Marilyn Monroe
Lucy was my voluptuous blonde girlfriend in the 1990s. She appeared and spoke so breathlessly like Marilyn Monroe, I once had to sneak a peek at her driver’s license to dispell my suspicion that maybe Ms. Monroe did not die in Hollywood.
Fascinated by California Gold Rush history, Lucy had us join a State Parks tour near Placerville, formerly named “Hangtown.”
The guide was slowly relating a story of a famous Oak tree in Greenwood Valley, near Auburn, where many scoundrels’ lives ended to community approval.
He described one particular rascal, a mining claim jumper, who was caught and brought to justice.
Our Guide told of the Oak where a makeshift gallows was erected. Too eagerly, Lucy blurted out “Was he hung?”
To which the guide stopped, slowly turned towards Lucy and sagely replied “I can’t say ma’am. But he was hanged.”
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