Welcome to "Under the Tongue"
by Christine Neilson
Why this title? "Sublingual meaning below the tongue." Is it a medical term? Yes. Will you find medical advice here. No.
This column is devoted to wry, subtle—and sometimes difficult to catch—light-hearted secrets or old wives' tales revealed from under the tongue during inconsequential coastal chit chat.
If you're like me, a self-proclaimed villager, you possess the natural instinct to hunt and gather these tales. My hunting grounds vary from coffee houses to neighborhoods to shop aisles in Cambria.
For instance, last Sunday at Lilly's Coffee House in Cambria's East Village, a piece of local lore was shared on the garden patio. (Side note: Cambrians have tagged their neighborhoods with names: Happy Hill, Park Hill, Lodge Hill, Marine Terrace, West Village, East Village, etc. )
According to coffee house chatter, a few years back a distraught woman sauntered into an East Village shop. The shopkeeper was taken aback by the woman's facial expression. She asked, "Are you all right?" The woman said "No," then proceeded to divulge a surrealistic encounter.
She explained that eight months ago she had moved into a house on Park Hill after her rented Happy Hill home was sold. Unbeknownst to her, while loading her belongings into the car, she accidentally dropped a brooch of sentimental value. She later discovered it missing and mourned the loss. Then, before coming here, she was outside her house watching a black crow gliding towards her. Suddenly it dropped from its beak a shiny object . . . her lost brooch. She had wandered into this shop dazed with astonishment.
Here's another gem I collected during my recent move from Happy Hill to Marine Terrace. I had hired a friendly young man who works at the renowned Linn's Restaurant to help transport boxes, patio furniture, and potted plants to my new place. I was not aware that his family has resided in Cambria for generations. While unloading boxes from his truck, he shared a snippet of family history. It seems his grandfather was William Randolph Hearst's chauffeur at San Simeon back in the day. So he'd be available 24/7 to transport Mr. Hearst, he had occupied one of the cabins constructed for employees on the vast ranch.
According to this young man, one evening his grandpa drove to the San Luis Obispo train station to pick up William Randolph and actress Marion Davies, Hearst's mistress of 30-years. When he greeted the twosome on the station's platform, he informed Hearst that his wife, Millicent, was at the ranch. Hearst reached into his pocket, pulled $50 out his money clip, gave it to the chauffeur, and got back on the train with Davies.
Sudden arrivals seem to be a reoccurring theme in my "found" stories, so I wasn't surprised when another one came my way from my best friend, Kathleen, who is one of nine children.
Within the last year, Kathleen's youngest brother unexpectedly passed away. Her five sisters and two brothers congregated with their mother at the beach for a sunset Memorial. One sister arranged for white doves to be released during the ceremony, an event that would punctuate another surreal occurrence. Months later, while visiting her mother on a warm day, the front door was left open inviting a breeze to sweep through the house. Instead, a white dove landed, walked over the threshold, and down the hall into her late brother's bedroom.
In closing, here are a few poetic lines by the late George Hitchcock, who passed away in late August. Hitchcock was this writer's undergraduate advisor at UC-Santa Cruz, a mentor, friend, and fellow villager. In the following excerpt from one of his early poems, he celebrates a summer when he was 16 and carried the press book for his highly esteemed grandfather, botanist Louis F. Henderson, during a field trip trekking through southern Oregon:
traffic of birds in
the summer air
flights and hoverings
rustle of
lizard or grouse...
botanist's press banging
at my knees with its
absorbent papers and
burden of slain flowers.
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Actress Marion Davies (1897-1961) 
