There Can Only Be The Memory

There comes a time when you realize you cannot recreate a memory, and you should not keep trying. My time came last night.

We didn't have pumpkin pie with Thanksgiving this year, and in fact, the frozen Marie Callender's pumpkin pie we bought is still in the freezer, relegated there when we found pecan pie from Trader Joe's and a blueberry pie from Ralphs that we wanted to try.

In past years, when we could reach Vallarta Supermarket in Oxnard before Thanksgiving, I usually went for the Jessie Lord pumpkin pie, made in Torrance, which had baked into it the heart and soul of whoever had made it. It was the one pie that wasn't quite the taste, but reminded me of the slice of pumpkin pie I had had at Six Flags Magic Mountain on a Saturday in early December 2011, when we had gotten free admission for the day after donating toys to the annual Toy Drive.

That slice was found at the Cyber Cafe, and I had seen it, among many, in the case there in the morning, before heading out to all the rollercoasters, and I had been thinking about it all day, up until the early evening when I finally got it. (Read about it here.)

I must have e-mailed Magic Mountain either right after I got home or in the days after, to find out who had made that pumpkin pie. Someone had put their heart and soul into that pumpkin pie that became slices, as prominently as the nutmeg and cinnamon and a crust that showed me that this was not the typical pumpkin pie. This was something rare and special.

I received an email that Monday of pre-Christmas week from someone at Magic Mountain, informing me that the pumpkin pie had come from Sysco, the corporate restaurant food distributor, and I was stunned. How had someone gotten this pie past their monolithic outlook? I needed to know, and I also needed to know of the person, if possible, who had made this pie. 

I searched. I think I had even emailed whatever local Sysco email address I could find to ask them. But I never got an answer. The blessed maker of that pie disappeared into the ether, remaining a memory as potent as the ones that would follow when I began my five years in Las Vegas, smelling deep-seated, devoted cooking from a mobile home in the park we lived in in Las Vegas our first year, then from second-floor apartment windows just after the side entrance to Pacific Islands Apartments, where we lived our first year in Henderson in the back (and our final year, too, that time in the front), as well as the bread pudding I stumbled upon at the buffet at Green Valley Ranch (also in Henderson), and have never forgotten, just like the pumpkin pie. But those are stories for another day.

I vowed back in that December of 2011 to search for other great pumpkin pies when we finally moved to Las Vegas, but really it was just to try to find that slice again, a mission I also carried with me in my first and second year in Ventura. Now it's my third year here, and I got to thinking about that miraculous slice of pumpkin pie again after passing up another whole pumpkin pie at 99 Cents Only last Sunday. A few weeks before that, I had bought another brand of whole pumpkin pie there, from Canada, in my continuing quest to rediscover that particular slice, as if the person who made it might go from baking company to baking company, simply baking with the same heart and soul and moving on. 

Last night, I thought about it again, an idle moment while reading Where I Come From: Stories from the Deep South by Rick Bragg, a collection of his columns and longer pieces from Southern Living and Garden & Gun. I am a Southerner by birth, not by blood, but I carry with me Southern tendencies for storytelling as he lets forth, and a love of language that usually takes a few days, but is always worth it. Perhaps reading of his memories of his South, his hometown of Jacksonville, Alabama, got me thinking about that slice of pumpkin pie. And I wondered if it was enough that I had simply had the chance, that moment, to have that pumpkin pie, which was completely unexpected anyway because up to that point, I hadn't really been into pumpkin pie. It was sometimes there as part of past Thanksgivings, but it wasn't one of my favorites then. 

That slice of pumpkin pie at Magic Mountain obsessed me, made me want to know more about pumpkin pie, the traditions it served, the people that made it. But overall, I was always looking for another slice or even a whole pie exactly as heavenly as that one slice. It's not realizing that no future pumpkin pie could live up to such an exalted standard that finally stopped me short, but rather what I already have.

I have that memory of that particular slice of pumpkin pie for as long as my mind lasts, hopefully well into my 118th year. I was sitting at a table outside the Cyber Cafe (the inside had the computers where you could sit and surf the web for a price), the cold outside was a little sharp, but all that mattered was that pie, that it had obviously been made by someone with a huge heart who was thinking about the rest of the world and wanted them to know that they were thinking all the good they could about the world. It was so obvious. The pie was like a gentle family of pumpkin and spices that dearly welcomed you, that encouraged you to come on in and relax for a while, hear a story or two, or perhaps tell your own. And that also made me realize something else, something equally important.

If I keep searching for another pumpkin pie just like that slice, and perhaps find it, then I diminish the glow of the memory of that slice because here is this one, and there may well be more just like it. It's not that I would completely forget my reaction to the pie at Magic Mountain, but it wouldn't seem as important as it once was upon finding its equal.

I want this memory as it is, for another reason as well. I'm doing research for a few novels, indecisive about which one I want to focus on in the first place. Most of these novels are made up of memories, certain ones that I want to mine in order to fully come to terms with traumatic times in my life, and some will fuel short stories where the characters are trying to recreate a memory as I tried with that pumpkin pie. There's even another novel I'm thinking of writing, where raspberry jam tasted so long ago in boyhood is the catalyst for what happens (inspired by when I tasted raspberry jam at Allison's Country Cafe across from the back end of the Pacific View Mall, directly facing the local bus transfer station, and went back a few weeks after that breakfast to buy a jar of my own). 

There are other novels I want to write simply because I want to spend more time in particular places in my imagination, such as when I was a student at College of the Canyons in Valencia, and had the Canyon Call newsroom all to myself to write my article about the men's golf team, whose coach was my cinema professor. I wrote in the late afternoon and felt completely at peace, and it's what has inspired me to seek to write one novel in a journalistic tone and format because while I don't miss the vicious deadlines in journalism, I want to go back to it on my terms, currently studying the structure of long-form journalism, seeking to capture it through a newspaper, as I intend to set this novel amidst the years I lived in Santa Clarita, before newspapers went on an even steeper decline. In fact, I want to include that pumpkin pie from Magic Mountain in one scene of that novel.

I know that there's no way I can write nonfiction or essays about my life. I don't have many of the dates straight anymore, and overall, I usually remember pieces instead of whole days. It's better to fictionalize what I have and be able to use it that way. The pumpkin pie is still there, then. And I am still at the Cyber Cafe, in wondrous rapture over how a park that prides itself on rollercoasters can also think about providing personal moments like that, where a person discovers more about himself than he thought there was before that moment. If you've got to spend hours and days and months and years sitting alone and writing, you might as well have pumpkin pie as it once was, as energy for whatever emerges.

Someone Got It Right

Three Saturdays ago at Six Flags Magic Mountain, I tried the pumpkin pie I had been thinking about all day, at a table outside the Cyber Cafe in the central plaza with the glut of souvenir shops. It was the best one I had had in all the eight years I'd lived in the Santa Clarita Valley, though I don't think I'd been into pumpkin pie when we moved here. I remember many lemon meringue pies, some chocolate pies, an apple pie or two. I think I'd tried pumpkin pie when this valley began to get to me in the last four years. It's the one pie that's solid in nature, reliable, able to pull you through anything, a great comfort when you need it and even when you don't.

This particular slice had the perfect balance of pumpkin, spices and sugar. No one flavor dominated another and whoever made it knew just how much spice to put in. I vowed to e-mail Six Flags Magic Mountain and ask who had made the pie. I wanted to buy more.

I got a call this past Monday from a woman who works at Magic Mountain, possibly overseeing the food they sell there. I didn't ask. I was shocked because I didn't remember e-mailing Magic Mountain about the pie. Did I e-mail them that night, after I'd gotten home from the park? Did I e-mail them after getting home from Burbank after a day of IKEA, the Burbank Town Center Mall (and a few games of Simpsons pinball, Galaga, and a game of air hockey), and Barnes & Noble? After I thanked the woman for the information and hung up, I tried to figure it out. I honestly don't remember. I must have been really tired whenever I e-mailed them, yet I still was able to form whole words.

The woman told me that the pumpkin pie had come from Sysco. Sysco! The food distributor! Meridith was surprised when I told her where the pumpkin pie had come from, and told me she had heard something about them having test kitchens somewhere. Maybe that's true, to make sure that the products they push are of the quality they need them to be, but this pumpkin pie could not have come from a committee. This had to have come from the mind and heart of someone who had grown up with pumpkin pie, who had seen relatives make it, who saw how much nutmeg, cinnamon and ginger to put in, who had made their own as they got older and learned how they liked it and what worked best.

I doubt I'll be able to find that one person, if it even was one person who had come up with the recipe, but I've got to search. I've got to know. Even three weeks after, I still remember the taste of that pumpkin pie, and before I embark on my quest to find other great pumpkin pies in Las Vegas, along with chili-cheese and other covered fries, marinara sauce (Not the crappy, liquidy marinara sauces I've had here), and quesadillas, I want to get on the trail of this particular pumpkin pie, just to know.

Once businesses get back up and running after the start of 2012, and I'm deep into my book research again, I'll use the pumpkin pie search as an occasional break from it. There's a Los Angeles branch of Sysco with an "800" number, and I'll start there. I know it's a corporation, so it's very likely that they won't be as easily forthcoming as the woman from Six Flags was, but I've got to try. And even if nothing comes of it, that taste will be a good start for my pumpkin pie search in Las Vegas, to find one just as good or better than that one. I don't see how it's possible, but it can be there.

Day 2, Part 3 of a Four-Week Pleasure Cruise: Would It Have Been Better If?...

Looking out at the rest of the park from the Sky Tower, as it begins to get dark, the light touches the rollercoasters and ride vehicles and trees and walking paths in such a way that it makes it all the only place in this entire to have feelings. When it's sunny out, and even when not, it assumes full control. It is confident of its power in offering up so many rollercoasters, in ensuring that a lot of people have a good time. When the sun goes down as it did in those moments, it feels sad that people have to leave soon, have to give up this temporary world for what awaits them wherever they come from. It wants to get a stranglehold on the sunlight, push it back up, and spread it out to the entire park again. People can't leave yet. There's still so much to do.

This is why it closes at 6 p.m. in winter. There's not enough lighting throughout the park. What is there is suitable only to the immediate areas, but never beyond that. You'd have to bring in floodlights if you wanted to illuminate the park entirely, but that would be too harsh. Near the Golden Bear Theatre, there's lights in the souvenir shop, and a few other places, but not among that walking path. You can get to where you're going, though, by the arcade ahead and brighter lights as you get to the central plaza near the front gates.

The elevator came back up and that was it for us. No reason to stay longer. There's a lot less memorabilia than there was last year. Maybe some of it was being spruced up, maybe they rotate it. It didn't seem like enough, as if there's indifference here as to whether people know more about the park as it was. It's one of the rare instances here that the attitude of the Santa Clarita Valley has crept in: No history. Only the present and the future are allowed.

Going down in the elevator with a few other people, including two employees, I knew already what the park looks like at dusk from on high and what the seemingly distant valley looks like too. So I spent those few minutes looking at the wires of the elevator moving in the structure as we went down. You can see stairwells, all painted orange just like the rest of the tower, and once on the ground, the other elevator, which wasn't in use since there weren't that many people in the tower. Never are. It's the same line of thinking used at Superman: Escape from Krypton. If the crowds grow, then they'll use the second vehicle.

We passed Ninja, and I felt like seven times on it had been enough. "7" is a major number in Las Vegas, and it felt right with a farewell to it that way while looking ahead to my new home.

At the top of Samurai Summit, across from Ninja, is the Orient Express, an air-conditioned tram that takes guests from there to the central plaza of Six Flags without having to walk back down the steep hill that takes you up to Samurai Summit. It was the best way to get back down since we were beginning to run out of time, with it being 10 minutes to 5, and the park closing at 6.

The Orient Express has two trams, operated by the same cable, and when one tram goes down the hill, the other goes up to the Samurai Summit station, and then they reverse. It's not long to wait for a tram, and it was a relief to sit for a little bit. My feet don't hurt like they used to before I lost all that weight, but the day began to wear on me. Not sleepy just then, but tiredness began to settle in all my joints. There was still more to do, since Meridith wanted to ride Colossus, and I had d promised that I would go on it with her.

To get to Goliath, you walk past the Magic Moments Theater building, which is used about as much as the Golden Bear Theatre, and there's the entrance for Colossus. Then you weave through where longer lines would be until you reach the loading station. They were running two trains, so it wasn't long to wait for ours, and it was when our train bolted out of the station that I realized that Colossus is the father, and Apocalypse is the son. Colossus races up the first lift hill, and when I saw the steep drop, I said "Oh shit!" out loud. This was harrowing. It jerks you around so much, up one hill, down one hill, up one hill, down one hill, that you don't have a chance to breathe for even a second. Then there's another lift hill and you drop way down yet again. It's said that the Colossus trains on both sides (There was an empty loading station across from ours) were used years ago to race each other, and during Magic Mountain's Halloween festivities, the trains run backward. I still shudder at the thought of that.

After I knew it was over by Meridith no longer pressing herself into my shoulder and screaming with her eyes shut tight, as she did on Apocalypse for equally good reason, I felt a bit of a headache, which went away as I regained my balance after we got off. I told Meridith that I was done with rollercoasters, and I mean it. I can't do this anymore. Riding the wooden Hurricane rollercoaster 19 times in one night at Boomers in Dania Beach was easy because I was in my teens. It was also easy to ride Space Mountain at the Magic Kingdom at Walt Disney World in 2000 after eating an entire turkey leg because I was in my teens. In March, I'll be two years away from 30. I know there are some daredevils well older than me, and rollercoaster enthusiasts I've seen at various websites, including themeparkreview.com, who probably had this love instilled in them at a young age. Reading I did. Movies I did. Aviation I did. Not rollercoasters. I'd be fine with never riding another one again if not for the Desperado in Primm, Nevada, one of the first things you see after the state line in that complex of three casinos and an outlet mall, which I'll ride for home state pride, and the taxicab rollercoaster at New York-New York. But other than those two, I'm finished. At least with Superman: Escape from Krypton, it was just one tall curve and then back down. I know there are easier rollercoasters and I've been on them, but I've lost my interest. Better that my time with all that is replaced with more books and more writing, and probably more Galaga too.

On the way back to the front gate, Mom called Meridith and told her that she and Dad were at the Cyber Cafe and they had already gotten me my pumpkin pie. See, pumpkin pie, butterscotch anything, types of pasta, those are other fine replacements for my interest in rollercoasters, especially with pumpkin pie being my favorite kind. And after the pie we had had at Thanksgiving that we bought frozen from Walmart that had to be baked, I was looking for one far better. When we got to the table where Mom and Dad were sitting outside the Cyber Cafe (with all the computers inside in use, of course), and I got a plastic spoon from inside, I found the pumpkin pie I had wanted for so long. The pumpkin, the spices, the sugar, all melded so perfectly. It was a welcome comfort after the physical turmoil of Colossus, but most of all, it was amazing to me to find this here. I can understand the funnel cakes being so good since they make them on-site, but where would they make a pumpkin pie? They have each slice in individual clear plastic containers, so maybe it's brought in from somewhere else. I really want to know where that "somewhere else" is, and I've just gotten the idea to e-mail the park and see if anyone knows. There are a lot of things worth living for, and that pumpkin pie is close to the top of my list.

We ordered another slice to take home for Mom and I to share, and I told Mom that I decided not to ride Ninja again because first of all, we were already away from Samurai Summit and I didn't want to hike up there again, plus the Orient Express eats up more time and I wanted to make sure I got my Superman t-shirts and anything else Superman related that looked interesting to me. Plus I told her about keeping it at 7 times in honor of Las Vegas, and because the appeal of Ninja to me is gliding past those trees. At nighttime, it doesn't have the same effect. You're just gliding through darkness, and the trees are just outlines of something.

Walking through the main souvenir shop in the central plaza was an immense pleasure. A tinier crowd this time, and I found two Superman shirts, one in a can, and another with the Six Flags name under the image of Superman. Others were comic book covers and too specific for me. I like a general Superman on my t-shirts, open to all possibilities.

While they waited for us when we were on Colossus, Mom and Dad picked up the pickle and the school bus from package pickup at the Looney Tunes Superstore. On the way out, I went into that store to find a relatively unscratched red Superman cup (Has a clear plastic mold of Superman on the left and the right), since the ones in the main souvenir shop looked terrible, more scratched up than is worth buying just to have Superman. Most in the Looney Tunes store were no better, but I did find one that didn't look so bad, and I wanted a spare.

So that was it. All that was left to do after leaving the park was stopping at Grand Panda to pick up the beef chow fun that Dad had ordered for dinner, and at Chronic Tacos for Meridith and I to get what we and Mom wanted. I was still thinking of a chicken and cheese quesadilla when we walked in, but breakfast items are served all day there, and I spotted a picture of a breakfast quesadilla with cheese, eggs, potatoes, and veggie, chorizo, or machaca, which is shredded beef, grilled onions, and tomatoes. I chose chorizo and my god, not only was it filling, but this was what every quesadilla needs to be: Hearty, confident in its combination, and offering up so much good stuff in every bite. Taking our orders home for dinner was perfect because not only were we worn out from the day, but I preferred to be at home, enjoying my quesadilla at my own pace. I don't eat as fast as I used to, but rare is the time that I slow down for something, and this was it. Between the french fries, the pumpkin pie and this, the meaning of life to me seems to be pure pleasure in whatever you love and savoring every moment you have it. The next time we go to Chronic Tacos, that quesadilla is mine again.

Going back to the question that has been part of the title for three entries, I think it would have been better if I had gotten a season pass. When I was in line with my Superman t-shirts and a small Superman desk light I found, there were three people in front of me who were from somewhere else, because the guy at the register told them to have a nice flight back. I was surprised that people venture as far as here, what with Los Angeles, and Anaheim containing Disneyland. But I understand it because perhaps they wanted a different perspective of this region. People watching alone would have made a season pass worth it. A lot to observe and be entertained by, and a lot to write about. A chance to continually explore a different world, to just sometimes watch rollercoasters in motion.

I can't go for a season pass now. Last year was better because though our situation was fluid like it is now, I didn't feel that drive for movement like I do now. Not that I didn't want to leave for home this year, but it felt like things had to take more time to develop. Having passed in August our eighth year of living here, I've become much more antsy. A season pass wouldn't work because it'd be an all-the-time reminder that we're still here. It's not just about having a place to live; it's about where you live, where you're happy. For a final time, though, this was the right feeling. Casual, absorbing everything that I've loved about Magic Mountain, and leaving with a smile. That was the way to do it.