How places connect (and reconnect) us.

After a particularly contentious custody battle in the 1970s, my mother reluctantly loaded me onto an Amtrak train bound for Monterey — and my father. When I arrived — a mere 350 miles north of our home in Los Angeles — it was as though my eight-year old self had stepped onto another planet. My father was clearly participating in every activity that might come to mind from the time period, none of which particularly lended itself to hands-on parenting. Therefore, I was mostly free to come and go as I pleased. And while I’d lived a typical free-range 70’s childhood prior, my time in Monterey took it to a new level.

Soon after we’d arrived at his house in Pacific Grove, Dad pointed out the change jar on his dresser; I was welcome to help myself to it as needed. This jar was an enormous vessel, filled to the brim with quarters and possibility — a glass tower that would ultimately bankroll one of the most unique summers of my life. As a successful road manager for musical groups like Tony Orlando and Dawn and the Fifth Dimension, Dad was often working, so I’d wake up whenever, grab a bowl of granola and hit the change jar, furiously stuffing my Jordache jean pockets with as many coins as I could. Then I’d head out into the brisk, foggy morning air and onto one of the most beautiful shorelines in the world. A purple magic carpet of ice plant unfurled itself from Dad’s front door all…