The story begins in 1968...
Painted in late 60's southern California, the Stiffroot story is that of rock and roll, depravity, brotherhood, and beer.
Meet The Boys
Al
Pete
Pete
Allen Lucas Edens. It was said if you looked in your Websters under skinny you would find his
photo. Five foot nine at 125 lbs. he was linear. His Mother thought him handsome, some girls
did as well. Beneath dark hair, dark eyes and a dark mustache he has an engaging smile he
used sparingly. A well-developed sense of humor which served him w
Allen Lucas Edens. It was said if you looked in your Websters under skinny you would find his
photo. Five foot nine at 125 lbs. he was linear. His Mother thought him handsome, some girls
did as well. Beneath dark hair, dark eyes and a dark mustache he has an engaging smile he
used sparingly. A well-developed sense of humor which served him well as he longed be an
accomplished surfer, he was not.
He was fiercely loyal to friends and family.
Pete
Pete
Pete
Peter Pederson Van Horne. Pete was assembled on a sturdier frame than I, but not quite as tall. Stretched to his full 5’8”, he stood sucking on a red and white painted can of beer. He stroked his blonde handlebar mustache with the knuckle of the index finger of his left hand and watched me loading a box of rattling kitchen utensils into
Peter Pederson Van Horne. Pete was assembled on a sturdier frame than I, but not quite as tall. Stretched to his full 5’8”, he stood sucking on a red and white painted can of beer. He stroked his blonde handlebar mustache with the knuckle of the index finger of his left hand and watched me loading a box of rattling kitchen utensils into my 1952 Chevy two-door sedan. He showed no more interest in my efforts than a cat watching its own tail. He held his 160 pounds as evenly as the length of cigarette trapped between the first two fingers of his right hand, keeping the beer company.
Brian
Brian
Brian
Jason Brian Falk. He was a dynamo of military precision in every movement. He appeared taller than his 5’7” and more muscular than his 140 pounds betrayed, but upon demand could call up the “Short Man’s” temper he did not own but borrowed from observing hotheads of less stature. He could use it with fearsome effectiveness when warranted
Jason Brian Falk. He was a dynamo of military precision in every movement. He appeared taller than his 5’7” and more muscular than his 140 pounds betrayed, but upon demand could call up the “Short Man’s” temper he did not own but borrowed from observing hotheads of less stature. He could use it with fearsome effectiveness when warranted, and then stored it away with mothballed sweaters for future use. Eyes of an undetermined color—at once icy blue when the Santa Ana winds blew out toward Catalina, then the iron grey of the coastal inversions that clouded June skies. He emigrated sometime early in ’68 and bounced from place to place before settling in with an acquaintance in the suburb of Torrance, with whom he was now in major disagreement over parking arrangements for Baby, his 1960 Corvette
Tom
Brian
Brian
Tom Russell Knutson. Oh, he was well groomed right enough, shirt ironed as flat as Kansas and slacks plank straight, but he had adorned his already sizable feet with huge, hard-shell after-ski boots in cream colored suede, making him appear a fashion-right Lil’ Abner. Oddly, it fit his fun-loving personality and sense of the absurd like
Tom Russell Knutson. Oh, he was well groomed right enough, shirt ironed as flat as Kansas and slacks plank straight, but he had adorned his already sizable feet with huge, hard-shell after-ski boots in cream colored suede, making him appear a fashion-right Lil’ Abner. Oddly, it fit his fun-loving personality and sense of the absurd like leotards on a fat lady. Tom at twenty-three was pencil thin and wiry, with ebony hair losing ground already on his round forehead, heavy black moustache trimmed to the corners of his mouth where it formed little quotation marks contrasting the bluish shadow that started just below his eyes and stretched down into his collar. The closest shave only reduced the color a shade or two, but it allowed him the ability to raise a beard in the time it required others to read the sports page. Proud of his classic profile, resembling the Earps he was a distant relative to, he wore a smile that on thin lips and in dark eyes that said, “I know something you don’t.” He preferred a fun approach to seriousness in all things.
About the Author
R.W. Edwards
R.W. Edwards writes what he knows. His works can be seen across publications ranging from the history of the wild west to his two cents in the local paper. “Stiffroot: Home of Wayward Girls” is his first published work of fiction. R.W. grew up during the bustling boom town days of Phoenix, Arizona. Once he finished high school he set his eyes on southern California, as many young people do. After some character building, the Stiffroot house in Manhattan Beach, is where he landed. While this story may be fiction, the house, and the friendships built in it are very real.
Once the allure of sun and sand wore off, R. W. returned to the Phoenix area where he met his wife, Patty. They currently reside in Prescott, Arizona.