIGHTS,

CALLING NAMES, AND SOME YELLING.

THE CHARM OF THIS TRIBE

MAY BE LOST ON OTHERS,

BUT TO PEER THROUGH THE WINDOW

ONE QUICKLY DISCOVERS - 

THAT HIDDEN INSIDE,

THEY’VE COLLECTED A TREASURE

THAT CANNOT BE COUNTED

FOR IT’S FAR BEYOND MEASURE.

THIS FORTUNE THEY PRIZE

ALL OTHERS ABOVE

IS GOD’S GREATEST GIFT…

A FAMILY’S LOVE.

In his very last hours with us, I think my dad was just waiting for me to ask him one more time, “Are you ready?  Then let’s go, dammit!”  Instead, as his breathing slowed, I told him how proud I was of him.  I asked him to watch over us.  I thanked him for being an incredible father.  I told him how much I loved him.  

It was never a question whether my dad loved me or not but he gave me plenty of opportunities to wonder if, given the choice, we would ever be friends in "real life."  On the last day I shared with him before he entered the hospital, he gave me one final gift.  In between the Christmas carols and dance routines, he traded in his typical loving refrain for something much more precious to me.  Whenever I entered or left the room, instead of offering me his usual “I love you,” he looked me in the eye and repeated “I like you.  I like you.  I like you.”  I like you too, Pop.

My Father • My Buddy • My Baby
November 2, 1953 - December 11, 2015

"Dear Father" - Colin Hay

Cheers!

Mr. Tiny

The Mysterious Chinese Castle of Jacumba: Episode II: Secrets Revealed!

Continued from "The Mysterious Chinese Castle of Jacumba: Episode I"...

Motoring down the old highway into Jacumba, Mary instructed me to close my eyes; with a vague memory of the Chinese Castle's location, it was her idea to helm the wheel so I could be surprised.  Clutching the disk loaded with our family history and riding the imaginary brake, the real surprise for me was going to be if we made it out alive...and if the castle was still a castle.  As we came to the crest of a hill, she instructed me to open my eyes; what a pleasant surprise to see that not only was the castle still standing, it was looking rather glorious.  Perched above the town, the Chinese Castle is difficult to miss, not leastwise because of its fresh coat of blood-red paint.  With a firm belief that no one could deny our history-packed ambush, we drove confidently up to the castle gates.  Unfortunately, the gates were securely locked.

We considered storming the castle but there was a skull...a glow-in-the-dark skull.

With no one in sight and no gong to bong, we decided our best bet was faith in small-town stereotypes; Jacumba exudes that everybody-knows-everybody atmosphere.  Striking out with the first few folks with whom we inquired, we knew we were on the right track when we found our Jacumba heroes, Bill & Richard.  

Mary & Richard

Longtime residents of the area, Bill & Richard are semi-retired pals and Jacumba's unofficial goodwill ambassadors.  It didn't take more than their friendly wave as they made their regular rounds to get us to stalk them down (it's nice to make new best friends considering we were so new in town).  After telling them our story, they not only gave us the name and phone number of the new Empress of the Chinese Castle, they lent us their cell phones when we realized that we didn't have cell service in the area.  Leaving a detailed message when we couldn't get through, Mary and I accepted the guys' offer to show us the renovated hot springs and the community center (both offering plenty of historical insight).  As we chatted, we learned that Richard was very familiar with the castle, having updated much of the plumbing.  Touring the community center, Richard's phone rang; we were ecstatic to hear that Cherry, the castle's owner, was finishing up a meeting and was happily driving the thirty miles from her home to meet us at the castle for a private tour!!!  Cherry, an historian and writer, does not live in Jacumba; she bought the Chinese Castle for the love of history and the masochistic delight of a back-breaking restoration.

Meeting us at the gate, Cherry was prepared with more information about our ancestors than we were.  With about an hour to spare, she started right in on the tour, complete with historical facts and figures.  Corroborating Velma's essay, Cherry explained that the house was built sometime in the '20s by a man named Frank Battles.  It was said that he had a wife of Chinese descent but there is no documentation and no photographs of the original owners.  Changing hands many times throughout its history, the castle came with the innovative handiwork and collected furnishings of every new owner; because of its distinctive design, it also came with decades of myths and legend, including secret tunnels, illegal gambling, and even murder.  Anxious to uncover the real story, we were itching to get inside.

Follow the leader!!!

With its hip-and-gable roofline supported by scrolling beams, the main house consists of two asian-inspired buildings connected by a central breezeway.  Ancillary outbuildings include the garage, a guest cottage, a chapel, and an outhouse.  While the house (stripped bare and in pitiful shape when acquired by Cherry) is still very much in the middle of renovations, we invite you to come along on the wacky tacky tour of the Chinese Castle - before and after!

THE KITCHEN

Quite ingeniously, the kitchen is housed in a separate building.  Cooking on an early-20th Century stove in the middle of the desert would have been an uncomfortable affair, particularly in the hottest months.  Consequently, the Chinese Castle has a year-round summer kitchen with a large portion of the ceiling recessed, allowing the heat to rise.

The photo is as informative as it is blurry.  It shows that as late as the '70s, the original stove
was still in use and the breakfast bar had been removed in favor of centering the dining table.

The kitchen door and the original corner cabinet (given a gorgeous 

makeover with a chinoiserie motif) are unbelievably cool.

Aunt Velma in the "dome" that bathed her eggs in a lavender hue.

With the purchase of the castle, Cherry discovered that both the purple-hued panes of glass and the crystal chandelier were long gone.  A stained-glass artist herself, she promptly replaced the kitchen's clerestory windows (along with many other windows in the castle) with pieces of her own design.

The first of the myths surrounding the Chinese Castle originates in the kitchen.  Blended into the kitchen's floorboards is a trapdoor, rumored to be the hatch to a secret tunnel that crossed beneath the California-Mexico border to transport illicit goods and undocumented Chinese laborers.

In actual fact, it is a shallow root cellar.

As awesome as a secret international passageway would have been, I don't think the 

rumor mill considered the realities of tunneling through solid granite on a hilltop.

THE BREEZEWAY

The breezeway separates the main house (left) from the kitchen (right).
The raised sun porch is characteristic of the castle's many areas of retreat.

The breezeway remains largely unchanged, save for the addition of the "Chinese Castle" sign (found on the
grounds and refurbished) and the replacement of open wooden steps (seen above) with heartier stone stairs. 

THE LIVING ROOM

Before its most-recent purchase, the castle was so badly ransacked that essentially no traces of the home's collections or fixtures remained; even the staircase to the second story had been completely demolished.  In a way, it left a blank slate for Cherry and her husband to re-imagine and put their own stamp on the Chinese Castle.

The original stairs were almost like a ship's ladder; descending them would have
been rather precarious with only a decorative room-divider in place of a banister.

Based on this later photo, the old staircase (upper right) appears to have been enclosed at 

some point; the current staircase was cleverly rebuilt with closeted storage underneath.

One of the few things that did manage to survive (but just barely) is 

the filigreed, Asian lantern that continues to light the living room. 

The uneven floor of solid granite was covered with a series of sisal rugs.  Uncovered, there are signs of "morteros," 

divots in the stone created by Native Americans for grinding grains (seen below to the left of the fireplace).

The scrolled moldings were added to the windows and doors along with the beautiful, two-tone jade color scheme.

According to Cherry, the castle's original name was "Lao An," which translates very loosely to "wisdom" and "tranquility."

The back door, with its double-dragon hardware, leads out to a beautiful

view of the valley and the walking paths that surround the castle.

It is said that the wise man built his house upon the rock...but that doesn't mean the

rock took it lying down.  One corner of the living room is dominated by a rock that

just wouldn't be blasted away.  With the addition of some cunning stonework, it was 

transformed into a naturally-occurring knick-knack shelf!

THE BATHROOM

Just beyond the stairs and the stony etagere, is a doorway that leads to the first-floor bathroom.

The photo album did not yield any "before" pictures of the bathroom but Velma's write-up described it thusly: "The bathroom wall of selected curiously formed rocks has more than thirty faces of men and animals to contemplate."

Upon reflection, I believe she was either speaking metaphorically, or

she spent so long in there that her contemplating turned to hallucinating.

The shower stall is a thing of beauty, fit for service at wacky tacky mecca, 

The Madonna Inn.  All of that glorious, green tile work is a recent redo.

THE BEDROOMS

Sure, the picture of the main bedroom is unclear, but there is no mistaking the theme.

In its heyday, the Chinese Castle was decked out in full Chinese regalia.

Technically, the castle has two bedrooms, accessed by the new, and rather steep, staircase.
Although, I would classify the second as an enclosed sleeping porch (to get to it, one must
pass through the loft-style bedroom). 

I believe this is a photo of the secondary bedroom, used as a sitting room and studio.

Foolishly, I got distracted and failed to take pictures of the upstairs (two smallish, square rooms).  It was probably because the main bedroom opens onto a spacious rooftop deck and a sweeping vista of the town below.

Cherry and Mary discuss Jacumbian history on the deck.  As mentioned in the previous post, the deck
was once surrounded by torii-style railings; I believe the plan is to reproduce them in a similar fashion.

THE POOL

To our wacky tacky eyes, the most amazing sight in the Chinese Castle is the INDOOR POOL!

Directly across from the bathroom, sunken into the natural rock formations is a petite pool, perfect for escaping the blazing heat.  Filled by a shower-style spigot branching off from exposed plumbing, the pool is just big enough for a 

few people to splash around. 

This photo leads me to believe that it might have once been used as a water
garden or koi pond, but the only other references we have to it, call it a pool,

Can you say DREAM HOUSE?!?!!

Sealed in that perfectly-unnatural shade of aquamarine, the pool is a truly unexpected feature of the
Chinese Castle.  I'm kind of hoping that when it is filled, Cherry invites us back for a pool party!

BOBCAT MANOR

Bobcat Manor, so named for the two families of bobcats that were found living on the property, is one of the guest cottages referred to in the very first photo of the castle I found.  It was built in the 1940s out of local stone and railroad ties and is also getting the full-treatment makeover.

The entrance to Bobcat Manor was reconfigured so as to make the space more livable.

The front door was moved so guests enter directly into the sitting room.

What was once a cramped foyer can now be transformed

into a  powder room or a kitchenette.

The walls are beautiful, hand-hewn railroad ties (cleaned and stained), featuring photos of the manor's namesakes.

The painted-tin ceilings are a recent addition.

Where once stood the chimney pipe to a wood-burning buck stove, now glows 

a light fixture, repurposed from one of the castle's original vent registers.

Bobcat Manor has five distinct rooms; the newly-refurbished bedroom is cozy but clean.

THE CHAPEL

Viewed from the sun-protection of the garage's covered carport, the chapel was once a two-room guesthouse.  As the second room was little more than a dilapidated lean-to, it was removed as a safety precaution before the decorative stonework was applied.

It was in this area that the castle's second major myth was born.  One of the owners kept a lucky slot machine on the premises; in an act of good-natured superstition, it is said that he pulled the one-armed bandit every time he drove away from the house - not quite the den of illegal gaming the castle is purported to have been. 

The non-denominational chapel now serves as a sanctuary for all faiths.

The chapel's only pew is a bench original to the property.

The bench can be seen on the left side of this photo at the top of the stairs.

Just outside the custom-built chapel door is a patio for entertaining guests.

The castle's original stove has been incorporated into the hardscape as a repurposed barbecue!

THE OUTHOUSE

The fully-plumbed outhouse was original to the 1920s structure; technically, it 

has received a make-under, being transformed into a proper, old-timey 

outhouse, replete with more of Cherry's stained-glass handiwork.  

THE GARDENS

One thing that is not a mystery here is that, between the rocky terrain and endless series of stairs, it is a
hike to get to the Chinese Castle!  Once at the top though, one is richly rewarded with breathtaking
scenery viewed from the castle's official throne (pictured atop the large boulder next to the house).

The "Queen's Chair" was purposely constructed out of ergonomically-
contoured rocks for yet another quiet place to relax and enjoy the view.

This picture of Velma (and unidentified friends) features one of her favorite objets de jardin,
the sun dial in the foreground.  Sadly, it too was a casualty of war on the Chinese Castle.

In a move so spectacularly wacky tacky, the negative space left by the sun dial was filled by the menacing artwork of metal sculptor, Ricardo Breceda.  Famous all over Southern California, Breceda's best-known work includes the large-scale, roadside pieces dotting the highway through the Anza-Borrego desert (documented here). 

The torii gates that once marked the trail to the castle were either
missing or damaged beyond repair when Cherry bought the property.

What a great sight it was to see them rebuilt, guiding
the next generations of visitors to the wonders within. 

Not only were the gates replaced, but probably a mile-worth of concrete trails as well.  One of the best aspects of the castle is that there are so many places to go; the many meandering trails lead to secret niches, granite gardens, and wildlife hideouts. 

Originating along the boulder-ridden pathways, is the castle's third myth.  Legend has it that in a fit of jealousy, an enraged husband murdered his philandering wife on the castle grounds.  The truth of the matter is that a woman did perish here, but at the hands of fate rather than fury; attempting to climb the granite boulders, the woman slipped and fell to her death.

To be on the safe side, the trails (still slightly treacherous) are now reinforced by sturdy stone walls and railings. 

In true trash-castle tradition, the walls are studded with myriad
minerals, found objects, seashells, slag glass, and even vintage dinnerware.

Whether manmade or naturally occurring, every little nook and cranny is a thematic still life.

Built into, around, and under the boulders are many more storage spaces, niches, and hiding places.

What I wouldn't give for a death-defying game of hide-and-go-seek at the Chinese Castle! 

As mentioned in the previous post, the castle's focal point has always been the antique, Chinese wind chime
made of graduated, multi-colored metal drums.  At least forty-percent of the album's photos feature the chime,
no doubt pilfered from some ancient palace in the East.

You can imagine how thrilled I was to see that stalwart sentinel, continuing to hang
 faithfully from the covered porch just outside the kitchen.  I should have been
mildly chagrinned when Cherry casually disclosed that the chime was neither
Chinese nor a true antique.  Instead, I was was kind of amused to learn that, like
much of the castle's building materials, the chime is made out of old railroad parts.

The final mystery of the Chinese Castle was answered by the iconic stripes of the chimney. 

The earliest photos we have of the Chinese Castle picture the distinctive paint job.

In keeping with tradition, Cherry risked life and limb to restore the chimney's
stripes, still unsure of the exact date the tradition started.  As she dangled from the
rooftop, she noticed that the chimney cap was dated.  As the records for the owner-
built manse are hazy, Cherry was able to prove that the castle was constructed
in 1926, right in the midst of America's craze for Orientalism! 

Visiting the mysterious Chinese Castle of Jacumba was a thrilling opportunity.  Not only because we got to play Nancy Drew/The Hardy Boys for a day, but also because we, descendants of the former emperor and empress, came out of it learning that we are pretty much Chinese royalty.  Now all we have to do is write a letter to Xi Jinping and see what he intends to do about it.

King of the castle???

It seems odd somehow to feel so connected to a house I had never before visited, owned by relatives whose acquaintance was peripheral at best.  Nevertheless, I am so grateful for all of the renovation, restoration, and conservation that Cherry and and her husband are doing for the Chinese Castle.  What was but a footnote in my family history, has quickly become a major point of genealogical pride.  It is perhaps a tad premature for me to feel a sense of ownership, but wouldn't it be amazing one day to find a way to reclaim the throne?!!  Hopefully, when Cherry is ready to sell, Mr. Tiny will be financially responsible enough to buy!  What a joy it would be to wake up in the Far East and still be way out West!

"Chinatown, My Chinatown" - Red Nichols & His Five Pennies (1929)

Cheers!

Mr. Emperor Tiny