Chapter 2: Lost in Paradise

After high school, I attended the University of Missouri and majored in Journalism. I wasn't exactly a stellar student.

Upon graduation, I went to work for the Mailbu Canyon News for several years. Despite what most Americans imagine, Malibu is not the exactly a glamorous and glorious utopia. The Canyon News was not the most glamorous and glorious publication. It ranked third of four newspapers that served the city. It was published weekly and made most of it's revenue from advertisements for horse and automobile trades. I spent most of my time working on those ads and transcribing local police reports.

I've never been much of a beach person. At about five foot eight and two hundred and twenty pounds, I'll never be a surfer. Be that as is may, I didn't mind Malibu too much except for the fact that I shared a double-wide mobile home with two room mates in a neighborhood called Paradise Cove. This was the only way I could afford to live in Malibu. Otherwise I'd probably have had to rent an apartment somewhere like Van Nuys and then I'd never been able to afford to drive an hour to the Canon News office every day. Most people think that Paradise Cove would be a wonderful place to live, sheltered from the freeway and only a block from the beach. But most people weren't named James Garner. Paradise Cove was the location for the 1970's TV show, the Rockford Files. Detective Jim Rockford was played by actor James Garner. I didn't know this when I moves in, otherwise I would've used my first name when I signed the lease. I've gone by James ever since kindergarten because I was thought William was too embarrassing and my mother refused to let anyone call me Billy.

I was barely eking out a living. I Hated having neighbors give me grief about being James Garner living in Rockford's trailer court. And I hated living so close to Los Angeles. Plastic, caustic, crime-ridden, smog laden, Los Angeles. So, when I found an opportunity to become the editor of a small weekly in the Midwest, I decided to try something new. I was looking through an office copy of the California Newspaper Publisher Association's monthly paper and saw an ad for an editor of a small town newspaper, the Cedar Ridge Times.

While, I as I said, I wasn't exactly top of my class at MIZZOU, I was feeling pretty bad about being just a staff member at a third place weekly, especially having graduated from such a prestigious journalism school. I was excited about the opportunity to step up to a leadership role, even if it meant having to deal with snow and cold for part of the year. How hard could it be? Like I mentioned, Malibu isn't exactly Beverly Hills. I figured rural Iowa couldn't be too much different from the ranchers and strawberry farmers of North West L.A. County. I figured the West Coast was a culture shock coming from the nurturing arms of Columbia Missouri. Really, I had no idea of what culture was, let alone culture shock.

Chapter 1: Call me 'Chief'

I've never really tried writing fiction before. But since I haven't been writing a weekly opinion/humor column anymore, I have been considering things to write. Most writers are always musing about writing the great American novel. I don't know that I'm up for that. But I do think it would be fun to experiment with short stories, sort of vignettes and character sketches.

You can read everything I have done all in one place at GoodReads, or by searching for just the Hometown NEWS posts on this blog.

Here's the obligatory disclaimer- all the characters here aren't strictly based on anyone or meant to libel or defame anyone, although, let's face it- several of them may be composites of people I've encountered. Since it's just for fun, don't expect there do be updates daily or even with any regularity- but I hope to add to it at least each week. We'll see.

And here are my impressions of a small Midwestern town from a transplant from the coast; What's bewildering, bewitching and unbelievable about being in a town under 600.


My name is William James Garner. I guess my mother wanted me to someday become a psychologist or a philosopher. Most people around here call me "Chief."

I grew up in Cave Creek, Arizona. Most of my life it had a population under 4,000. It was the ugly twin brother of a town called Carefree, of the Gordon Lightfoot song, "Carefree Highway."

But they don't call me "Chief" because I'm a Native American. My father was a large animal veterinarian who served clients in Carefree. My mother was a hostess at a highway diner right on the border between the towns.

Carefree was the posh, trendy tourist town full of boutiques and art galleries frequented by snow birds. Snow birds were affluent retirees from cold, flat places like Iowa, Nebraska, and Minnesota. Cave Creek was less friendly to outsiders and highly protected by it's natives. Cave Creek had hot air balloon festivals. Cave Creek had wet tee-shirt contests. Carefree had get-away ranches owned by Hollywood honchos like Lucille Ball and Dick Van Dyke. Cave Creek had ramshackle ranch style homes build by actual ranch hand who took care of the horses that the TV and movie stars rode once or twice a year. Carefree boasted a five star restaurant with seven course meals. Cave Creek had 'the Horny Toad and the satisfied frog,' a bar and grill that fed and watered weary cowboys and thirsty bikers.

When I was growing up, our towns were way out in the boonies, somewhere North of the Phoenix area and South of Dead Horse Gulch and Skunk Creek. For the last decade or so, Phoenix and it's more high brow suburb, Scottsdale have been in a race to see who could connect to the New Age mecca of Sedona first. Scottsdale has pretty much absorbed Care Free and Phoenix has all but swallowed Cave Creek. The Care Free Highway is little more than an expressway connecting State Highway 89 and I-17.

But this story isn't about where I'm from, originally. It's about where I am now.