Without Ilona's invitation, I would never have visited Camarillo Ranch this weekend. I am glad that I went. I wouldn't have missed it for a bike ride over to Paris Lake, or an afternoon viewing of 'Inglorious Bastards,' or a pint of Guinness over a plate of chicken wings at Buffalo Wild Wings.
I joined Ilona, her mom and dad and sister, and Takaya's trusty room-mate and rugby buddy and 5-k trotting companion, Andrew Kokesh. The only one not in attendance was the future groom, Takaya, truly a chip off his old man's block. And, truth be told, Takaya had a legitimate excuse: another Saturday of slave labor in the sweat shop of Semler, Brossy.
So Andrew and I were, in effect, Takaya's stand-in's, and I think we did the old boy proud. We were about as genuinely enthusiastic as a pair of bachelors can be about someone else's wedding venue. We gushed with the best of them at the gazebo with its copper cupola where the bride and groom will exchange vows and rings. We forcifully put in our two bits as to whether the lawn fronting the gazebo was large enough to seat all 150 guests - yes, yes, yes!!!
We helped measure columns and railings for bunting and wreathes. While we were in attendance, a grand Mexican wedding reception was in progress; and we agree with Mrs. Moizesch in her observation that the tables had been crowded too closely together and should be spaced further apart; and we concurred with Ilona that the dance floor had not been located properly, and should have been placed further away from the edge of the circular driveway and centered directly under the overhanging triangle of ropes strung from three trees and hung with lights that would come on as darkness fell, casting a warm and romantic glow on the dancing couples below.
We trotted through every room in the old Camarillo mansion and sided with Loriana that the baby's room was indeed creepy and much too dark and that the doll in the cradle reminded us too eerily of Rosemary's Baby. All other rooms, however, had bays with 4 or 5 high bay windows letting in wagonloads and hay piles of light. The house was chockful of rooms, each connected by a door to the next, and a balcony overlooked the reception area and the dance area with an 8-member mariachi band, strumming and plucking and blaring and singing away.
Takaya and Ilona need not worry about the traffic from Highway 101, a mere half mile away, detracting from their grand event. Music will cover that noise. During lulls in the music during our visit, I discovered that the sound of traffic soon vanished into so much white-noise, and came to remind me and my sensitive ears of the music of Little Cottonwood Creek that rumbles and tumbles behind Paul and Cristina's house in Salt Lake City.
Nor should Takaya worry about eye-sores. True, if you make an effort, you can spot buildings housing businesses across the street from the ranch. But so what? Don't make the effort. Most guests will do as Andrew and I did: focus on the wonderful gardening surrounding the Camarillo mansion. Fountains and flower beds and palm trees, some resembling pineapples, and pine trees of all varieties dominate the view. In the far southeast corner a Moreton Bay fig tree reaches well over a hundred feet into the air, spreading its branches in a diameter of equal length. One branch, in particular, stretches out at least 40 feet, a mere 15-feet above the driveway. In the days of the wild west, that branch alone would have made a wonderful hanging tree, with room for the entire Wild Bunch with ample space left over for the James gang, the Hole-in-the-Wall gang, and a few stray drunks and gunslingers to boot.
We ended the day in Sherman Oaks with a feast of baby ribs at Mister Cecil's. Takaya joined us, and we stuffed ourselves on ribs and coleslaw and cornbread and corn and gabbed until well-after 10 o'clock, the conversation veering from jovial to jesting to serious to down-right glum as we remembered past members of both families who had come, had their day in the sun, dimmed into twilight, and finally died, taking up a new existence as worm fodder and compost for rose gardens.
At one point, Ernest (Mr. Moizesch) began speaking of one Michael Savage, a particularly abusive and obnoxious right-wing shock-jock of AM radio. At that point, I blurted out, 'Savage, he's a loud-mouthed idiot.' The Moizesch women all burst into laughter. Apparently, Ernest is a fan of Mr. Savage. No harm, no foul. Maybe Ernest is hard of hearing, and didn't quite catch my insult. Anyway, all is well that ends well, and this evening ended as it began - with smiles and gaiety, in the old fashion sense, all around.
John
