By Mary Beth Crain

Since I still do music listings and entertainment writing for the L.A. Weekly, the country's largest weekly arts and entertainment newspaper, I'm still entitled to press tickets to practically anything and everything in Los Angeles-including the Hollywood Bowl.

There's nothing quite like the Bowl. America's most famous outdoor amphitheater holds upwards of 17,000 bodies, has a spectacular view of the Hollywood Hills, and is one of the most fun places to bring the family, have a picnic under the stars, and get your dose of culture-classical or pop-all in one night.

Last Friday, June 22, was Opening Night at the Bowl. If I were back in L.A., I'd have been in a press box seat eight rows from the stage, having wine and a picnic dinner prepared by L.A. celebrity chef Joachim Spichel's trendy Patina Restaurant, and later, as the first stars went on in the dusky night sky, enjoying a celebrity-studded show that featured Placido Domingo, Jason Alexander and Jack Black.

So where was I on June 22? Why, at the Oceana Center Grange #1047, of course.

Instead of a Patina box dinner, I partook of a potluck supper in the basement of the 104 year-old Grange Hall. Instead of Placido, Jason and Jack, five guitars, four fiddles, a hammered dulcimer and a string bass jammed it up on the old wooden platform in the main hall. Instead of the Hollywood Hills, there was the lush country landscape, a summer panorama of dark green trees, soft green fields, rustic old barns, and an occasional deer peeking out of the woods, beautiful and statuesque.

I was not just in another world-I was in another time.

The grange as a concept began, I'm told, after the Civil War, as a vehicle to bring farmers into the mainstream and give them a voice in the legislature. It's always been an agriculturally oriented society, with rituals invoking the Roman goddesses of plenty, and still features a farm report at its monthly meetings. The offices have quaint titles like Master and Gate Keeper, and three women bear the titles of Ceres, the Goddess of growing plants; Pomona, the Goddess of fruit trees and orchards; and Flora, the Goddess of flowers and spring.

The Oceana Grange first met on January 16, 1903. As Ardith Merten, the current "Ceres," wrote for the 1990 edition of Oceana County History,

"The first anniversary of the Grange was celebrated in 1904 by having an oyster supper at the home of Brother Corliss, raising $15.85 for the fund. Bees were held to draw stone for the basement, to lay the foundation, to shingle the hall, to lay the floor...Programs at the Grange meetings contained debates such as: Resolved, that a man can stand poor cooking better than constant scolding; that there is more of the agreeable than disagreeable in farm life; that three cows are more profitable than 100 hens."

Ardith was the big mover at Friday's potluck, scurrying around and getting all the dishes out on the counter, making sure there was plenty of coffee and orangeade, organizing after supper cleanup. Her husband, Herb, one of the executive officers, came over to my table.

"Watch what you say, boys," he warned some of his buddies. "This here's that woman from the paper! She's probably takin' notes!"

Little did he know!

We chowed on meatloaf and two kinds of meatballs, scalloped potatoes, beef-a-roni, salads, fresh fruit and cheerio marshmallow treats. My barbecued chicken was a big hit, if I say so myself. To tell you the truth, I'd take a tasty homegrown meal like that over Patina's pretentious nouveau cuisine any day.

There was plenty of good-natured banter going on to spice up the food. When Roger Simkin, a big Granger from way back when, delivered some choice opinions about something or other, Herb Merten cut in with, "Guess what, Roger? I don't care! And neither does anybody else!"

Everyone laughed, even Roger.

After dinner we headed upstairs to the main hall, where chairs were set in a circle around the stage. The musicians tuned up and took off. Even though it was an impromptu session, these guys were good. They played stuff like "The Tennessee Waltz" and lots of old songs and folk tunes, and before you knew it, everyone was out on the dance floor.

There was something more than charming about the whole scene. Grandfathers were dancing with little granddaughters, mothers with daughters. A girl who looked to be around 12 was patiently teaching her tiny sister, who couldn't have been more than four, the rudiments of the waltz. Ardith Merten grabbed my pal Brenda Bont and twirled her around the floor in a fast-paced polka that left Brenda giggling and gasping for breath.

And then there was square dancing! Some old fellow volunteered to call, the band struck up "Red River Valley" and suddenly everybody was allemanding and dosey-doe-ing and swinging their partners left and right.

I thought about the big concert I was missing. And I thought about the post-concert traffic jam, where you'd wait an hour or two before you could get out of the stack-parked Bowl lot, and the gridlock you could look forward to once you made it to the freeway. I thought about the crowds, and the smog, and the general craziness. I got up and went outside, where a young bunny rabbit was sprinting across the lawn, tiny cottontail bouncing with unrestrained joy. I breathed the fresh evening air and counted my blessings-one of which was farm fresh eggs. Roger and Brenda have tons of chickens and they sell the most delicious eggs I've ever eaten for a buck fifty a dozen.

The square dancing was just heating up when I said my goodbyes. As I got in my car to leave, Roger motioned to me to roll down the window.

"There's a dozen eggs on the bottom shelf of the fridge," he said. I thanked him, gave him $1.50, went to his house, walked in and got my eggs. I said hello to the hens and one big rooster who were strutting around outside. I looked up at the orange sun dipping down into the horizon and listened to the stillness of the approaching night.

Yes, it's another world. And I like it. A lot.