FOR MOST OF THE CENTURY: OFF TO CALIFORNIA (PART 50)

Jean Bell Mosley's new autobiography, "For Most of the Century," is only available in serialized form in the Southeast Missourian. Return each week for her continuing story.

Since Lou and I had both lost our husbands during the 1970s, our Aunt Nellie who lived in Walnut Creek, California, thought it would be good for us to come west for a visit.

Aunt Nellie had married our mother's brother, Thurman Casey. Uncle Thurman had migrated to California some time in the late 1920s. He had purchased a large English walnut ranch, made other wise investments and became wealthy, although by the time of our visit, Uncle Thurman was dead.

Lou and I departed on June 3, 1977, from the St. Louis airport on a TWA jet.

I noticed that on our rapid incline Lou was leaning back with eyes closed. I didn't know she was having a "scene" of going to the moon or praying for a safe journey.

This was my first airplane ride and I enjoyed it very much since I had a window seat and could see the fields, canyons and mountains I was flying over.

A cousin, by marriage, Paul O'Bannon, met us at the San Francisco airport and took us eastward to Aunt Nellie's home. California was in the middle of a drought and I was not impressed at all by the countryside.

By the time of our visit, the ranch home had been remodeled and a lot next door had been donated to what became the location of the beautiful Thurman Casey Memorial Library. It was a relatively new building at the time of our visit. Prominently displayed in a glass case were my books, "The Mockingbird Piano," "Wide Meadows" and "The Crosses at Zarin" with the notation that they had been written by Thurman Casey's niece. I was royally treated.

One day during our two-week visit, Cousin Paul came to take us to see the sights of San Francisco. We ate at Fisherman's Wharf, went down the crooked Lombardo Street, toured China Town, saw, but didn't ride, the trolley cars. I walked almost half-way across the Golden Gate Bridge. Would have gone farther, but it was a chilly, misty day. At the Japanese Gardens, we, surprisingly, saw my friends from Cape Girardeau, Dr. and Mrs. Raymond Ritter.

We returned to Walnut Creek by a different route as Paul wanted to show us as much of the country as he could. I saw houses built on what looked like little shelves high up on steep mountains and wondered why anyone would want to live up there. I wondered more some years later when the horrible California fires came, the terrible mud slides and the inevitable earthquakes. I supposed Californians wondered why we Missourians would want to live in Tornado Alley as the Mississippi Valley is known.

Aunt Nellie had orange trees in her yard and each morning I could go out and pick myself a fresh orange for breakfast. She also had a beautiful long-haired dog named Red. She loved and doted on that dog. In her letters to us she was always writing about Red and sending pictures of him. While visiting, she would let me take him on early morning walks around a couple of blocks. Once, oh trembling heart, he somehow slipped his leash and was headed for a busy highway. I cringed, prayed, grew faint, called softly, walked slowly, but he managed to keep two steps ahead of me. After excruciating eons it seemed, he stopped long enough to sniff at some likely looking molehills. I lunged forward and got a good strong body hold on that dog. I never took Red for another walk, complaining of one thing or another -- heat, headache, whatever I could think of.

There was a huge live oak tree just outside Aunt Nellie's kitchen door. One afternoon, sitting beneath it, the hot winds (must have been Santa Anna winds) in my face, I thought for a moment I was re-experiencing that touch of depression I had had in Mobile. What was it, I wondered? Some provincial Missourian who couldn't stand other atmospheres?

Aunt Nellie had been good to us, but I was so glad to get on that TWA jet and head for St. Louis.

We had to fly above the clouds coming back home and circle up through Iowa and down. Stephen met us at the airport. He wanted to know if I wanted to stay in St. Louis overnight. "No, let's go home," I said without hesitation.

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.