And so, it occurs to me that unfortunately I have made a serious omission in the last post, titled Under The Bridge. Oh, like where the h*** (heck,- for all of those who may still be deprived nowadays of the popular vernacular.) is Highland Park anyway, Illinois? Well, yes and no. There maybe a Highland Park Illinois, but my travails are situated in the Ancient, Long forgotten Birthplace of what was to become The Greater Los Angeles Basin, in beautiful Southern California; from the dessert to the sea. The Northeast rim of the basin, to be exact. Home of The first museum ever founded in the City of Los Angeles, The Southwest Indian Museum, in Mount Washington. Highland Park is what they call a District, in Los Angeles; in it's Northeast Section, oh, about 8, or 10 miles east of La Brea. And the bridge is the one the Light Rail ( A kind of updated trolley they call The Gold Line) uses to travel from Pasadena into Los Angeles. Highland Park is sort of like the main thorough fare between the two cities and sort of a little like both places. And, as I say, it's where I grew up.
It was a good, nice place to grow up. Not like today.For one thing it wasn't as deadly. For another it was part of an American City (More on that later). One where this country (The US Republic- or what use to be a Republic. It has since become a Democracy,we are told.) was respected, and people were proud of their American Culture and Heritage, and to speak this country's native language, English. Of course, you don't need this blogger to tell you that, well......things are different now. Aren't they?
Anyway Highland Park use to be pretty nice. In my next post I'll tell you a little about just how nice. Really. It's not just the nostalgia of a soon to be old, not so young sad, American,who misses his country. The good old US of A. And the people we use to be. Or at least the people I thought we were...or could be. Maybe it isn't too late?