Mountain View Cemetery. A gleaming nugget in a sluice filled basin known as Oakland. I collected fauna and foliage on the cemetery grounds for the first Thanksgiving I shared with my sister. She was an art student at CCA (C) and I was recovering from a bad break-up with my first girl friend. We lived in a small apartment, why, on the very street I now reside upon. The neighbors were suspicious of us, long haired hippies, and were always calling the cops for some piddly infraction. Did I know that Mountain View was going to be the beginning of a long and beautiful friendship? No. But, like a good thing, it began slowly. And then like the catchy theme song of an addicting show (hmmmm 'Friday Night Lights') that zaps those precious neuron crystals, the resume built. Over the years, I ran my dogs there, dodging cemetery security; I knew all the back paths and overgrown eucalyptus groves. So did they. I buried a couple of cats (why not) at the top of the hill, the one with the spectacular 180 view of Lake Merritt, and the Bay Bridge. I've eaten croissants and picnic lunches and hobnobbed with the Crockers as I was smoking and digesting. For weeks, I brought my coffee and sat alone next to Cogswell, or the Krafts balling my eyes out after breakups. I've walked the headstones pondering lives and exits. Isn't this what Frederick Law Olmstead had in mind when he landscaped the area in 1862? Not quite, I'm certain, but if one can't be in Central Park, or France, then this is the next best thing to being there. Mountain View has the scope of the Parisian monuments, and the broad avenues and hills of an old world city. It's the best kept secret in the area, except for the runners/joggers most of whom are women. On any morning just after the sun crests the eastern piedmont hills even in winter, for what is winter in Cali, Olmstead's vision quietly springs to life.
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