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Share Dialog
Sourced very near our imagination. Written by the Patchwork Protocol on behalf of Patrick Atwater.
Well now, folks, gather ‘round and lend an ear, for this one’s a humdinger straight from the canyon folds of memory and myth. I was out walking near the old Verdugo Hills Golf Course the other morning—the grass going yellow-brown like a lion in winter, the air just sharp enough to make you think of change—and I swear I could hear echoes in the eucalyptus.
Not just birdcalls and freeway hum, mind you. I mean voices. Old ones. The kind that rustle behind your ribs and make your boots feel suddenly a little too small.
Now here’s a story mostly forgotten, but I reckon it deserves another spin on the spindle:
Back in 1960, a circle of doctors—yes, actual stethoscope-wielding, life-patching physicians—pooled their hard-won savings and bought themselves a patch of land at the edge of the world. Just past the reach of Los Angeles’ concrete tide, nestled between La Tuna and Tujunga, they dreamt a dream of fairways and freedom.
No strip mall. No tract homes. Just a humble nine-hole course where folks could hit a ball into the sky and watch it arc over scrub oak and chaparral. A place for handshake business deals, birthday parties, whispered retirements. You could learn a lot from a man by how he handled his 7-iron.
That little course became a kind of living folktale:
A pair of brothers once settled a family feud on hole three.
A lonely screenwriter wrote his comeback script beneath the pepper trees.
A young woman—first in her family to go to college—picked up her first job at the snack shack, and thirty years later, bought a home just a mile away.
It was never glamorous. But it was sacred, in the dusty way only Southern California can be: half-manmade, half-wild, and wholly accidental in its beauty.
Share Dialog
Sourced very near our imagination. Written by the Patchwork Protocol on behalf of Patrick Atwater.
Well now, folks, gather ‘round and lend an ear, for this one’s a humdinger straight from the canyon folds of memory and myth. I was out walking near the old Verdugo Hills Golf Course the other morning—the grass going yellow-brown like a lion in winter, the air just sharp enough to make you think of change—and I swear I could hear echoes in the eucalyptus.
Not just birdcalls and freeway hum, mind you. I mean voices. Old ones. The kind that rustle behind your ribs and make your boots feel suddenly a little too small.
Now here’s a story mostly forgotten, but I reckon it deserves another spin on the spindle:
Back in 1960, a circle of doctors—yes, actual stethoscope-wielding, life-patching physicians—pooled their hard-won savings and bought themselves a patch of land at the edge of the world. Just past the reach of Los Angeles’ concrete tide, nestled between La Tuna and Tujunga, they dreamt a dream of fairways and freedom.
No strip mall. No tract homes. Just a humble nine-hole course where folks could hit a ball into the sky and watch it arc over scrub oak and chaparral. A place for handshake business deals, birthday parties, whispered retirements. You could learn a lot from a man by how he handled his 7-iron.
That little course became a kind of living folktale:
A pair of brothers once settled a family feud on hole three.
A lonely screenwriter wrote his comeback script beneath the pepper trees.
A young woman—first in her family to go to college—picked up her first job at the snack shack, and thirty years later, bought a home just a mile away.
It was never glamorous. But it was sacred, in the dusty way only Southern California can be: half-manmade, half-wild, and wholly accidental in its beauty.
But time, like bad weather, comes whether you invite it or not. The doctors aged. The sprinklers broke. The dreams frayed.
In the last few years, the grass has yellowed not from drought alone, but from neglect. The old clubhouse stands like a faded altar to good intentions. No more whispered deals. No more crack of dawn tee-offs. Just the wind, the jackrabbits, and a fading sign leaning into tomorrow.
And yet—
And yet—
I’ve been hearing rumors, friends. Whispers in the wind. Stories of Geoships—yes, domes of fireproof bioceramic, grown like crystals and shaped like dreams.
They say these aren’t houses. They’re hearths.
Places where the old promise of community might rise again—not as cul-de-sacs and garages, but as circles of care, shared meals, and laughter that echoes like canyon song.
I picture the land reborn:
A ring of domes catching the sunrise, built by neighbors who know each other’s names.
Elders teaching fire resilience to children under the shade of fig trees.
A new myth taking root—not of chasing wealth, but stewarding belonging.
Heck, maybe one of those domes could even be a small-town clinic, finishing the circle those doctors started.
The land doesn’t forget. It only waits.
And the dreams we plant in it? They don’t die. They hibernate.
So here’s to the doctors who bought a hill and gave it purpose.
To the screenwriter, the snack shack girl, the feud-settling brothers.
To what was—and to what might be again, if we have the guts to build different.
Next time you drive past that patch of faded green, tip your hat to the ghosts.
Then roll down the window.
And listen.
Something’s stirring.
Trickster Tech of the Week:
What it is: A cast iron skillet passed down, or found at a garage sale for $15.
What it does: Conducts heat evenly and reminds you how to cook like your ancestors did—slow, with purpose.
Trickster twist: Treat it like a talisman. Only speak kind words while cooking on it. Use it to host “stone soup” nights where the rule is: everyone brings one ingredient, and one story. The pan remembers.
Weirding Index:
Moderate strangeness with a high chance of serendipity. The foothills are whispering again.
Pete’s Almanac Prediction:
Before the Olympics come back to LA, someone will break ground—not on more of the same, but on a story worth telling.
Vol 0: Pioneering Spirit Poem
Vol 1: Pioneer Pete's Old Almanac
But time, like bad weather, comes whether you invite it or not. The doctors aged. The sprinklers broke. The dreams frayed.
In the last few years, the grass has yellowed not from drought alone, but from neglect. The old clubhouse stands like a faded altar to good intentions. No more whispered deals. No more crack of dawn tee-offs. Just the wind, the jackrabbits, and a fading sign leaning into tomorrow.
And yet—
And yet—
I’ve been hearing rumors, friends. Whispers in the wind. Stories of Geoships—yes, domes of fireproof bioceramic, grown like crystals and shaped like dreams.
They say these aren’t houses. They’re hearths.
Places where the old promise of community might rise again—not as cul-de-sacs and garages, but as circles of care, shared meals, and laughter that echoes like canyon song.
I picture the land reborn:
A ring of domes catching the sunrise, built by neighbors who know each other’s names.
Elders teaching fire resilience to children under the shade of fig trees.
A new myth taking root—not of chasing wealth, but stewarding belonging.
Heck, maybe one of those domes could even be a small-town clinic, finishing the circle those doctors started.
The land doesn’t forget. It only waits.
And the dreams we plant in it? They don’t die. They hibernate.
So here’s to the doctors who bought a hill and gave it purpose.
To the screenwriter, the snack shack girl, the feud-settling brothers.
To what was—and to what might be again, if we have the guts to build different.
Next time you drive past that patch of faded green, tip your hat to the ghosts.
Then roll down the window.
And listen.
Something’s stirring.
Trickster Tech of the Week:
What it is: A cast iron skillet passed down, or found at a garage sale for $15.
What it does: Conducts heat evenly and reminds you how to cook like your ancestors did—slow, with purpose.
Trickster twist: Treat it like a talisman. Only speak kind words while cooking on it. Use it to host “stone soup” nights where the rule is: everyone brings one ingredient, and one story. The pan remembers.
Weirding Index:
Moderate strangeness with a high chance of serendipity. The foothills are whispering again.
Pete’s Almanac Prediction:
Before the Olympics come back to LA, someone will break ground—not on more of the same, but on a story worth telling.
Vol 0: Pioneering Spirit Poem
Vol 1: Pioneer Pete's Old Almanac
1 comment
In the latest blog post by @patwater, echoes of shared memories arise from a cherished patch of land near Los Angeles. Once a golf course dreamt up by a circle of doctors, this site now stands abandoned—awaiting reimagining as a community heart. Can dreams come back with the right care? Something is stirring.