Palos Verdes Estates

Visiting the place where I was both a boy and a man, I come to realize what a great life I've had.

It's not nostalgia, or if it is, it's the nostalgia of being in the moment and the moment is both 50-plus years ago and the day before yesterday.

The school where I first learned to dislike school is still a school, and still named Malaga Cove School. It still has a little crown for a tower and a bell that could ring at any moment.

As I walk through the hallways I imagine that I could start all over here in kindergarten as a 5- year old and learn to read and write all over again. I could become a better person at the same time, being nice to Michael Zamloch and Meredith Grubbs on the playground instead of being so mean. But the desks are too small, the doors are locked, and all the teachers have disappeared, either to retirement communities in Arizona or to the teachers' lounge to smoke their cigarettes in peace.

Just up the street is the house I grew up in. My father built it in 1953. It's amazing to me that it's stayed in the same place, 548 Via Almar, all these years, but there it is on the side of the hill, overlooking the sea.

My brother, who accompanies me on this little journey, walks up the steps to introduce himself to the current owners. He's much braver than I, he always has been and always will be, though as the first-born I too took certain risks.

I wait for him in the car, thinking about what a great life I've had, about all the beautiful places I've lived and all the amazing people I've known, even though the present sometimes seemed very painful when it was happening.