A season redolent of wet wool and high school homecomings
We’re close to cutting a deal on my plan to buy an old hunting lodge that’s been on the market in La Cañada Flintridge and turn it into an orphanage for peculiar children. Fund-raising is going very well, only $2.25 million short of the $2.3-million selling price. Apparently, finding enough peculiar children will be no problem (to my mind, kids are all a little weird).
After I floated this idea in a column last month, one reader suggested I crowd-source the orphanage. But I crowd-sourced last month’s mortgage and my bar tab from the Cubs-Dodgers series, which came in at $42,000 (plus tip). When critics say I don’t give back to the community, I like to point out that I almost always over-tip bartenders. Dentists and minstrels too.
I feel strongly that crowd-sourcing, in which strangers on the Internet give money to all sorts of shady causes, shouldn’t be used too often. Posh is about done with me anyway, so I need to leave some lines of credit open.
In L.A., that includes sexy older actresses with a little extra coin. You can spot them at Starbucks, carrying cellphones like cigarettes. To me, they are like beautiful bookies, and might be the only reason I still live in Los Angeles.
Back to this orphanage for a second. It’s a magnificent old dump on an acre of oak-studded land not far from me. I have concluded that it should have an autumnal theme, because who doesn’t like a big, sprawling, Scottish hunting lodge in November? Smoke curling from the chimney. Retrievers romping on the porch. Currier & Ives made a killing on such twinkly yet elusive American dreams.
I’m pretty smitten with autumn anyway. How much do I like this season? I once proposed to a maple tree. I think that I shall never see, a girl as lovely as a tree.
How much do I like this season? Last weekend, I tweeted:
“Happy autumn, everyone. Enjoy every brew, ballgame and brisk fall hike.”
Seriously, did Longfellow ever pen anything quite so evocative? Probably, I could sell that sentiment to the Hallmark Channel, so that another aging actress would find rewarding work.
God is in our children — they are our finest harvest. That’s why an orphanage seems the best use of this promising property. One of the possibilities was to run the orphanage as a not-so-elite soccer academy where the kids would play to have fun.
Another option was to set it up as a writers’ retreat — for young writers, not old ones. I don’t need to be around older aspiring writers clammy with disappointment. What I need is younger writers who aspire to being clammy with disappointment. Those I can still steer toward computer science or other dark arts.
The other option for this replica hunting lodge is as a pumpkin farm and apple orchard.
My autumn farm would be a year-round operation. Visitors would each get their own tractors and pitchforks, and it you wanted to slaughter a rubber chicken, you certainly could. As you know, there are vast stretches of the Westside where they will only eat gluten-free rubber food.
As per Disneyland, each night would end with some sort of parade. In our case, families would all light torches and chase Frankenstein’s monster through the faux European village, corner him, then release him as you would a prize trout.
Of course, we’d have to leave a little time for selfies. Or lectures on how not to judge others by their high foreheads or out-of-fashion footwear, which is a lesson L.A. really needs.
Everywhere you looked there would be giant piles of fallen oak leaves that kids could jump in, a football you could kick, an orchard full of apples. For the dads, there’d be a sports bar glowing with ballgames, each TV a smoldering campfire.
For the moms, a gift shop would offer incense that smells like a pumpkin when, on Halloween night, the candle tilts a little and singes the stringy inside of a jack-o’-lantern.
Love that smell. After new baseball gloves, a baking pumpkin is the best scent in the world. Reminds me of homemade soup and sweaty masks. Reminds me of wet wool and high school homecomings.
Smells like success, which has been so elusive to me in my professional life.
Not anymore. Now I see franchises and initial public offerings. I see merchandise and similar theme parks opening in Gatlinburg, Tenn., and on the outskirts of Cleveland.
I also see a giant version in Orlando, of course. In Orlando, they’ll go anywhere there are long lines, anxious children and overpriced and disappointing food.
“Don’t push, folks,” I’ll assure them. “We have plenty of rubber food for all of you.”
Twitter: @erskinetimes
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