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I Ain't No Trailer Trash!

When my boyfriend and I were grad students in southern California, we lived in a dinky trailer built in 1955. Our monthly pad space was a whopping $250 a month. My father, who insured mobile home parks in northern California, thought we were paying an exorbitant amount, as one could get a nice space outside of Sacramento for $50. Obviously at my age I didn't listen to my father. Well, sometimes.

I was enthralled living in this glorious place. The trailer park sat on a bluff overlooking one of the most scenic beaches in southern California. And the beach was private! Set aside for us residents. I can't begin to describe the sunny days, cooled by the pleasant breeze wafting off the ocean. The waves would crash upon a wall of rocks, spraying a gentle mist which sealed the beach's beauty.

The trailer park was always in jeopardy of being torn down to make way for high rise condos. Some people mysteriously burned down their trailers to collect on insurance before the bulldozers came in. These burnings play into my book, Sins of the Border. I call my beloved former residence a trailer park as opposed to the more politically correct term mobile home park because most of the homes were so small they couldn't be classified as a mobile home. Definitely no triple wides in Treasure Island.

Flash forward many years....Treasure Island, which truly was a treasure, is now the Montage Resort. A night's stay costs over $700-and that's not even a suite! As I was covering Media Night for Laguna Beach's iconic Pageant of the Masters (That will be a different post.), I took two of my gal pals to imbibe in some wine at the Montage. They, like me, were overwhelmed with its beauty. But the most fun was me putting on my small town, semi southern accent just loud enough so the posh guests could somewhat hear. I said, "I used to live here. Some may have called me trailer trash but I ain't no trailer trash no more!" Boy did we get a kick out of the snooty noses glancing our way. All in fun. I don't blame those people. I sounded like I'd just been picked out of the trash.

Why am I mention all this except to reminice? Because there's a prevelant scene in Dispospoable Lives where Maggie Leman seeks refuge at the Montage, only to find it makes her look more guilty.

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