Recently, while on a research trip, I inadvertently uncovered some bad news. As you might expect, the years have treated the people connected to One Summer in very different ways. Some of those stories I can verify. Others I cannot.
While writing One Summer, I have made a conscious effort to celebrate what ShastaFest 77 was and what that summer meant to me. But during my recent visit to the college, I was confronted with something I simply can’t ignore.
ShastaFest ended after 1977. Summer theatre eventually returned in one form or another, but never with the same strength or vibrancy.
There are different explanations for what happened. Some point to funding. Some point to politics. Others simply believe that, somewhere along the way, the arts stopped being treated as essential.
Whatever the reason, I found myself mourning something.
Shasta College once had a thriving presence in theatre and the arts. Despite size and location, it had ambition. It mounted productions. It brought in performers. It created opportunities for people like me. Today, that presence feels greatly diminished.
During my visit, I learned their fall production had been canceled, everyone still clinging onto that a musical could still be mounted in the spring.
That is hard to hear. Theatre and the arts do more than entertain us. They teach creativity, empathy, discipline, collaboration, and the ability to understand lives different from our own.Take those things away and something disappears with them.
And this is not just a Shasta College problem.
You can see versions of this same secnario everywhere.
Programs shrink. Budgets disappear. Stages go dark. Arts education becomes the first thing considered expendable and the last thing restored.
Maybe that is why this hit me so hard. I went back to Redding looking for the remains of one summer in 1977. What I found was evidence of something larger.
A place that once gave young artists room to become something has less room for them now. That deserves to be mourned. More importantly, it deserves to be changed.
Support the arts, people.
All of them. At every level. Now more than ever, we need them.

You can tell Halloween is approaching by the Christmas decorations at your local Costco. Nobody says the holidays quite like Costco. And if you’re in the mood for spooky tales with a sense of humor, might I suggest Tales from the Chair, now available on Amazon. Just for the record, the book is not available at Costco.

I’m heading to Redding next Monday for a brief research trip. I’ll be visiting the college, the local newspaper, The Record Searchlight, the historical society, and the library. I may even hit a Costco if I suddenly get the urge to celebrate the Nativity three months early.

I’m looking forward to meeting some of the people I’ve been corresponding with lately. It will be nice to finally put faces to all those emails. I’ve also asked someone in the theatre department to give me a tour. I’ll be sure to let you know if I start sobbing uncontrollably.

“Is he okay?” someone asks the theatre major, showing me around.
“He’s okay. He used to be an actor.”

Researching One Summer has been incredibly difficult.
Nearly fifty years have passed, and surprisingly few historical documents seem to have survived those five decades.
And then there are the people. Some can be found. Some want to talk. Some don’t. Some memories survive. Others remain private.

There are also parts of One Summer that have simply been lost to memory. For example, exactly how many people were in the company? My memory has always been around twenty, including technical personnel. Michael remembers approximately ten actors. No offense to either of us, but I think we may both be right.
There were probably no more than ten professional actors hired for the season, but when you add technicians and the other people required to keep a summer repertory company running, the overall number gets considerably larger.

That’s exactly why this trip to Redding matters.

Memory can get you only so far. At some point, you need programs, newspapers, financial records, photographs, names on a piece of paper, or anything else that can help separate what actually happened from what fifty years of remembering has done to it.
​
Hopefully, we’ll uncover some of that next week. And if not? There’s always Christmas shopping at Costco.

Work continues on One Summer: A Memoir of Theatre, Love and 1977.
And somewhere along the way, this image of a summer night, a lake and the evidence that somebody had been there became one of my favorite visual representations of the book.
So I thought I’d share it.
This week, I’m offering two free One Summer wallpapers—one for your iPhone and one for your computer.
No mailing list. No secret handshake. No purchase necessary. And, despite what you may have heard, absolutely no free calendar.
Just click the version you want above and download it.
And if One Summer happens to end up on your phone or computer screen, I’d love to know about it. Take a picture and send it along.
In the meantime, work continues.
J.P.

“Vacation, all I ever needed. Vacation, had to get away. Vacations weren’t meant to be spent alone.” — Kathy Valentine
I am writing this in the backseat of a rented Hyundai Tucson, speeding north on 101. Hey, at least I can attribute any typos or misspellings to shoddy highway work by CALTRANS.
Our first night was in Ventura at the BedBug—eh, I mean Clocktower Inn—conveniently located next to LSD Flashback Park. After one night, followed by scalding ourselves and all of our belongings in boiling water, we hit the road again, this time headed for Palm Springs and the quaint bungalows of the Holiday House and the hospitality of their food and beverage manager, Juan.
For the record, this was my first time in Palm Springs, and I am happy to report that I am now a huge fan of everything about the place. My only grievance—and it is a very small one—is that the events depicted in the motion picture Alpha Dog did not actually take place in Palm Springs, but in Santa Barbara.
Sorry, Johnny Hollywood, or whatever your name is. I prefer Palm Springs.
But, alas, all good things must come to an end, and from there we ventured to Mountain Shadows Resort in Paradise Valley, on the outskirts of Phoenix, Arizona.
It is often said of Arizona heat, much like hell itself, that it is, in fact, a dry heat.
Well, not this time.
We arrived at the resort only minutes after a rainstorm, and streets were flooded all over Scottsdale. So we were even treated to our own version of the River Styx. Much to the devil’s displeasure, we did not attempt to drive through it in our rental.
Phoenix was marvelous. We visited haunts of our youth, as well as the Indian School Museum. For the record, the entire wing devoted to the forced assimilation and education of Native children is horrifying—but necessary for everyone to see.
From there, it was mostly pool time, with various breaks for Indian fry bread—yummy—Mexican pizza—never heard of it before, but now a fan—and then…
We changed plans.
We canceled the leg of the trip devoted to heading up to Santa Fe and instead traveled back to Palm Springs. Summerlands. Marilyn Monroe. The cliffside dwelling of Mr. Bob Hope.
What’s not to love?
Oh, and I did get some One Summer editing and writing done as well. Just enough to keep me busy, but not enough to deny me my resort privileges at the pool.
What can I say?
A lovely time was had by all.
And now, somewhere on 101, we’re headed home.
Typos courtesy of CALTRANS.

I’ve spent a lot of time lately talking about One Summer. The research. The witnesses. The newspaper archives. The dates. The interviews. The newsletter. The proposal. The endless stack of pages sitting on my desk. But I don’t think I’ve ever really answered the most obvious question. Why this summer? Why, nearly fifty years later, am I still thinking about a few months in Redding, California?
I suppose part of the answer is age. Friends are beginning to disappear. Places that once seemed permanent are gone or changed beyond recognition. Memories I thought would always remain sharp now need help from newspaper clippings, photographs, old programs, and the people who were there.
The past no longer feels safely behind me. It feels closer, more fragile, and more easily lost.And somewhere along the way, the destination that once seemed impossibly far off has started to feel inevitable. Not imminent. Just inevitable.
That changes the way you look backward. When time begins to feel finite, memory takes on a different weight. You start asking not only what happened, but what endured. Which people shaped you. Which moments still have the power to explain the person you became. Which parts of your life would vanish completely if you didn’t make the effort to remember them now.
For me, one of those moments was the summer of 1977.
I was twenty-three years old. I left home for what I thought was a summer theater job. That’s all. A few months of rehearsals, performances, new people, new places, and whatever adventures happened to come along. I had no idea I was walking into one of the defining experiences of my life.
There were opening nights and bad decisions. Friendships. Love affairs. Heat. Drugs. Laughter. Heartbreak. Long rehearsals. Short nights. And the strange confidence that comes with being young enough to believe that absolutely anything is still possible. At the time, none of it felt historic. It was just life.
But now, with so much of life behind me, I can see what I couldn’t see then: that ordinary days can become the landmarks by which an entire life is measured. The summer mattered not because we understood its importance, but because it contained so much of what would later become precious—people who would shape me, choices that would follow me, and a version of myself I would spend decades trying to understand.
That may be the strangest part of getting older. You don’t always recognize the important moments when you’re living them.
Sometimes it takes decades. Sometimes it takes loss. Sometimes it takes the realization that the people and places you assumed would always be there are no longer available to you except through memory.
Don’t get me wrong. I still love writing about fantastic adventures and unlikely heroes. Always will. But somewhere along the way, I began to realize that I may have been one too.
Not the kind who saves the world. Just someone who left home, took chances, made mistakes, fell in love, got hurt, kept going, and somehow accumulated an adventure of his own.
Maybe that is why I’m writing One Summer now.
Not because I want to go back. I know I can’t. The people have changed. I’ve changed. Some are gone. Some would rather leave that summer exactly where it belongs.
And that’s okay. This book isn’t about trying to recreate 1977.
It’s about understanding why those few months stayed with me when so much else faded—and why, as more of the world I knew disappears, that summer has become one of the places where I can still find the people and the person I once was.
It’s about the people who crossed my path. The person I was then. And the person who somehow made it from there to here.
Maybe every life contains one summer like that. One place. One group of people. One brief intersection of time and circumstance that disappears almost as soon as it happens, but somehow remains with you forever.
Mine was 1977.
And after almost fifty years, I think I’m finally beginning to understand why.

First, a question. Do you have any idea how many books have already been published with the title One Summer? Well, in 2011 alone, there were five. And that includes the bestseller by David Baldacci. I’m not sure how well the others did, but I’m guessing David did just fine.
Now, of course, the first instinct is to retreat and run for the hills. But you have to admit, One Summer is a great title. So great, in fact, that I think HE should be the one to find another one. After firing off a cease and desist written by my AI lawyer, I began to have second thoughts.If David was going to ignore a perfectly worded, awkwardly phrased legal document, then perhaps I should simply change my own title.
And then I had an epiphany.
So, without further ado, the new title of my memoir, formerly known as One Summer...
Drumroll, please.
One Summer: A Memoir of Theatre, Love and the Summer of 1977.
Nice, eh? I think it says it all rather nicely. So take that, David. I must have spent minutes worrying over that.
Now for the really big news.
You are now looking at the publisher, editor, and chief bottle washer of THE CALLBOARD, a monthly newsletter devoted to all things One Summer: A Memoir of Theatre, Love and the Summer of 1977. Notice how I worked the new title in again? Repetition is crucial in marketing.
Now, before you ask, “Hey, J.P., what makes this different from your website, which also seems to be increasingly devoted to all things One Summer: A Memoir of Theatre, Love and the Summer of 1977?”
Well, I’m glad you asked. There are several differences. First, THE CALLBOARD comes only once a month.
Second, subscribers will get material that won’t necessarily appear on the website: behind-the-scenes updates, research discoveries, photographs, stories about life in the theatre, and perhaps more information than anyone ever asked for about what it was really like to wait tables.
And by signing up, you would be helping me enormously. Publishers like to see that a book already has readers waiting for it. By subscribing to THE CALLBOARD, you’re helping demonstrate that One Summer: A Memoir of Theatre, Love and the Summer of 1977 already has something every book needs.
If you’re a fan of One Summer: A Memoir of Theatre, Love and the Summer of 1977, my books, my screenplays, my comedy, or even this slightly disreputable website, please sign up for THE CALLBOARD.
An audience. And that, my friends, is a very big deal in marketing
And then do me one more favor. Pass it along. Not just to your theatre friends. Send it to anyone who loves a good story, anyone who remembers the summer of 1977, anyone who has ever fallen in love, and anyone who believes one summer can stay with you for the rest of your life.
My goal is 1,000 subscribers by the new year.
That’s ambitious. But I think we can do it. So sign up. Tell a friend. Tell two. Let’s see just how big this little callboard can get.
And now for the last bit of news.
I’ll be gone for the next couple of weeks. If you must know, it’s a well-deserved vacation. Stops in Palm Springs, Phoenix, and Sante Fe. No, it’s not work related. Although I am bringing my enormous notebook with me. Not to work, mind you. Mostly so the other tourists know I do something besides eat.
So, followers of jplinde.com, while I’m away... Get busy. Sign up for THE CALLBOARD.
Tell your friends. Tell their friends. And by the time I get back, I expect that little subscriber counter to have moved. After all, repetition is everything is marketing. 

Afraid so.
Hello John,
I have reached out to everyone I can think of, including Marketing, and we just don’t have anything that far back. Perhaps the local newspaper might.
I’m sorry I couldn’t assist you.
Cheers,
Stacey Bartlett
Dean of Arts, Communication, Social Sciences, and World Languages
Shasta College​

Back to the old drawing board.
It seems fifty years is a long time, even for the hallowed halls of Shasta College. So, what do we do next? The good news is that we now have a nearly complete calendar of the entire repertory season.
Nearly. There is still one night open. And it’s a Friday. So, dollars to doughnuts, something was going on in the theatre that night.
But the important thing is that it is the last open date on the schedule.
As for other dates, times, and events, we’re trying a number of different ways to get the verification we need. We talked about the first one last week: microfiche.
We’ve also sent queries to members of the Shasta College Board requesting information about any surviving financial records that might tell us exactly who was paid and when. Hopefully, those records could also provide additional names of company members, where they came from, and perhaps a few other details we haven’t yet uncovered.
We’ve also reached out to another Craig Thompson at Shasta College. If you read the prologue, and if not, why? Craig Thompson was Dean of Students at Shasta in 1977 and served as Executive Producer of the festival. Knowing full well that the Craig Thompson we contacted is not THE Craig Thompson, we asked whether he might possibly be related to him and, if so, whether he could point us toward any information that might still exist.
Hey, at this point you follow every lead.
Last but not least, we’ve reached out to the Shasta Historical Society to see if they might be able to help.
It’s a long shot. But we’re not giving up that easily. After all, we have a book to write. And let’s face it, it has been fifty years. Half a century.
I really had no idea that finding documentation to back all of this up would be this difficult. But I can also honestly say it has been incredibly rewarding.
And now for some genuinely good news about our witnesses. We have all three Shasta Festival veterans lined up. One, you already know and have read about.
The other two? Let’s just say that both are featured prominently in my written account of the festival. You already know about Michael and his roommate Tahoe, but I’m keeping the identities of the other two under my hat until the interviews are firmly scheduled.
Hopefully, adding two more voices to the mix will confirm some of my memories, challenge others, and perhaps uncover a few things I’ve forgotten entirely. Along with the trip to Redding, I hope to schedule those interviews for early October.
And, because apparently this project still has a few surprises left in it, there was one more development this week—one I’m particularly excited about. I’m not quite ready to talk about it yet. Let’s just say someone who has known me—and my work—for a very long time may have a small but important role to play when One Summer finally reaches the finish line. More on that when the time is right.
And finally, there’s the book itself.
I now have a working draft of roughly two-thirds of One Summer, covering my memories of that summer. It has been printed out and is sitting here waiting for the next stage. Once the interviews are completed, the research is gathered, and whatever surprises Redding has waiting for me are uncovered, I’ll sit down and begin assembling the final draft.
As for publishing, we are continuing to reach out to literary agents who specialize in memoir, as well as publishers who may be a good fit for the book.
So that’s where we are. The memories are written. The witnesses are assembling. The records are hiding.
Release the hounds!

​I never thought I would make a great researcher. In point of fact, I occasionally need to turn to my daughter for pointers. She once chased down a lead from San Francisco all the way to Coos Bay, Oregon.
But I do have to admit that working on this project has been fun. There are a lot of official dates, openings, performances, and other details that need to be verified. Once that work is completed, those facts can be folded into the final edits.
Currently, I’m verifying information through Redding’s hometown newspaper, The Record Searchlight. The dates you see above are dates confirmed by articles the paper has provided me.But to be accurate, I still need to dig deeper.
It turns out I have never been microfiching before. Ah, the glow of the reflected light as you scroll through day after day of old news stories. It does give you a remarkable reminder of what was happening in the country, and in the county, during that particular span of time.
And, like real fishing, sometimes you have to throw a lead back because it’s just too small.
All part of the sport.
Very relaxing, microfiching. It’s like real fishing, except you do it in the dark, you’re all alone in a library, and the guy next to you is breathing heavily as he scrolls through old copies of Playboy magazine.
Some dates are going to have to be verified by more than one source. One thing I’ve learned from the people I’ve talked to already is that none of us are perfect. Not one of us remembers every relevant date from nearly fifty years ago.
Memory is funny that way. But I do promise you this.
When One Summer is finally published, every date mentioned in its pages will have been verified by at least three witnesses, two historians, a lawyer, a judge, a jury, a notary public, the surviving members of the Warren Commission, and several hundred people living within a 100-mile radius of Redding.
And if that still isn’t good enough for you, I really don’t know what will be.

Thanks for coming back. I’m afraid we’re now at the grueling part of the memoir, wending our way toward the finish line. Once this draft is completed, I’ll turn seriously to the interviews with other participants.
Currently, I’m polishing Chapter 20, appropriately titled “Shenanigans,” which concerns what happens when a company of actors suddenly has too much free time. Lately, I wouldn’t know much about that. The closer I get to the end of this volume, the less time I seem to have to get into trouble.
I don’t know. Maybe that’s a good thing.
Oh, another vital part of the book that is still unfolding is the actual festival schedule. What played, when it played, and at what time.
Thanks to some due diligence yesterday, we’re now about halfway through reconstructing the dates and showtimes for all three plays. Now, this may not sound like a big deal, but keep in mind, nearly fifty years have passed. Pinpointing those dates and times helps establish the who, what, where, and why of the memoir.
What surprised me is how difficult it has been to reconstruct something as basic as the festival schedule. You would think dates and showtimes would be the easy part.
They aren’t. Programs disappear. Newspaper archives are incomplete. Memory starts playing tricks. One person remembers Hair on a Friday, another swears it was Saturday. So every date I can verify becomes another little stake in the ground.
I’m still actively recruiting interviews for the final section of the book and will let you know how that all turns out. I’m also hoping to head up to Redding in the very near future to see whether the Shasta College archive team has uncovered anything interesting.
One recently rediscovered bit of trivia is that comedian David Steinberg performed during the summer festival as a special guest artist. Back in the sixties and seventies, Steinberg was a frequent guest on The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour and later had a television show of his own. His comic persona often involved mock lectures delivered with a dry, slightly Groucho Marx kind of flair.
I have no idea how much money his appearance raised, but it was nice to discover that our little summer festival had at least one genuine celebrity attached to it.
That’s where things stand for now.
Still writing. Still digging. And, apparently, still finding surprises.

What I did not expect was meeting a new friend, protector, and bedmate.
For the life of me, I did not think the two of us would grow so close in such a brief time. Michael, I expected to bond at once. His dog Tahoe turned out to be a very unexpected benefit.
To say Tahoe is a happy dog is putting it mildly. He is handsome, playful, athletic, and very affectionate. I may just have to come back down soon to interview him.
Upon arriving, Michael and I chatted until the wee hours of the night, just laying the groundwork for our interview that would take place on Wednesday. As the two humans bonded, Tahoe was always there, sitting beside me, resting his head in my lap, and reminding me that he was there as well. And that he was available for an interview anytime.
It was after Michael and I said goodnight that Tahoe really got serious about bonding.
The room was dark. I was settling into a very comfortable bed when—umph!—a large presence made itself known by leaping onto the bed. This uninvited friend wasted no time beginning his canine seduction. The licking of my bare feet quickly settled into spooning as Michael’s dog curled up against his new best friend.
The evening was not entirely peaceful. There was a canine dream during which Tahoe apparently decided to use my back as a treadmill in pursuit of whatever the squirrel that had been tormenting him. I am sure he left a couple of marks, which I will have to explain to my wife later.
Despite the spooning, he was the perfect gentleman, and after the third night, when he decided to sleep on the floor next to the bed, left me a little disappointed. Oh, well.
Sensing that I was feeling a bit abandoned, during the last hour of the last day of my stay he jumped into bed and reminded me, ever so cruelly, of what I would be missing after I was gone.
As I sit in the airport writing this, I am already missing my new friend and protector. Goodbye, Tahoe. Until we meet again.