4@ — Sunday, March 1, 1992 — North Shore News

Spooky Palm Springs, that transitional oasis |

A FEW miles outside Palm Springs, my son and I leave
the rented car by the side of the road and head out into

the open desert.

Our preparations are minimal. |
throw a bottle of Evian water in
one of those nylon packs that
clicks around your waist, along
with a can of sardines and a small
loaf of french bread.

Anned with my Swiss Army
knife and the kid’s Nintendo sur-
vival training, we aim ourselves
for a low range of hills somewhere
far head.

Impossible for me to judge
distance here, really. It’s nice that
the Americans still use miles on
their road signs, so that f can un-
derstand how far places are from
each other without having to do
any irritating calculations, but out
here in the desert, there are no
road signs.

There's just about everything
else, though. Obviously we have
not gotten far enough away from
Palm Springs to escape from the
detritus of the impossible little
Golf Course of Eden those crazy
Yanks have created southeast of
Los Angeles.

It was a perfect place to
rendezvous with my wife’s
parents, they being retired
Canucks.

There are a lot of retired
Canucks in that whole area, the
American Southwest.

I was in Palm Springs two days
before I saw an actual kid, other
than my own, And then a small
gang of them appeared, and f
sighed with relief.

There was something slightly
spooky about an entire town in
the desert with nothing but old

. people living in it.

On the other hand, you could
almost argue the case that if
heaven is a white Republican
English-speaking paradise (and,

Bob
Hunter

\

Poe

STRICTLY PERSONAL

hey, anything’s possible, as we all
know!), Palm Springs has got to
be one of the departure lounges or
disembarkment zones.

So we headed out into the des-
ert, where jackrabbits turned out
to be more numerous than kids in
town, but just slightly.

We were watching for snakes,
of course, and had tucked our
pantcuffs into our socks. We each
lied a spare T-shirt over our
heads, adjusted our sunglasses,
and set a good pace for the foot-
hills.

After about an hour, we paused
for refreshment and got to
discussing what we would do if we
were both suddenly struck blind.

The kid figured we'd be able to
guide ourselves back to the high-
way by listening for the sound of
engines.

But no. When we both squeezed

our eyes shut and tried to figure
out a direction based on sound it
was impossible.

Once you started listening, there
were too many sounds coming
from every direction. Somewhere,
a train — very far away but clear-
ly audible.

Ah, a track, but it is changing
direction as we listen, and there
seems to be an echo from the
hills, perhaps.

The wind stirred the sand and
crackled in our eardrums. Our
hearts beat noisily.

We’d never have found our way
back.

There are a lot of spent shotgun
shells scattered around. A lot of
shattered booze bottles. We find
several mattresses and enough of a
chair to sit on.

From the way the sand is stipled
and gouged, we can tell thai
flooding has occurred recentiy.
How could that happen in a des-
ert, the kid wants to know?

I thrill him with a couple of
good flash-flood stories, which
leads to the miracle of how Palm
Springs manages to bloom in this
otherwise gritty and wind-swept
terrain.

E point to the mountains beyond
the man-made oasis. My intention
had been to explain about the
snows melting, but even though
this is February, there is no trace
of snow to be seen on the moun-
tain.

We carry on toward the foot-
hills, our shadows now directly
below us. A few tiny lizards skit-
ter out of sight at our approach.
There is a hawk far overhead,
circling.

Reaching the foothills, we pass
through what seems at first like
low-to-the-ground flowers but
which turns out to be burrs.

We learn the lesson too late.
Our socks are now choked with

small spiked balls that wriggle
their way inte our running shoes,
bringing the two of us to a rather
quick halt.

The kid is introduced to the pa-
tient art of picking burrs out of
your socks. The discussion turns
to how awful life must have been
for desert-dwellers before the in-
vention of Nikes.

We clamber high enough into
the hills to enjoy a tremendous
view, which of course makes the
simple feast of sardines and bread
and by-now slightly warm water
one of the best meals ever experi-
enced by either of us.

But the finest moment is just
about to happen. We climb a little
further and took over into the
next valley, and behold the entire
expanse filled to the horizon with
magnificent high-tech windmills.

I'd read about them, of course.
California now leads the world in
the development of wind and solar
power. But this was the first time
Fd seen them.

It was as though the kid and I
had rounded a corner and found
ourselves looking through a porta!
into the future.

In fact, it was the first thing I'd
seen in a long time that gave me

any hope for the future.

Like so much that is California,
Palm Springs might be some sort
of transitional oasis between real
life and the next world —
sprinklers turned on everywhere,
as though the drought falling
upon the state was somebody
else’s problem — but this field of
gleaming white windmills arranged
row upon row from horizon to
horizon was a genuine stab at
solving tomorrow’s problems, as
opposed to ignoring them and
squandering the remaining
resources.

Palm Springs had left me with a
sour feeling. The desert had been
too much of a junkyard to fall in
love with. But this — this deserv-
ed triumphant music! This was no
wimpy aitempt at alternative
energy. This was industri-
al-strength stuff.

I got to be the one who said:
“There just might be some hope
for the future, son.*”

And he got to be the teenager
who summoned up all his feelings
and said: ‘‘Cool.”’

And we stood there a moment
before heading back.

M. SCOTT PECK M.D.

Saturday, March 14, 1992
9:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m.
Georgia Hotel
$99.00 (includes G.S:T.)
A unique in-person lecture and discussion with the author of the best seller,
“The Road Less Travelled”

Tickets are available at Serenity Shop, 228 Lonsdale Ave, North Vancouver or
33 W. Broadway, Vancouver or by phoning (604) 768-0733

The pleasures of their company.

It is early afternoon, the sun
shines more intensely than is
customary for a late January
day, and the residents of Cedar
Village in Lynn Valley are tak-
ing advantage of the springlike
atmosphere. There’s a gather-
ing in the sun-filled lounge;
strollers aiong a scenic walk-
way are overheard comparing

recent golf excursions to-

Arizona. Indoors, prepara-
tions are being made by two
couples for an evening bridse
tournament.

Cedar Village is North
Vancouver’s most exciting new

neighbourhood for active

adults. Here, new owners — all
55 or over — embody Adlai
Stevenson’s concept that “it is
not the years in your life but
the life in your years that
counts.” The people who have
chosen this compatible com-
munity are active, independent
individuals who place consid-
erable value on friendships and
quality of life.

“I enjoy the age I am,” says
a youthfullooking senior who
has just bought one of the at-
tractive cedar and brick resi-
dences. “T believe that the best

is yet to come. So, although I
enjoy every day, I know from
past experience that I'll proba-
bly enjoy tomorrow even
more.”

Built by The Buron Com-
pany, which has established an
excellent reputation for retire-
ment residences, the suites
offer all the advantages of the
spacious homes that most new
owners have left behind. These
are expansive two bedroom
apartments, with sun-filled de-
signer kitchens, ample storage,
natural gas fireplaces, and full-
sized balconies. Inviting bay
windows add to the exterior el-
egance. Throughout, finishes
are top quality. And all the resi-
dences have been custom de-
signed for discerning seniors,
emphasizing main-level living
and ease of access.

Privileges of membership
in an exclusive community

As private equity resi-
dences, Cedar Village offers a
wealth of community ameri-
ties, comparable to member-
ship in an exclusive club. The
best of both worlds, it com-
bines private condominium
space with shared luxurious fa-
cilities and iush landscaping —
all maintenance-free.

There’s a beautifully fur-
nished main lounge, with a
large-screen television, state-of-
the-art stereo system, plus a bil-
liards, hobby, and gamesroom.
Potluck dinners are a popular
event in the community
kitchen; then, when the weath-
er warms up, cooking moves
outdoors to the patio barbe-
cue. There’s even a library on
the second floor where books
and magazines exchange
hands and generate animated
conversation.

It’s a friendly and support-
ive community equally for cou-
pies and for those on their
owr: people who share values
and diverse social interests. Vet
the commuuity also respects
individual privacy. As one en-

thusiastic resident puts it: “The
beauty is that there’s no intru-
sion. If you want help or to so-.
cialize, it’s there. But if you
want privacy, it’s there too.”
Testimonials flow freely.
One neighbour, joining the dis-
cussion, refers to “the wonder-
ful community spirit that exists
among the people here.”
Another says he has found the
perfect square-dance partner.
Moreover, there’s no con-
cern about security. Many resi-
dents travel, locking the door
in search of adventure, know-
ing that neighbours are keep-
ing an eye on things. And for
daily sorties, the area offers a
wealth of trails, tennis courts,
parks, and recreational facili-
ties, including the Karen Mag- ©
nussen Recreation Centre.
Cedar Village’s delightful
woodland setting is just a short
walk from Lynn Valley Centre
and the library, as well as chur-
ches of many denominations.

Cedar Village, located at
2020 Cedar Village Crescent, is
priced from $140,000, and is
open daily 1-5 p.m. (except
Fridays). For more
information, contact Pamela
Bel! at 980-4134 or 922-2409,

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