As far as I was concerned, it was something that had to be done. There was something of a circus at Neverland Ranch, and I wasn’t there. An historical moment in the making. Who cares if there wasn’t a burial there, or a body? There were fans, there were news crews, and there were entrepreneurs. So we went.
My sister Candy, my husband Ron, and I drove into Los Olivos the morning of July 3, and for the first time we realized this area would’ve been crushed by a public memorial.
Initially, I thought how crazy the county must be to not encourage an event that could possibly bring in lots of money. But as we parked outside the four temporary toilets that make up the public restrooms in Los Olivos, I realized there is no parking, no public facilities, not enough law enforcement. Clean up would be expensive. In short, there would be nowhere to put so many people. Later, I would find out from some of the restaurants and wineries that even they weren’t supportive of a public event in their town.
“We couldn’t handle it,” one manager said. “There aren’t enough rooms, or even food.”
The air was warm and we rolled down the windows trying to grab the wind. It’s no wonder Jackson chose this place to live. Tucked away behind the golden hills of the valley, there was silence, except for the buzz of some flying insects and the flap of birds.
A little closer, though, and you could hear it.
“Water! T-shirts! Gatorade!” Roadside vendors hawked their wares before you could even catch a glimpse of the ranch. Vendors selling shirts made hand-over-fist money as people clamored to get a memorial souvenir.
Was it silly, visiting the former home of a celebrity who’d just passed away? The three of us must have been thinking the same thing as we looked at each other sheepishly and slowly approached the gates. Then, as we reached the crowd, it didn’t seem so silly. Actually, that would depend on your perspective.
We separated and roamed around the gates as fans camped out and sent messages of love skyward. I watched as a woman stood in front of the Neverland gates and prayed—to Michael, for Michael, I’m not sure.
“Michael, we are here in your presence, we devour your spirit, in this place.”
I swallowed my tongue in respect for the fact that people mourn in different ways.
There were people from all over the world. The praying girl and her friend were from Turkey and Germany. They traveled here specifically to visit Neverland. Camera crews from all over the world were delivering their broadcasts there.
Ron found me in the crowd and pulled me behind one of the broadcasters. It was the ORF station. How can you not make fun of that?
“Let’s stand here and be those random people in the background in a newscast,” he said.
So we stood there, arm in arm, staring at the camera. Then Ron put his hand on my … well, let’s say I hope ORF wasn’t doing a live broadcast.
We found Candy and watched as people took photos in front of the gates, decked in huge wreaths of beautiful white roses. She said she wanted a rose from the wreath. So I plucked one. Through the crowd, I saw two girls headed toward me, arms outstretched. They were yelling: “You can’t do that! You can’t do that! No! No! No!”
It was the prayer girl and her friend. The gravity of what I had done instantly hit me. They reached me and realized what they actually reached was only up to my shoulder. They looked up at me and dropped their hands. In a more hushed tone, they reprimanded me, then turned away. When they began telling others in the crowd what I had done, I took the opportunity to slip away. I handed Candy the flower, grabbed my husband, and headed to the car.
On our way out, the ORF woman glared at me. Her look gave me pause: Was our behavior disrespectful because we weren’t crying or camping out? I walked over and scrawled a message on a memorial wall. We all got a little teary-eyed at various points. There was a lot of emotion being produced on that little road. On the drive back into town, the memories came pouring out.
Candy recalled when our siblings had the opportunity to go to one of Jackson’s Neverland parties.
“They came back, and all I got was some Moonwalker coloring book,” she said.
“I was in Japan when ‘Thriller’ came out,” Ron remembered. “People walked around the street in full Michael Jackson outfits. The Japanese loved Michael Jackson. There was even a nightclub that played the ‘Thriller’ video over and over 24/7.”
The next few minutes were silent as we drove back into town—except for “Thriller” blaring from the car behind us.
Don’t blame Arts Editor Shelly Cone for being a gonzo journalist. Contact her at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jul 9-16, 2009.