This week-- because my house was full of people and I wanted quiet--I wrote in a notebook while parked in the middle of an orange grove. As I did all I could hear from the open windows were mockingbirds. I have been writing about this place for more than twenty years. It’s not Los Angeles, it’s not San Diego, it’s Riverside, inland southern California, land of tumbleweeds and citrus and people who I always knew had fascinating lives though I’d never read about them.
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