One sunny day in Elgren Forest, a beagle named Henry eagerly wandered through the grass. He came upon a lonely looking wolf sniffing around a tree. The poor wolf was skinny as a rail, it looked like he hadn't eaten for days. His matted fur was infested with fleas; he was in a sorry state.
"Hi! My name's Henry," the beagle said.
"Oh hi, Fred's the name," the wolf said in a tired voice.
"Boy, you look like you haven't eaten for days!" Henry shouted, shocked by his appearance.
"Yeah, well, the last few weeks have been rough," Fred said, "every once in a while I find a rabbit or something."
"Where do you live?"
"Oh, most of the time I sleep in that cave up there." Fred replied as he motioned up to some hills.
"Why that's terrible!" Henry shouted, "don't you have a family?"
"Well I used to, I haven't seen them in years."
Henry couldn't believe Fred's sad situation, not even a wolf should have to live under these harsh conditions, he thought.
"Hey, I have an idea! You can come and live with me! I live in a nice clean place, and you can keep me company!" Henry shouted.
"Really?" Fred said as he perked up.
"Sure! There's lots of toys we can play with, and you can get cleaned up, and we'll always have plenty to eat!"
That was all Fred needed to hear, "Boy! That sounds wonderful!" he shouted as he trotted over, ready to go.
"Great! Let's go!"
So off they went. As they were walking along back to Henry's place, Fred noticed some scars around Henry's neck and back.
"Hey where did those nasty scars come from?" a concerned Fred asked.
"Oh, those are from my collar," Henry casually replied.
"Huh? What's a collar?"
"It's a thing that I wear on my neck."
Fred was confused, "What do you do that for?"
"I have wear it because of my leash," Henry explained, "the leash attaches to the collar."
"You mean, you're tied onto something?"
"Yeah sometimes," Henry said, "but I can escape, and sneak away, like I did today!"
"Escape? Sneak away??" Fred was surprised, "sneak away from what?"
"Oh, my master," Henry replied, "he's the one who keeps me on the leash. I just need to sneak away sometimes, like when he hits me."
"Your master??" Fred was shocked. Then he stopped, turned on his heels, and ran right back to the forest. Back to his hunger, his fleas, and his freedom.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Illustration Friday - Fearless
In the jungle, the big cats can sleep all day if they wanted to...they have nothing to fear from predators.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Along the Forest Road
I decided to go on a bike ride today, along new roads and new places...I had no itinerary or maps, I just wanted to go somewhere...to put distance between me and my current existence perhaps...or just to go ride my bike, which has become a symbol of a certain visceral freedom.
It doesn't matter so much where I ride now, as long as I ride somewhere, and I find that I look forward to it more and more as never before, since I've owned my bike for the past ten or twelve years....I have ridden so many miles in the past year, I feel as bonded to my bike now as any cars I've owned!...except maybe the truck...
I set out today going north, along J Street which is lined with old trees. J Street used to be the old 99 hiway through Tulare. I don't have an iPod, no Walkman, no transistor radio...I guess I don't need those, because as soon as I saw that line of trees, an old Genesis song entered my head...it's endless really, my radio head...except mine is geared to 20 or 30 years ago.
I know every song and every word...
Along the forest road
there's hundreds of cars
luxury cars
cutlery cars
and super scars...
"The Battle of Epping Forest" played in my head for all of its 14 minutes, every word. I even smiled at myself for knowing each word after all these years.
I rode past an old abandoned motel, the Tagus Ranch Motel, the large sign still looms over the 99, and I remember it when it was still open and thriving, with cars surrounding its popular restaurant. And I thought of all the Mammoth Orange stands, which looked like giant oranges along the highway. They served fresh orange juice and a delicious menu of hamburgers, hot dogs, fried chicken and other stuff. The last one closed in 2001, and I made sure to stop there before the day it closed...Those are all gone now, 'highway art' of the kind along the old Route 66. How fun it must have been to cruise along, say in 1947 when all those places thrived, before the Interstate. It's funny to think that Eisenhower's Interstate Act in the 1950's, the biggest public works project in the history of the nation, all those green freeway signs you see all over the country, and still ongoing, would change the very nature of the landscape...it speeded things up, for better or worse...and left a lot behind...
The tune in my head changed to "My Baby Just Cares for Me" an old Nina Simone tune from the early 60's. A shuffling kind of number that is very catchy. The descending bass line can stick in my head for hours!
Liz Taylor is not his style
Even Lana Turner smiles...
Hmmm, Liz Taylor...is there any actress or movie star these days that has the glamour she did? I can't think of any. I recalled her and Richard Burton on the cover of those movie magazines way back then, the equivalent of People or Us magazines I suppose. When Eddie Fisher left Debbie Reynolds to run off with Liz, Debbie was 'America's Sweetheart' then...who is it now? Jennifer Anniston perhaps? I don't know...Then I thought of Frank Sinatra, his singing was absolute 'butta' as Sammy Davis called him, certain strains of "Where or When" echoed through my mind...yes, his voice and phrasing were just impeccable...The real Sinatra, the nastiness and the bullying, the way he treated people sullies his reputation now, but still there was the Voice.
As I rode further I thought of Neil Peart, the drummer and lyricist in Rush. He went on a cross-country motorcycle trip and wrote a book about it, and I wondered if his musings along the road were the same as mine, or a similar pattern anyway, like an endless radio program. Suddenly the opening bars to the their song 'Red Barchetta' started playing, ahhh!
My uncle has a country place
that no one knows about.
He says it used to be a farm
before the Motor Law.
It's a song that takes place in the not-too-distant future, a rather dark view of the future where cars are banned. He wrote it about 30 years ago, so maybe not so far-fetched these days, with things like global warming and peak-oil...The US reached peak-oil in 1970, and then had to start importing it, that's when all the trouble began with the Arabs...the world will reach peak-oil within the next few decades. (peak-oil meaning, that's the peak of any oil we'll get out of the ground when it becomes too expensive to keep looking for it.)
I strip away the old debris
that hides a shining car
a brilliant red Barchetta
from a better vanished time.
Then I think of my own uncle who was just here for a visit. It's something he would do, hide a car during a time when they were outlawed. He loves cars and big motors. A certain melancholy hangs over him now, and I sometimes feel it too...it feels lonely...many in the family are gone now. Just he and my mom are left from their generation. We would all gather in Tulare for Thanksgiving when I was a kid, all of my cousins, aunts and uncles would come to my grandparents house. That house is gone now too, but all the memories remain, like echoes...constant echoes where they're still here. We've been to three funerals in the past six months, Aunt Carmen, Uncle Friney, and Cousin Mike's...At one of the funerals, some old guy said, "you know, souls can sometimes be like stubborn burrs, who just wanna stick around, if they don't move on, they stick to places they once loved, that's your haunted houses...or, they'll find a newborn, see that's where reincarnation comes from..."
It doesn't matter so much where I ride now, as long as I ride somewhere, and I find that I look forward to it more and more as never before, since I've owned my bike for the past ten or twelve years....I have ridden so many miles in the past year, I feel as bonded to my bike now as any cars I've owned!...except maybe the truck...
I set out today going north, along J Street which is lined with old trees. J Street used to be the old 99 hiway through Tulare. I don't have an iPod, no Walkman, no transistor radio...I guess I don't need those, because as soon as I saw that line of trees, an old Genesis song entered my head...it's endless really, my radio head...except mine is geared to 20 or 30 years ago.
I know every song and every word...
Along the forest road
there's hundreds of cars
luxury cars
cutlery cars
and super scars...
"The Battle of Epping Forest" played in my head for all of its 14 minutes, every word. I even smiled at myself for knowing each word after all these years.
I rode past an old abandoned motel, the Tagus Ranch Motel, the large sign still looms over the 99, and I remember it when it was still open and thriving, with cars surrounding its popular restaurant. And I thought of all the Mammoth Orange stands, which looked like giant oranges along the highway. They served fresh orange juice and a delicious menu of hamburgers, hot dogs, fried chicken and other stuff. The last one closed in 2001, and I made sure to stop there before the day it closed...Those are all gone now, 'highway art' of the kind along the old Route 66. How fun it must have been to cruise along, say in 1947 when all those places thrived, before the Interstate. It's funny to think that Eisenhower's Interstate Act in the 1950's, the biggest public works project in the history of the nation, all those green freeway signs you see all over the country, and still ongoing, would change the very nature of the landscape...it speeded things up, for better or worse...and left a lot behind...
The tune in my head changed to "My Baby Just Cares for Me" an old Nina Simone tune from the early 60's. A shuffling kind of number that is very catchy. The descending bass line can stick in my head for hours!
Liz Taylor is not his style
Even Lana Turner smiles...
Hmmm, Liz Taylor...is there any actress or movie star these days that has the glamour she did? I can't think of any. I recalled her and Richard Burton on the cover of those movie magazines way back then, the equivalent of People or Us magazines I suppose. When Eddie Fisher left Debbie Reynolds to run off with Liz, Debbie was 'America's Sweetheart' then...who is it now? Jennifer Anniston perhaps? I don't know...Then I thought of Frank Sinatra, his singing was absolute 'butta' as Sammy Davis called him, certain strains of "Where or When" echoed through my mind...yes, his voice and phrasing were just impeccable...The real Sinatra, the nastiness and the bullying, the way he treated people sullies his reputation now, but still there was the Voice.
As I rode further I thought of Neil Peart, the drummer and lyricist in Rush. He went on a cross-country motorcycle trip and wrote a book about it, and I wondered if his musings along the road were the same as mine, or a similar pattern anyway, like an endless radio program. Suddenly the opening bars to the their song 'Red Barchetta' started playing, ahhh!
My uncle has a country place
that no one knows about.
He says it used to be a farm
before the Motor Law.
It's a song that takes place in the not-too-distant future, a rather dark view of the future where cars are banned. He wrote it about 30 years ago, so maybe not so far-fetched these days, with things like global warming and peak-oil...The US reached peak-oil in 1970, and then had to start importing it, that's when all the trouble began with the Arabs...the world will reach peak-oil within the next few decades. (peak-oil meaning, that's the peak of any oil we'll get out of the ground when it becomes too expensive to keep looking for it.)
I strip away the old debris
that hides a shining car
a brilliant red Barchetta
from a better vanished time.
Then I think of my own uncle who was just here for a visit. It's something he would do, hide a car during a time when they were outlawed. He loves cars and big motors. A certain melancholy hangs over him now, and I sometimes feel it too...it feels lonely...many in the family are gone now. Just he and my mom are left from their generation. We would all gather in Tulare for Thanksgiving when I was a kid, all of my cousins, aunts and uncles would come to my grandparents house. That house is gone now too, but all the memories remain, like echoes...constant echoes where they're still here. We've been to three funerals in the past six months, Aunt Carmen, Uncle Friney, and Cousin Mike's...At one of the funerals, some old guy said, "you know, souls can sometimes be like stubborn burrs, who just wanna stick around, if they don't move on, they stick to places they once loved, that's your haunted houses...or, they'll find a newborn, see that's where reincarnation comes from..."
I nodded, "hmm...yes." Well, maybe there's something to that, no one has ever officially died and returned to give a full investigative report.
All I know, or feel anyway, is that their souls have moved on...I can only feel my dad's presence in the things he touched, like his tools...that's when I feel him the most, his echo perhaps, but I don't feel his actual spirit anywhere around nearby...nor Aunt Carmen's, certainly a force of nature in life, her presence is felt in her echo...but they're somewhere, I know, probably bickering... :o)
It came time to turn around. There was an overpass where I could go under the 99 near the town of Goshen, which is basically a gas station and a few farmhouses. I rode over a patch of dirt and was amazed at how flat it was. Like the entire Central Valley, a constant flatness. It occurred to me that this whole valley was underwater about a million years ago, an inland sea while the Sierra Nevada was being formed, and Yosemite Valley was being carved by glaciers. All of that runoff came to rest here, which is why the soil is so fertile. And indeed, up until the late 1800's, Tulare Lake was the largest freshwater lake west of the Missisippi! Almost as large as the Great Salt Lake...it took up most of the lower valley. Farmers diverted all the rivers that fed it, and it eventually dried up...If you ever drive down I-5 through Kettleman City, you're driving through Tulare Basin, which once was a vast lake.
Then I looked to the left and saw the snow capped Sierra Nevadas, so gorgeous! and high up and majestic, and then my favorite band Yes echoed...
As one with the knowledge
and magic of the source
attuned to the majesty of music
they marched as one with the earth
"The Ancients" is yet another epic tune by Yes, at 16 minutes, I stopped trying to get friends to listen to them long ago, because they didn't like it that much...oh, some songs maybe, but mostly, nahhh...that's why I always liked going to Yes concerts, because everyone there 'got it'...whatever 'it' was.
The Ancients, hmmm....I thought of the ancient alien theory, how the Egyptians, Incas, Mayans, all these ancient cultures have one thing in common...they worshipped gods that came from the sky...taught them mathematics, astronomy, agriculture...things they couldn't possibly have known...the stones cut by the Incas 2,000 years ago could barely be done with lasers today...heck, I believe it was very possible...
I came close to Mooney Boulevard, coming back into town...flying by then in the lowest gear, pumping, pumping...maybe I was going 30! As I got closer to Tulare, a leaden feeling came over me...back to my current existence, like the elephant in the room...though forever grateful to my mom for letting me stay with her, it will never be home...I thought of the road between Santa Rosa and Rohnert Park, and I immediately became homesick...then I always think of 'Gasoline Alley' by Rod Stewart...
It came time to turn around. There was an overpass where I could go under the 99 near the town of Goshen, which is basically a gas station and a few farmhouses. I rode over a patch of dirt and was amazed at how flat it was. Like the entire Central Valley, a constant flatness. It occurred to me that this whole valley was underwater about a million years ago, an inland sea while the Sierra Nevada was being formed, and Yosemite Valley was being carved by glaciers. All of that runoff came to rest here, which is why the soil is so fertile. And indeed, up until the late 1800's, Tulare Lake was the largest freshwater lake west of the Missisippi! Almost as large as the Great Salt Lake...it took up most of the lower valley. Farmers diverted all the rivers that fed it, and it eventually dried up...If you ever drive down I-5 through Kettleman City, you're driving through Tulare Basin, which once was a vast lake.
Then I looked to the left and saw the snow capped Sierra Nevadas, so gorgeous! and high up and majestic, and then my favorite band Yes echoed...
As one with the knowledge
and magic of the source
attuned to the majesty of music
they marched as one with the earth
"The Ancients" is yet another epic tune by Yes, at 16 minutes, I stopped trying to get friends to listen to them long ago, because they didn't like it that much...oh, some songs maybe, but mostly, nahhh...that's why I always liked going to Yes concerts, because everyone there 'got it'...whatever 'it' was.
The Ancients, hmmm....I thought of the ancient alien theory, how the Egyptians, Incas, Mayans, all these ancient cultures have one thing in common...they worshipped gods that came from the sky...taught them mathematics, astronomy, agriculture...things they couldn't possibly have known...the stones cut by the Incas 2,000 years ago could barely be done with lasers today...heck, I believe it was very possible...
I came close to Mooney Boulevard, coming back into town...flying by then in the lowest gear, pumping, pumping...maybe I was going 30! As I got closer to Tulare, a leaden feeling came over me...back to my current existence, like the elephant in the room...though forever grateful to my mom for letting me stay with her, it will never be home...I thought of the road between Santa Rosa and Rohnert Park, and I immediately became homesick...then I always think of 'Gasoline Alley' by Rod Stewart...
thinkin' I remember what's makin' me sad
dreamin' of my old back yard
take me back
carry me back
back to Gasoline Alley
where I was born
rollin' home
goin' home
back to Gasoline Alley
where I belong
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
"I Could Write a Book About That Dog."
One Saturday afternoon when I was about 11 years old, I was in my room, probably drawing or working on a toothpick sculpture. Then I heard my mom yell, "HEY! What's that lady doing running around on our lawn??"
I looked up with a cartoon expression, 'huh??' and looked out my window which faced the front, and sure enough, a woman in her 30's or 40's was dashing to and fro on the lawn, like she was trying to catch something. Then with amusement and embarrassment, I saw what she was chasing. Our dog Nicky had her purse in his mouth, and he was playfully avoiding her capture.
"Oh my God..." My mom ran out the front door, "Nicky! Nicky! Bad dog!" Soon they were both trying to catch him, as he skillfully dodged them both, even with the purse in his mouth. Finally, my mom grabbed the purse and had a tug-of-war with Nicky for a few seconds. I watched from the window and couldn't help but crack up at this display.
"I'm so terribly sorry..." my mom apologized profusely as she handed the woman her purse, but she was good natured about it, and even laughed. She went on her way, happy to have her purse back. "Bad dog!" My mom scolded Nicky, but he just wagged his tail with his doggy grin.
A couple hours later I was helping my dad mow the lawn. He abruptly stopped and went to the front of the mower and picked something up. It was a set of keys, obviously from that woman's purse.
That was our dog Nicky on a good day. "I could write a book about that dog." my mom would often say.
One time I saw him crossing the street back to our yard with something in his mouth. It looked like an egg. Then he laid on the lawn and chewed on it for awhile, but soon he went back across the street and into the neighbors garage, which was open. He came back with another egg. After he went on another egg run, I went outside to see what he was doing. They weren't eggs, they were the neighbors brand new Titlest golf balls, chewed to bits. He had broken in to his golf bag and helped himself. I quickly put him in the backyard and hid the evidence. I'm not sure if the neighbor ever found out.
Nicky's escapades weren't always as amusing. One time he disappeared for 3 or 4 days. We were worried sick, checking the animal shelter, putting up flyers...but then he came home, without his collar and starving. A long time later we found out he had been dognapped by a crazy neighbor around the corner, but had made his escape. We found out because the neighbor moved, and the new people who moved in found his collar in a kitchen drawer, which had his tags with our address.
He was also hit by a car, not just any car, a Police car!...he came limping home with a broken hind leg and full of abrasions. A friend of ours saw the whole thing, "I saw Nicky get hit!" he later said, "he was trying to cross Stevens Creek Blvd. and a cop car hit him! The cop pulled over and got out, but Nicky was half a block away by then! He even drove his cop car to find him, but he must have hid!"
That's what we would always fear when Nicky got out, and he would always find a way to get out, no matter how escape-proof we tried to make the back yard. Well, he was a beagle, a hound, and hounds like to roam, so that's what he did. "I saw Nicky cross Stevens Creek!" another would say. Stevens Creek Blvd. was a major four-lane artery. "He dodged all these cars, I don't know how he did it, but he made it across!"
"uuuuugh...my God...I could write a book about that dog."
I looked up with a cartoon expression, 'huh??' and looked out my window which faced the front, and sure enough, a woman in her 30's or 40's was dashing to and fro on the lawn, like she was trying to catch something. Then with amusement and embarrassment, I saw what she was chasing. Our dog Nicky had her purse in his mouth, and he was playfully avoiding her capture.
"Oh my God..." My mom ran out the front door, "Nicky! Nicky! Bad dog!" Soon they were both trying to catch him, as he skillfully dodged them both, even with the purse in his mouth. Finally, my mom grabbed the purse and had a tug-of-war with Nicky for a few seconds. I watched from the window and couldn't help but crack up at this display.
"I'm so terribly sorry..." my mom apologized profusely as she handed the woman her purse, but she was good natured about it, and even laughed. She went on her way, happy to have her purse back. "Bad dog!" My mom scolded Nicky, but he just wagged his tail with his doggy grin.
A couple hours later I was helping my dad mow the lawn. He abruptly stopped and went to the front of the mower and picked something up. It was a set of keys, obviously from that woman's purse.
That was our dog Nicky on a good day. "I could write a book about that dog." my mom would often say.
One time I saw him crossing the street back to our yard with something in his mouth. It looked like an egg. Then he laid on the lawn and chewed on it for awhile, but soon he went back across the street and into the neighbors garage, which was open. He came back with another egg. After he went on another egg run, I went outside to see what he was doing. They weren't eggs, they were the neighbors brand new Titlest golf balls, chewed to bits. He had broken in to his golf bag and helped himself. I quickly put him in the backyard and hid the evidence. I'm not sure if the neighbor ever found out.
Nicky's escapades weren't always as amusing. One time he disappeared for 3 or 4 days. We were worried sick, checking the animal shelter, putting up flyers...but then he came home, without his collar and starving. A long time later we found out he had been dognapped by a crazy neighbor around the corner, but had made his escape. We found out because the neighbor moved, and the new people who moved in found his collar in a kitchen drawer, which had his tags with our address.
He was also hit by a car, not just any car, a Police car!...he came limping home with a broken hind leg and full of abrasions. A friend of ours saw the whole thing, "I saw Nicky get hit!" he later said, "he was trying to cross Stevens Creek Blvd. and a cop car hit him! The cop pulled over and got out, but Nicky was half a block away by then! He even drove his cop car to find him, but he must have hid!"
That's what we would always fear when Nicky got out, and he would always find a way to get out, no matter how escape-proof we tried to make the back yard. Well, he was a beagle, a hound, and hounds like to roam, so that's what he did. "I saw Nicky cross Stevens Creek!" another would say. Stevens Creek Blvd. was a major four-lane artery. "He dodged all these cars, I don't know how he did it, but he made it across!"
"uuuuugh...my God...I could write a book about that dog."
Friday, April 9, 2010
Illustration Friday - Linked
Dragonflies have always reminded me of helicopters, so whenever I see either one fly by, they are forever linked.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Easter with Pat
Yesterday was Easter Sunday, though it didn't feel too much like an Easter. I usually associate it with warm Spring days, church bells chiming, Easter egg hunts, friends and family...but it was cold and gray and it felt empty and joyless, not unlike my mood...
A neighbor down the street, Pat, had invited my mom and I to come over for Easter, so with no other plans, we went. I hadn't exactly been looking forward to it, since I would hardly know anyone, and besides, they were all my mom's age and older. It underscored the sense of detachment from the day, and my sense of isolation as I kept thinking of past Easters, and the past days of joy and fun they represented, which seemed light years away. But I thought, well, it'll be fun just to get out and go somewhere new, even if it was just a few doors down. And I was appreciative of Pat's generosity in having me over.
When we got there, about 6 or 7 neighbors were already there, I recognized Ron...and we all greeted each other warmly. I was in 'social mode' with an air of politeness and savoir faire, which was greatly polished when I worked at the store, when multitudes of seniors would come through my line.
Though after awhile, it became less of an 'act' and more of a natural state, as I became more comfortable in chatting with Ron and the other folks who were arriving. Ron had been good friends with my dad, and he told stories of their fishing exploits, and I told stories of his younger days when I was growing up in San Jose. We talked baseball with some of the others too. I don't know what it is about old ladies and baseball, but many of them are such huge fans! My mom included. As the afternoon wore on, some of them sat down to play cards (a game I've never heard of) as they gossiped about some of the neighbors. Others were riveted to the Yankees - Red Sox game on TV, as I partially was, though mindful of the fact that it's not entirely polite to watch the tube during a social gathering. But my mood had certainly elevated from earlier in the day. Ron asked me how I liked it in Tulare. I said I liked it fine, though it's quieter than I'm used to, and to be honest I missed my life back up North, and felt like I'm living in a sort of aftermath. He said, "Well, I think alot of us go through that...here's a test to see if your mission on Earth is finished; if you're alive, it ain't!" I laughed and said, "yeah, that's a good one!"...and it was.
Ron has a slight accent, as do many of them...though down here it's not so much an accent as it a regular local dialect. A southern accent, from Texas/Oklahoma, or to put it plainly, an 'Okie accent', which is probably different if you're in Oklahoma, but perfectly natural here. I thought once again of 'The Grapes of Wrath' which I had in an earlier blog. (see below) Especially when Pat began talking about Lendell Ranch. "We left our damn pickup at Lendell Ranch when we finally moved outta there...that thing got us to California, but it wasn't goin' an inch further..."
Lendell Ranch was a government run camp which housed thousands of displaced families looking for work in the Central Valley. It was built in 1938, and to this day it's hexagonal pattern of streets is part of an old neighborhood south of Visalia. Tagus Ranch was another one, just north of here. I began to realize that aside from watching 'The Grapes of Wrath' a few weeks ago, here were living icons of that era. And I felt a certain sense of honor to be spending Easter with them, because they are indeed the salt of the earth.
When we left, I thanked them all warmly and genuinely, and I walked home thinking of the hardship that many of them must have indured when they first arrived in California, and how petty and foolish I was for being in such a funk earlier that day. And the words still echo...
"Here's a test to see if your mission on Earth is finished; if you're alive, it ain't..."
A neighbor down the street, Pat, had invited my mom and I to come over for Easter, so with no other plans, we went. I hadn't exactly been looking forward to it, since I would hardly know anyone, and besides, they were all my mom's age and older. It underscored the sense of detachment from the day, and my sense of isolation as I kept thinking of past Easters, and the past days of joy and fun they represented, which seemed light years away. But I thought, well, it'll be fun just to get out and go somewhere new, even if it was just a few doors down. And I was appreciative of Pat's generosity in having me over.
When we got there, about 6 or 7 neighbors were already there, I recognized Ron...and we all greeted each other warmly. I was in 'social mode' with an air of politeness and savoir faire, which was greatly polished when I worked at the store, when multitudes of seniors would come through my line.
Though after awhile, it became less of an 'act' and more of a natural state, as I became more comfortable in chatting with Ron and the other folks who were arriving. Ron had been good friends with my dad, and he told stories of their fishing exploits, and I told stories of his younger days when I was growing up in San Jose. We talked baseball with some of the others too. I don't know what it is about old ladies and baseball, but many of them are such huge fans! My mom included. As the afternoon wore on, some of them sat down to play cards (a game I've never heard of) as they gossiped about some of the neighbors. Others were riveted to the Yankees - Red Sox game on TV, as I partially was, though mindful of the fact that it's not entirely polite to watch the tube during a social gathering. But my mood had certainly elevated from earlier in the day. Ron asked me how I liked it in Tulare. I said I liked it fine, though it's quieter than I'm used to, and to be honest I missed my life back up North, and felt like I'm living in a sort of aftermath. He said, "Well, I think alot of us go through that...here's a test to see if your mission on Earth is finished; if you're alive, it ain't!" I laughed and said, "yeah, that's a good one!"...and it was.
Ron has a slight accent, as do many of them...though down here it's not so much an accent as it a regular local dialect. A southern accent, from Texas/Oklahoma, or to put it plainly, an 'Okie accent', which is probably different if you're in Oklahoma, but perfectly natural here. I thought once again of 'The Grapes of Wrath' which I had in an earlier blog. (see below) Especially when Pat began talking about Lendell Ranch. "We left our damn pickup at Lendell Ranch when we finally moved outta there...that thing got us to California, but it wasn't goin' an inch further..."
Lendell Ranch was a government run camp which housed thousands of displaced families looking for work in the Central Valley. It was built in 1938, and to this day it's hexagonal pattern of streets is part of an old neighborhood south of Visalia. Tagus Ranch was another one, just north of here. I began to realize that aside from watching 'The Grapes of Wrath' a few weeks ago, here were living icons of that era. And I felt a certain sense of honor to be spending Easter with them, because they are indeed the salt of the earth.
When we left, I thanked them all warmly and genuinely, and I walked home thinking of the hardship that many of them must have indured when they first arrived in California, and how petty and foolish I was for being in such a funk earlier that day. And the words still echo...
"Here's a test to see if your mission on Earth is finished; if you're alive, it ain't..."
Friday, April 2, 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
