Out of the Past: Sacramento, California
Homecoming—April 22 - 25, 2025
“Having health, wealthy possibility amounts to nothing if you do not know that every minute counts.” Moondog
The song “Bird’s Lament,” memorializes Charlie Parker. Moondog composed the song in 1955 as a chaconne where the saxophonist accentuates the melody. I guess in a way, it could be emblematic of Charlie Parker speaking directly to the audience. The sax emphasizes melody that connotes sadness, nostalgia, and loss in which common language lacks the ability to communicate.
The melody became a figurative theme song to my recent trip to Sacramento, visiting Roseville and even stopping by my childhood home in a neighborhood where I often felt out of place and yearned to escape.
Arriving yesterday after driving in a lot of traffic to reach Sacramento, I can assuredly say that I am glad to have made the trip though I had several misgivings on Monday last week before leaving. What exactly is the point? Do I really want to do this? How will this adventure make the setting of Sacramento in my two stories stories of my book, more authentic?
April 2025 in downtown Sacramento at H Street and 21st.
After unloading everything out of the car and settling into an Airbnb, I went to the Old Soul Weatherstone Café located on 21st street between H and J streets. Originally, Sacramento’s first independent coffee house was an old horse barn, with strong exterior and interior brick features that remain today. Situated among treelined streets, the café’s open space, creates a welcoming environment. On beautiful spring days, customers can sit outside in an enclosed area, or near the front sidewalk. The Victorian homes, though a little worse from wear and tear, remain lined up across the street, the blue house with pink trim standing out among them.
The bright and breezy afternoon offered an unexpected dose of nostalgia, reminiscent of so many spring days years ago. I felt a little out of place, like an intruder cheating, moving in and out of time, going backwards. Walking inside, I immediately harked back to thirty-four years ago when I was a young college student and started coming here. All my friends and acquaintances were young, and now they too are old and have moved on. The downtown area accepted misfits of all sorts where they could find mutual ground to talk and even collaborate, create relationships. Inevitably those friendships did not last for me. When I made my final break, it was for good.
As young women came into the café that afternoon, they half reminded me of myself. The patrons were still nonconformist, the young guy with dark blond mullet hairstyle. He had a tattoo on his forearm and a thin mustache. There was the guy sitting next to me who could have been the young version of any one of the people I used to know years ago. In my imagination, there was a much younger version of “John” before he disfigured himself, taking a seat outside with a blond, quietly listening to her talk about her recovery while I sat just a few seats away, studying a book and working on my master’s thesis.
There was the image of the young dangerous types that were so attractive back then, sauntering up to Weatherstone with a tough bad boy swagger, a black leather jacket and those sharp blue eyes. Such men are long gone living across the country, married with children.
