Free the B’s and More Letters to the Editor

We are sad to learn that the wonderful Miss B’s in Summerland is unable to open. I have been walking by the location at the corner of Lilly and Olive, and chatting with the owner, Sara, for over a year. She explained her vision for a young child’s club and art venue, and I’ve watched it come to fruition in the sweetest, most attractive form imaginable. She had an open house in December and the interior exceeded the exterior in charm. We all expected to soon enjoy the sounds of kids having a good time. Unfortunately, as Sara explained when we met recently there is conflict with the property owner, plus county zoning requirements of which she was unaware. She says she’s still fighting and, hopefully, will win for the all the little kids who would so enjoy Miss B’s lovely space. And also for us residents who see this venue as a terrific addition to Summerland.

Cheryl Niccoli, Summerland

Confused and Dazed, Confessions of a Pawed Operator

He awoke to the sounds of the freeway; he wasn’t used to hearing this. Once he was a highland bear and now a lowland bear. He was happy he found a new den; however, it would take a while for him to adjust to it. And he was still arranging his space, which came furnished. A bonus and a detriment at the same time, the furnishings were appropriately fitted but the art on the walls wasn’t his and he needed to set up his stereo, sans speakers, because he lived in a crowded compound and there were HOA rules and times he needed to abide by; not a huge issue, he could still listen and dance, just not like he could on The Hill.

Dance!! 

But not now, there was still much to get done, and he’d better do it, he thought, memories of the move still fresh on his brain. His pastime of working in his audio laboratory was finished, he’d never touch a scope probe, oscilloscope, or distortion analyzer again. No space for that. Besides, in a frantic, manic state, he had given all his test gear away. How in the world would he make ends meet now? With aching bones and sweaty fur, he pulled his life’s possession from storage. It was costing money to keep it there and his goal was to have the two closet sized rooms empty before the end of two months. Heartbroken, tired, and trying hard to see the light, he carried on.

His neighbors were as curious about him as he was of them, they weren’t like Connie Cougar and her cubs, though. No – these were close neighbors who didn’t know Carlos or fully trust him. Every time he’d left his den to do laundry – his den was furnished but lacked a washer and dryer – they would come out to throw trash away or recycle. He knew this was normal, but he felt like an outsider, adding pain to pain. His need for problem solving – the kind electronics provided – was making him edgy, his paws and brain were devoid of thought-provoking puzzles. The TV answered that concern. How the heck was he not able to get a signal to his headphones? Slowly and methodically, he went about the process just as he would with an amplifier and – voila – he solved the problem. His ears twitched.

He danced a bit, shuffling on the faux wood floor of plastic, being careful not to scratch the finish with his paws, which felt very good, then moved on to his next project. Being an older bear, he busts moves a bit slower these days. He decided to take a walk; exercise would do him good. So, he walked down the street that bordered the freeway. He stood at the corner watching the cars zip by and could not wrap his furry head around the number of people driving. Where were they going, what were they doing? 

Then a car zoomed by him on the frontage road, frightening him. Fairly running back to the compound and new den, breathing hard, he made dinner when he got there. Safety, that’s what matters he thought. Nothing would bother him here once he got settled, that was for sure. He was starting to develop routines. Where to put his cell charger and laptop, sunglasses and knit caps, it was joy, really, to pull out his prized caps, hats and shirts. It would still take time, he thought, but he’d get comfortable.

So, he celebrated, putting on the Moody Blues tune, “Dear Diary,” and sang softly:

Dear Diary, what a day it’s been….

-Michael Edwards
AKA Carlos the Bear

Heaven on Paper

Ok, at least 8/10 Ha’s for Jeff Wing’s piece…

Truth-telling comedy supreme.

It’s all a cross-generational zeitgeist spectrum, for sure.

Hoping all “Joy-Babe” era readers will share this one with their respective late-alphabet generations, for Wing’s amusing perspective. 

There’s gotta be a stand-up comedy venue in heaven waiting for all totally hip over-40 “elders” like us for when we do croak. 

Oh, wait… there’s one already… Wing’s column. 

It would be kinda fun to see a “response piece” from a Gen-X-Y-Z reader. But be kind, young whippersnappers. 

That way, we “pre-dead people” could see ourselves as Gen X, Y, and Z sees us, only in reverse, from the future. 

My age: I’d say it’s somewhere between “too old to have anyone’s baby” and “cremation.” Close enough.

P.S. Robot’s picture still looks timeless. 

– LeeAnn Morgan