Blasphemy of the worst kind

I■ By Rob Lindquist / Contributed t is hard to imagine what the San Jacinto Valley sounded like once upon a time when it was countrified. Walking home in east Hemet from Little Lake School through the groves and orchards bordering our rural streets and roads 60-odd years ago was pastoral and relatively peaceful. Shoes made noise as we walked. I could hear irrigation gurgling in open roadside flumes, especially when it poured over the weir box gates. Mourning doves cooed, crows called and when the apricot orchards burst into bloom the otherwise quiescent neighborhood roared with the hum of millions of bees rushing to and from their hives. In the

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