Our History from the Beginning
Death Looks Down by Linda Gregg
tion ensued, Harold talked of his housing situation, and Madame offered to sell him this house, her summer home. The deal was sealed; the family packed up the camping gear and took possession of the house. Madame, however, found life in her former home with the Gregg family quite to her liking and didn’t leave. Harold enjoyed her; he loved character and diversity, but as time went on Frances became tired of her demanding to be served. Madame had her bedroom off the kitchen and she became the “aristocrat” of the house. She would bang her cane on the floor three times for a cup of tea, breakfast, or a glass of wine from the wine cellar. This began to make Frances’ life very difficult. After five months of Madame pounding her cane for Frances’ attention in the Gregg’s “B&B,” Harold received a surprise phone call from Frances. (Our phone number in those days was 14R11.) “I’ve had it! You can choose to live with Madame Prevost or you can choose to live with us!” Frances and the girls were picked up by Grandpa Rundall to live in Petaluma until Harold made a decision. Harold talked to Madame; he helped her pack, then moved her back to San Francisco. The Greggs began to enjoy the house on Tamal Road just the six of them. The Park became Samuel P. Taylor State Park named for Mr. Taylor who operated the first paper mill west of the Mississippi River. It became a weekend retreat for people who live around the Bay Area. A park ranger was hired to protect the park and the public, and the Gregg family vis- ited frequently.
Death looks down on the salmon. A male and female in two pools, one above the other. The female turns back along the path of water to the male, does not touch him, and returns to the place she had been. I know what death will do. Their bodies already are sour and ragged. Blood has risen to the surface under the scales. One side of his jaw is unhinged. Death will pick them up. Put them under his coat against his skin and belt them there. Will walk away up the path through the bay trees. Through the dry grass of California to where the mountain begins. Where a few deer almost the color of the hills will look up until he is under the trees again and the road ends and there is a gate. He will climb over that with his treasure. It will be dark by then. But for now he does nothing. He does not disturb the silence at all. Nor the occasional sound of leaves, of ferns touching, of grass or stream. For now he looks down at the salmon large and whole motionless days and nights in the cold water. Lying still, always facing the constant motion.
(From All of It Singing: New and Selected Poems )
Boaters at Camp Taylor, circa 1907–1915 (From the Collection of Newall Snyder)
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50 th Anniversary
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