In a comment on my post about "Those Confusing Newcomers."
Charlie Two Crows asked:
“E...... You threw the paint on the canvas. We want to know the inspiration for the painting! So far you haven't explained your true feelings for whipping the dog this long!”
Or should I say Charlie threw down the gauntlet. Put-up or shut-up. There are a few posters on this blog that I can tell spend a lot of thinking about things. They read the whole story and really think about it. Charlie Two Crows is one of them, there are many others that come to mind, who give things a lot of thought, but this is a reply to Charlie.
If this blog is about anything... it is about change. I first started posting this blog with the hopes that I would learn to write. I wanted to make my writing easy to read, easy to understand, and still keep my message clear. Quite obviously, I have failed miserably. I started writing because I wanted to tell the story of the South Fork of the Eel Valley that fits between the early settler period, and the early seventies, when the massive culture changing influx of people moved into this canyon. I viewed that in-between period as the South Fork’s Dark Ages. Not much is known about the dark ages, because not much was recorded about them. We knew who the early settlers were, because they are in the history books. We know the history of the back-to-the-landers, because, for the most part, that is the present culture. What is maybe not understood is, many, many people left this area following the influx of the new people. The culture change was dramatic. It seems to me that people would be interested in that change. More later...
I was raised, indeed, steeped in stories about the early pioneer days. Most of the stories were tales of great heroism about the early settlers that moved out here from somewhere back east. They fought through the Indians on their way to California. They tried their hand at gold mining, failed, or caught one of the life threatening diseases that were rampant in the gold fields. Going back east was not an option! They gave up mining, and moved on to find “their land”, to build a farm similar to old McDonald’s farm, where they had pigs, ducks, chickens, and the rest of the menagerie. They grew big gardens and hunted wild game. They made their own lumber and built their own cabins. They were the Back-to-the-Landers of the 1850s. They were determined to survive no-matter-what. The early settlers fell prey to the native Indian people, and, the all-powerful cattle or lumber barons as well. A settler didn't dare cross one of the local barons, because he would almost definitely end up dead, or run out of the country. Indian depredations were met with a bullet. They didn't care the reason that the Indian person was eating their cow, the settler needed the cow to survive. They didn't have a 7-11 on the corner for a back-up. Those were the surface stories that I was raised with.
Along came the 1960s. A time of great civil consciousness. The children of the late fifties and early sixties set about to right all civil wrongs, I was one of them. Even though many of us in the South Fork of the Eel River had never met a black man, let alone knew one, we were convinced that they had been picked on unfairly, which in most cases, indeed they had been. It was with great joy, and a deep sense of purpose, that we set out to free the black man from discrimination.
Some of the children of the sixties started pointing out how unfairly that the American Indians were treated. As true of any label, a label becomes offensive. I asked a few of my Indian friends what they called themselves. Upon inquiring, most gave some version of; "I was born an Indian, raised and Indian, we call ourselves Indian people. So, I guess that you should call us Indians". The best answer that I got was from a person that is highly revered in the Wailaki tribe. He said, loosely quoted: "The native language and culture is mostly gone, what knowledge that is remaining doesn't define the local natives. I guess if you wanted to label the people that live here, it would be 'Indigenous Person'. Why do you ask White-eye?"
Along about the sixties, the local people had to suffer the wrath of the people without local history, because we were the descendants of "Indian Killers". Our ancestors were labeled as thugs and killers, rapist, kidnappers, and murders. You can only imagine what that did to my newly acquired "civil rights mind". I started trying to find the truth about what really happened. In a lot of cases I found that the stories were indeed true! So, I checked my family to see what they might have done. I checked most of my immediate family, back a few generations, and found that they were some of the "good people" that did what ever they could to protect the Indian people. I fell back into that group of people that were pro-civil-rights. (I still am very pro civil rights) But, something didn't quite settle with me. I checked ALL the branches of my family... and found that many had been killed by Indians, and my family in turn had killed many Indians.
Jack Farley, who lived in Laytonville's Long Valley, claimed that a white mans life was worth 20 Indians. He had a string of Indian scalps to prove his philosophy. Near the end of his life, "Uncle Jack", as he was known, was asked to what he attributed his long life. He proudly proclaimed that it was the friendship and care from the local Indians that keep him alive. He used the medicines that they provided for him, and accepted their care. Today's culture would not understand why the Indian people would care for such a man, who by today's standards would have been considered to be a "murderer". It was "Spyrock", another person with both white and Indian heritage that made the best guess as to why Uncle Jack would be so cared for by the Indian People. He proposed the idea that they respected him as a "Great Warrior". It made me realize that I might have been looking too closely to see that might be correct.
I have long realized that we do not have the knowledge, or the understanding, to make broad and sweeping judgements about the early people that occupied this valley. However, people that have recently moved here, or have recently become aware of what happened to the Indian people, have absolutely no hesitation to pronounce that the early settlers were evil, greedy, or pathological. I've been a student of this valley, and the people that live here, long enough to at least suspect that was not the case. I have often suggested that they were doing what they thought that they needed to do to survive. One of the survival tools of those days was to project a tough-as-nails attitude, that included doing anything that they needed to do to maintain that image, that might include killing people.
The local Indians were known to provoke fights fights amongst adjoining tribes, for no better reason than to prove their bravery in battle. Most people today would not understand the Indian culture's need to prove their bravery, but I've heard many stories about Indian bravery in battle that just don't make good healthy sense.
The culture change that the whites brought the local Indians was dramatic. The whites killed most of the stubborn old Indians that didn't want to adopt the white man's ways. They killed the Indian because the Indian people yearned for the canyon to renew to to a time that had no more white men. Many of their prayer ceremonies were about praying for the white man to be gone. The Ghost Dance that the local people did was to pray for the white man to go away. The white man saw this dance as a "War Dance". One of the last Indian massacres was at Wounded Knee Arizona in 1890. It was because the Indians were dancing the Ghost Dance, praying for the white man to go away. They were killed for their prayers. The Indian People were not respected when they asked the white man to free them to live the Indian way of life in the hills. It was simpler to just kill them, I guess.
The influx of the back-to-the-landers, in the late 60s and early 70s, was much the same as the influx of the white man in the 1850s. I’ve said that before, and have been met with the same indignant opposition that I always get when I try to discuss the culture shock that came with the new people. The comment has often been: “There was a big difference, the people that moved here in the 1970s didn’t kill everybody that got in our path like the white man of the 1850s did!” The other “big difference”, that most of "the indignant" fail to recognize is: The local people of the 1970s didn’t kill the new people either.
The Indians that didn’t want to leave their ways behind, and stop going-on about the life that they lost, were simply killed or made “to get over it” by putting them on reservations. Their children were put in schools and told to forget about their Indian ways, to leave the Indian culture behind, and adopt the white man ways. They were trained that they were much better off now.
The white man knew little, and cared less, about the Indian culture. The Indians were trained to “get over it”. I see much the same with SOME of the new people that moved here. Some didn’t really give a damn about the people that lived here. They changed the names of our plants and places. They roundly condemned everything that we thought was important. They thought that we were foolish, and said so.
Some of the people that moved here were “good people“, same as some of the whites that came to California in the 1850s. Some of the back-to-the-landers joined fire departments. They built schools, health care facilities, parks, and community meeting places. They joined service clubs and they honored the local people. They even recorded some of the old-timers history. Most of the people that moved here were “good people”. By FAR the most of them were. But, they displaced the local culture with their own culture. The people that didn’t like that were told to “get over it”. Most of the people that weren’t about to “get over it” moved away. Sold out and left. It was easy for some because they saw an opportunity to sell their land to the newcomers and get out. Good-bye.
Some of the newcomers that moved in, I’d say about the standard 10%, came with their carpet bags in hand, ready to cash in on the big local crop that was valuable because it is illegal. They didn’t give a damn about the law, the local culture, or even the other new people that had moved here. They are still with us.
Some of the good people that moved up here, cared about, and cared for, our precious canyon and the environment. They grew a small amount of marijuana to pay for their land and care for their families. They recognized the medicinal value of the herb and promoted it as medicine. But they didn’t destroy the land.
Others pack tons of fertilizers into the hills, and stream off all of the water to their plants. The river has become so dry and polluted with fertilizers that it kills animals that try to drink from some of the backwaters. The indoor grows leak diesel and crankcase oil into the ground and creeks. I can’t believe that the good people, in any way approve of those methods.
Some of us have an attachment to the canyon that we live in, and an attachment to most of the people that live here. Some of us had already been building schools and hospitals and parks, and belonging to service organizations. Some of us had a big personal investment in our community. Some of us didn’t want to leave.
So, when I yearn for the old days and the old ways. It’s just my harmless little “Ghost Dance” that doesn’t really hurt anybody. Some would say that the Indian people are far better of now than they were before the white man “gave” them everything. Some of those good Indian people might argue with that idea. Some would say that I’m a lot better of now that the Back-to-the-Landers gave me everything. Well….
I think that people like Charlie Two crows and Spyrock may understand my feeling of loss, but I know that not many of the people that moved in here would understand, because not many of them knew what was here before. The only thing that I would ask them to do is to look around you, and look at some of the bad that has happened, along with some of the good. So-Hum is not all roses, albeit we have some damn fine people that live here. Some are just a little more sensitive than others, but I intend to keep writing about the changes that I see. If the changes that I see don't really apply to you, don't take it personal. And, if they do apply to you, don't take it personal.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
Those Confusing Newcomers!
First, as you have heard me say before, there were numerous different kinds of newcomers that came to what is now known euphemistically as the “Emerald Triangle”.
The very first newcomers seemed to be hard core drug addicts that they had chased out of the cities. They came to Humboldt County because we paid larger welfare allotments. There were quite a few old tumble down mill-shacks left over from the declining lumber industry. The newcomers figured that if nobody was living in them that they must be a free place to live. They figured that if they didn’t squat in them that somebody else would. The locals started “cleaning up” the old mill-camps by bulldozing or burning the abandoned houses.
The next wave of newcomers were trust-fund babies and back-to-the-landers. They were a little more sophisticated than the drug addicted trash that were the predominant part of the fist wave. This second wave of people were people with means and education. They either had the wealth or knew how to parley themselves a piece of land. Some of the poorer folk fell prey to the land speculators that were willing to take their money. The speculators would sell them land with a large balloon payment at the end of the year. The second wave of newcomers sold “Humboldt Homegrown” to their friends back in the city. Some were even able to pay for “their land”.
They always referred to “their land” as just that, “their land”. They never called it “home”, or anything other than “Their land”. The first thing that they did is put up NO-Trespassing signs. They jealously guarded their borders like they thought that they owned a small country or something. You could no longer take a hike in the woods. Woe be unto him that stepped of a newcomers “Land”. That trend became noticeable to the children of the area. The children were used to being able to hike to the top of Pratt Mountain, or scale Bear Buttes. It was kinda’ thought of as free range around here for the kids. Often the kids would run across somebody on a horse out riding the range and checking on the sheep or the cattle. The kids would always wave and say hello, or brag about their latest quest. The admonishment from the riders was always “take care of yourself and don’t get hurt.” Otherwise it was understood that you should just have fun.
The biggest thing that was different about the newcomers, that I have only been able to recently put my finger on, is that they didn’t seem to have standards! When I was growing up, everybody knew what their favorite pick-up truck was. It was either a Ford or a Chevy. Some of the outsiders that showed up in the late fifties and early sixties drove “Corn-Binders" as they called the International Harvester trunks. They are simply called International trucks now. But, back then, most people referred to them with a certain amount of disdain. They were called “flat-Lander Trucks” or “Okie Trucks”.
There were other trucks, like Studebaker or Dodge. It always seemed like the people that owned them were trying to put on airs. They were always trying to justify why they thought that they were better, or cheaper, than a Ford or a Chey. Those people with high standards knew that there were really only two trucks, Ford and Chevy. But, Corn-Binders were a laughable truck for the logging roads back then. Everybody knew that a person needed to make a good run at at few of the logging road hills. Or make a run at a mudhole to get accross. Corn-binder were as heavy as a lump of lead, they always got stuck in the mud or they never seemed to get over the top of the hill. Maybe it was just the flatlanders drivers, nobody knows, because no self-respecting logger would drive one.
There didn’t seem to be much difference between the two trucks. The best part about owning a ford was being able to make fun of the people that owned Cheys, and visa-versa. The bragging and ridicule was discussed to great length in the local beer bars. Sometimes the discussions ended up outside, rolling and fighting in the dust or the mud, depending on the season.
When the wave of newcomers came to town in the late sixties and early seventies, they didn’t drive Fords or Chevys. Most of them drove old beat-up and gaily painted Volkswagen's, or some other foreign made, non-patriotic vehicle. My God, NO standards what-so-ever! Can you image the shock of the people that were used to actually fighting each other over what was the best truck???
Then we had our favorite beer, depending on which canyon you lived in. In our particular, South Fork of the Eel canyon, you drank Lucky Lager or Olympia, Nicknamed lovingly as “Lucky” or “Oly”. The same disputes rose out of which was the best beer. Sometimes it was back outside in the dust and mud again. As was the custom of the time, the winner of the fight would graciously buy the loser a “good beer” always the winners favorite brand.
Then of course, being good people of high standards, the local men were very proud of their work. They were either a logger, or they were mill men. With the usual settling of the argument of superiority in the dust or mud outside. It was considered an insult to not ask somebody what they did for a living, they were quite proud of being a millworker or a logger. It was acceptable to work in a grocery store of a gas station, not everybody could qualify to be a real man and work in the lumber industry. Strangely, the newcomers that moved into this country, that were able to get lumber jobs, were readily accepted. As a newcomer you knew that you were accepted, because of the endless ribbing about being a Newcomer, it never stopped. Some are still confused though, the newcomers never seemed to try to understand the locals. They just looked at us with incredulity on their faces. They never really tried to understand US!
What you did in the mill counted for brownie points in the pecking order. The top of the pecking order would be the sawfilers, then the millwrights, then the lumber graders, then the sawyer, the edgerman, the planer men, the planer-chain pullers, then the green-chain pullers. Then if anybody disagreed with that order, it could always be settled in the dust or the mud, but the winner always had to buy the beer. Sometimes the loser would think that he won and try to buy the beer, that always ended up back outside again until it became very clear who got to buy the beer.
The woods was much the same, it always seemed to follow the progression of things, the top of the pecking order was the fallers or choppers, the newcomers called them “timber fellers”. That caused no end of belly laughter, after a hundred or so years of being “choppers” or “fallers” the newcomers re-named them "fellers". In the local language a “feller” was somebody that just showed up and didn’t know what kind of a man he was yet. Then on down the pecking order was the Catskinners, the truckers and the choker setters. The bottom of the heap was the swampers, or knot bumpers.
The Choppers always had their favorite saw. Back in the fifties and sixties it was a Homelite or a McCullogh. If you owned any other kind of saw, nobody would hire you, because it was VERY clear that you didn’t know what you were doing. The “best brand of saw” was most often determined in the dust or the mud. The only difference that I could ever see was a McCullogh cut faster, if you could get it started. A Homelite was easy to start and dependable, it just cut a little slower. At the end of the week the choppers would cut about the same amount of timer. But, they would still argue about who's brand was the best.
The newcomers never really caught on to how things were supposed to be around here. They thought that we were just supposed to blindly accept them. You have got to be kidding! We didn’t even accepted ourselves!
The very first newcomers seemed to be hard core drug addicts that they had chased out of the cities. They came to Humboldt County because we paid larger welfare allotments. There were quite a few old tumble down mill-shacks left over from the declining lumber industry. The newcomers figured that if nobody was living in them that they must be a free place to live. They figured that if they didn’t squat in them that somebody else would. The locals started “cleaning up” the old mill-camps by bulldozing or burning the abandoned houses.
The next wave of newcomers were trust-fund babies and back-to-the-landers. They were a little more sophisticated than the drug addicted trash that were the predominant part of the fist wave. This second wave of people were people with means and education. They either had the wealth or knew how to parley themselves a piece of land. Some of the poorer folk fell prey to the land speculators that were willing to take their money. The speculators would sell them land with a large balloon payment at the end of the year. The second wave of newcomers sold “Humboldt Homegrown” to their friends back in the city. Some were even able to pay for “their land”.
They always referred to “their land” as just that, “their land”. They never called it “home”, or anything other than “Their land”. The first thing that they did is put up NO-Trespassing signs. They jealously guarded their borders like they thought that they owned a small country or something. You could no longer take a hike in the woods. Woe be unto him that stepped of a newcomers “Land”. That trend became noticeable to the children of the area. The children were used to being able to hike to the top of Pratt Mountain, or scale Bear Buttes. It was kinda’ thought of as free range around here for the kids. Often the kids would run across somebody on a horse out riding the range and checking on the sheep or the cattle. The kids would always wave and say hello, or brag about their latest quest. The admonishment from the riders was always “take care of yourself and don’t get hurt.” Otherwise it was understood that you should just have fun.
The biggest thing that was different about the newcomers, that I have only been able to recently put my finger on, is that they didn’t seem to have standards! When I was growing up, everybody knew what their favorite pick-up truck was. It was either a Ford or a Chevy. Some of the outsiders that showed up in the late fifties and early sixties drove “Corn-Binders" as they called the International Harvester trunks. They are simply called International trucks now. But, back then, most people referred to them with a certain amount of disdain. They were called “flat-Lander Trucks” or “Okie Trucks”.
There were other trucks, like Studebaker or Dodge. It always seemed like the people that owned them were trying to put on airs. They were always trying to justify why they thought that they were better, or cheaper, than a Ford or a Chey. Those people with high standards knew that there were really only two trucks, Ford and Chevy. But, Corn-Binders were a laughable truck for the logging roads back then. Everybody knew that a person needed to make a good run at at few of the logging road hills. Or make a run at a mudhole to get accross. Corn-binder were as heavy as a lump of lead, they always got stuck in the mud or they never seemed to get over the top of the hill. Maybe it was just the flatlanders drivers, nobody knows, because no self-respecting logger would drive one.
There didn’t seem to be much difference between the two trucks. The best part about owning a ford was being able to make fun of the people that owned Cheys, and visa-versa. The bragging and ridicule was discussed to great length in the local beer bars. Sometimes the discussions ended up outside, rolling and fighting in the dust or the mud, depending on the season.
When the wave of newcomers came to town in the late sixties and early seventies, they didn’t drive Fords or Chevys. Most of them drove old beat-up and gaily painted Volkswagen's, or some other foreign made, non-patriotic vehicle. My God, NO standards what-so-ever! Can you image the shock of the people that were used to actually fighting each other over what was the best truck???
Then we had our favorite beer, depending on which canyon you lived in. In our particular, South Fork of the Eel canyon, you drank Lucky Lager or Olympia, Nicknamed lovingly as “Lucky” or “Oly”. The same disputes rose out of which was the best beer. Sometimes it was back outside in the dust and mud again. As was the custom of the time, the winner of the fight would graciously buy the loser a “good beer” always the winners favorite brand.
Then of course, being good people of high standards, the local men were very proud of their work. They were either a logger, or they were mill men. With the usual settling of the argument of superiority in the dust or mud outside. It was considered an insult to not ask somebody what they did for a living, they were quite proud of being a millworker or a logger. It was acceptable to work in a grocery store of a gas station, not everybody could qualify to be a real man and work in the lumber industry. Strangely, the newcomers that moved into this country, that were able to get lumber jobs, were readily accepted. As a newcomer you knew that you were accepted, because of the endless ribbing about being a Newcomer, it never stopped. Some are still confused though, the newcomers never seemed to try to understand the locals. They just looked at us with incredulity on their faces. They never really tried to understand US!
What you did in the mill counted for brownie points in the pecking order. The top of the pecking order would be the sawfilers, then the millwrights, then the lumber graders, then the sawyer, the edgerman, the planer men, the planer-chain pullers, then the green-chain pullers. Then if anybody disagreed with that order, it could always be settled in the dust or the mud, but the winner always had to buy the beer. Sometimes the loser would think that he won and try to buy the beer, that always ended up back outside again until it became very clear who got to buy the beer.
The woods was much the same, it always seemed to follow the progression of things, the top of the pecking order was the fallers or choppers, the newcomers called them “timber fellers”. That caused no end of belly laughter, after a hundred or so years of being “choppers” or “fallers” the newcomers re-named them "fellers". In the local language a “feller” was somebody that just showed up and didn’t know what kind of a man he was yet. Then on down the pecking order was the Catskinners, the truckers and the choker setters. The bottom of the heap was the swampers, or knot bumpers.
The newcomers never really caught on to how things were supposed to be around here. They thought that we were just supposed to blindly accept them. You have got to be kidding! We didn’t even accepted ourselves!
Friday, December 24, 2010
1964 flood revisited.
46 years ago we were in the midst of a great flood, the likes of which has never been seen before or seen since.
I did a post about it before, here is a link for you if you want to take a trip down memory lane, or if you are new to the north coast, some information to bring you up to speed.
I believe that KMUD news is going to do a broadcast about the flood tonight at 6:00 pm. Terry from KMUD News interviewed Sid Green and I, I suspect the hardest part of her interview with us was getting us to shut up!
Here is a link to KMUD.ORG after clicking on the link move you cursor over -"Listen" live/archive-. A drop down menu will appear. then just click on which way that you can receive that live streaming broadcast. If you miss it, you can listen on the "Archives" tomorrow.
I did a post about it before, here is a link for you if you want to take a trip down memory lane, or if you are new to the north coast, some information to bring you up to speed.
I believe that KMUD news is going to do a broadcast about the flood tonight at 6:00 pm. Terry from KMUD News interviewed Sid Green and I, I suspect the hardest part of her interview with us was getting us to shut up!
Here is a link to KMUD.ORG after clicking on the link move you cursor over -"Listen" live/archive-. A drop down menu will appear. then just click on which way that you can receive that live streaming broadcast. If you miss it, you can listen on the "Archives" tomorrow.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Santa takes gift orders from Redway Children
We traversed every road in Redway handing out candy canes. It seems that all of the children were good little kids this year, and deserving of presents, or at least that is what they told Santa. Who would lie to Santa?
Brian was also elected "Rookie of the year". Though he is no rookie to a can-do attitude, he is recently new to the fire department in the last two years.
Jaycee Snodgrass did the "Merry X-mas" sign. When we got through building the cover we had a good laugh. We decided that we should give Santa a Jed Clampet Banjo, and play the theme from the Beverley hillbillies instead of Christmas Carols on the Disc Player.
Fun was had by all and that night we had a Christmas Party at the highly decorated fire hall. We dined on prime rib, prawns, and marinaded chicken breasts. Complete with salads and biscuits. There was a BOWL full of butter on each table. As hard as I tried, I couldn't find a thing to complain about. OH...wait. I did too! they didn't have the salad dressings labeled, but they had a spoon in each bowl so you could taste each one. At least that's what I assumed the spoons were for. I chose a rather tasty blue cheese dressing.
After dinner we danced to the band "Taxi". They kept us moving pretty good!
Ah.... good times!
Friday, December 17, 2010
Lunar Eclipse
To the people out there that are guided by the moon, like maybe werewolves. December 21st is going to be a big night for you! Not only is the Earth going to eclipse the Moon, it's going to happen on the winter solstice. Not only is the lunar eclipse going to happen on the solstice, the center of the eclipse will happen almost directly over us. So, the moon will be in full eclipse for quite some time. Totality should last 72 minutes.
Winter solstice happens at 3:38 pm Pacific Time. That's when Fall turns to Winter. Fall turning to Winter is a subtle difference for Humboldters. We only have two seasons here, dust and mud, and we have long been in mud season.
An eclipse hasn't happened on the winter solstice in 456 years. As you can guess, it is a very rare event. What's even more rare is that we would see anything in the night sky in December. So, if I were you, I wouldn't ever get out of bed to look.
The eclipse will go into totality at 11:41 pm Monday the 20th and come back out at 12:53 am (pacific time) Tuesday the 21st. The "umbra", or the mid-eclipse is at December 21st 2010 at 12:36 am Pacific time. Early Tuesday morning. I hope that there is no more confusion.
Mushrooms!
Four or five years ago we had a deep soaking spring rain the made the wildflowers better than I’ve ever seen them before. Often when I see an incredibly (to me) unusual occurrence I will point it out to me wife. She seems to never agree with me, but often other people will. Ben also noticed the heavy year for acorns. And, anybody that went down the local ridges noticed the wildflowers.
If there is something unusual with the wind or the rain, the river or the night sky, I will notice it. Sometimes I get annoyed that I’m the only one to notice these things. My wife scolds me for even mentioning it, and accuses me of “always saying that it’s best year for etc. etc. etc….” So I apologize, but this is the best year that I have EVER seen for mushrooms, bar none!
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
One man's hero is another mans pariah
John Lennon, From Wicipedia
I hope that I’ve waited a respectable time away from the anniversary of Lennon’s death to do this post, December 8th, 1980. Don’t get me wrong, I think that Lennon’s death was a great tragedy. It was once said that “any man’s death diminishes me”, that always seems to be true.
Lennon was the quintessential dreamer. There is nothing like dreaming. Nothing like lighting up a fatty and wishing that the whole world was like him. Unfortunately if we all sat around and smoked a doobie and sang, nobody would have been able to afford to buy Lennon’s recordings. Oh well, it takes all kinds to make a world, "drags" and producers. I see Lennon as a person that the rest of the world dragged to the top.
I’m probably a little bit older than most of the members of Lennon’s fan club, so I see him differently. I graduated high school in 1963. When I was growing up we had no drugs in Southern Humboldt, other than the ones that the doctor gave you. The only illegal drugs that we even knew about was used by the Mexican people that worked on the railroad. We just assumed that they couldn’t afford tobacco. Nobody would lower themselves to smoke marijuana as long as they could afford tobacco.
I was in college in San Francisco when the Beatles became popular. They seemed overly pretentious to me. Everything that they did back then would be called “In your face” today. Back then, the adults didn’t like them at all. They were impudent, arrogant, and they wore their hair long like girls. The sight of them made most adults shudder. That was a sure recipe for the kids to adore them. The Beatles were a way to tell the parents: “Screw you, I’m all grown up now, I’ll like who I want", and "the Beatles reflect all that I’m feeling about my parents and the world right now".
To the children of the sixties, the Beatles were the picture of their rebellion. The name “BEAT”les… get it? The “beat” generation and the “beat”nics were the rebellious group in vogue at the time. Of course, they named themselves for some other reason, but all the kids knew that it was really about the BEAT, and the teenage rebellion.
It wasn’t long before the Beatles were openly experimenting with drugs. The song “Sweet Mary” was about Marijuana. The very-sophisticated Beatles claimed that the song was actually about Sweet Mary and had nothing to do with Marijuana. That gave the children of the day one more thing to laugh behind their hands about; how stupid the grown-ups were… Ha, ha, ha. “They think that Sweet Mary is about Marijuana… Ha, ha, ha. But, all the time they knew, or at least suspected, that it really was about Marijuana.
By the time that “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” came out, they had the plausible deniability thing down pat. The Beatles must have been laughing uproariously behind closed doors. The more that they denied that the songs had anything to do with drugs, the more the kids knew that the the songs really did, and the more popular the songs became. Every kid joined in denying that “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” was about L.S.D. The song was actually about a little girl named “Lucy”. That was often proclaimed, dripping with self-righteous indignation. Ah… but secretly they knew, and parents were easy to fool, because they are dumb.
I learned to drive on the ranch when I was 9 years old. I was driving a water truck watering logging roads when I was 15 years old. Driving was nothing to clown around about on the steep dirt roads in the logging woods. One little mistake and you would most likely die. Needless to say, I took driving very seriously.
I used to race go-carts on a dirt track, My cousin Oregon and I built a water cooled go-cart that had a large outboard motor stripped down to the motor that was tucked neatly behind the drivers seat. It would do 0-80 mph in the same gear. It would literally tear up a dirt track. It would smoke a paved track. The only problem is that we were forced to go fast to get air over the radiator. We got our thrills driving the darn thing. Soon nobody would race us because they didn’t like being humiliated. So, I knew about go-fast racing and skidding around on dirt.
By the time that other kids were just learning to drive, I had all of the danger-danger out of my system, and was only concerned about getting somewhere safely. I didn’t feel the need to test my skills, or experiment on the highway.
I started smoking when I was ten. I got a few lectures from adults about how stupid it was, and if they had one wish it would be that they would NOT be addicted to nicotine. I was unaware of what an addiction was at the time. They assured me that if I kept screwing around with smoking that I would become addicted. I would lose my ability to run, jump, and hike, and all the things that I loved to do. I knew these people well, I trusted them, I believed them, and I quit. I shudder to think what would have happened to me if I had continued to smoke tobacco.
When the other kids started to smoke at thirteen and fourteen, they would invite me to go with them and hide somewhere and smoke cigarettes. I would simply say, “been there done that, have fun”. Smoking always seemed a little childish to me, having quit at ten years old. I always have to chuckle when I see a kid smoking a cigarette, boy does it seem dumb. But, you can’t tell some kids anything… It’s part of their rebellion.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, I might have grown up a little faster that most kids around me. The fact that I stayed very busy in my youth gave me less time to be bored and get into trouble. My perspective may have been different than my peers.
When we were kids growing up, we were told the things that we couldn’t do because we were too young. “Nope can’t do that, you’re too young”. It seemed like we were too young to do anything that adults liked to do. It was the “do as I say and not as I do generation of parents”. As soon as a kid could sneak a can of beer out of the fridge, they would try it. Some kids thought; “wow that was good”. So kids wondered what else parents were keeping for themselves. Kids were told that they couldn’t drink alcohol because “it was bad for them”. They were told never to have sex out of marriage because they could get syphilis or worse yet get pregnant.
It seemed like everything that the kids of the sixties were told was “bad for them” was great fun. The sixties turned out to be about “Free Love” because kids found out that sex was fun. They soon learned that drinking alcohol was fun. Then they had the Beatles telling them, wink-nod, that smoking marijuana was great fun. Then the Beatles song “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” was implying that LSD was also great fun, and their parents told then that it wasn‘t good for them. So making love, smoking marijuana, and dropping acid turned out to be fabulous fun. The best part is was it was rebellion, and in-their-parents-face. The sixties child was free!
Sadly, some of my friends got caught up in the thrill of the sex drugs and rock and roll way too deeply. I have a few friends that went clear off the deep end. They got tangled up in cocaine. they discovered that they were addicted. Most found their way from cocaine to heroin, to come down softer. Some died laying on the floor in their own puke, unconscious and gasping for breath. Somewhere the fun left the sex drugs and rock and roll.
Many of the big time performers of the sixties got way past their ability to cope. Most people can think of many names of the celebrities that they knew that died of drug O.D.’s… The sad finale of the chapter of fun of using drugs that the Beatles glorified.
It just seemed to me that John Lennon never grew up. He never tired of trying to shock people with his drug use or sexual escapades. He sang songs about how screwed up the world was, and how wonderful it would be if everybody could just get stoned like him. He never followed through to tried to imagine what the world would really be like if everybody was stoned.
So when people all join hands, stand in a circle, and sing the praises of John Lennon, forgive me, but I watch with a certain amount of incredulity. I feel like an Indian on Columbus day. I don’t see John Lennon's life work as anything to celebrate.
I’ve seen the aftermath of the thrill of drugs just to damn many times, someone laying in their own vomit is nothing to be happy about. Some live to do it all over again, and some go back to their maker. I wish that there was some way to connect the young person starting to play with drugs to the pathetic shell of a human dying in their own puke. “Imagine” if young people could do that.
I’m sorry about my cynicism. But, I got to see the whole story. From not knowing a thing about drug use, to the finale episode. Many of you, that came in the middle, may have had enough information to know how to use drugs recreationally and not go too far. I know that most people don’t die from drug use, but many do. Those few that die, remind me that I was told that this would be the result of the Beatles glorification of drugs. Even if it is wrong to think that way, I’m reminded of that every time I see the poor people that got beyond their control. I see the dying shell in the puke, and how damn sad it is. Imagine that.
Lennon was the quintessential dreamer. There is nothing like dreaming. Nothing like lighting up a fatty and wishing that the whole world was like him. Unfortunately if we all sat around and smoked a doobie and sang, nobody would have been able to afford to buy Lennon’s recordings. Oh well, it takes all kinds to make a world, "drags" and producers. I see Lennon as a person that the rest of the world dragged to the top.
I’m probably a little bit older than most of the members of Lennon’s fan club, so I see him differently. I graduated high school in 1963. When I was growing up we had no drugs in Southern Humboldt, other than the ones that the doctor gave you. The only illegal drugs that we even knew about was used by the Mexican people that worked on the railroad. We just assumed that they couldn’t afford tobacco. Nobody would lower themselves to smoke marijuana as long as they could afford tobacco.
I was in college in San Francisco when the Beatles became popular. They seemed overly pretentious to me. Everything that they did back then would be called “In your face” today. Back then, the adults didn’t like them at all. They were impudent, arrogant, and they wore their hair long like girls. The sight of them made most adults shudder. That was a sure recipe for the kids to adore them. The Beatles were a way to tell the parents: “Screw you, I’m all grown up now, I’ll like who I want", and "the Beatles reflect all that I’m feeling about my parents and the world right now".
To the children of the sixties, the Beatles were the picture of their rebellion. The name “BEAT”les… get it? The “beat” generation and the “beat”nics were the rebellious group in vogue at the time. Of course, they named themselves for some other reason, but all the kids knew that it was really about the BEAT, and the teenage rebellion.
It wasn’t long before the Beatles were openly experimenting with drugs. The song “Sweet Mary” was about Marijuana. The very-sophisticated Beatles claimed that the song was actually about Sweet Mary and had nothing to do with Marijuana. That gave the children of the day one more thing to laugh behind their hands about; how stupid the grown-ups were… Ha, ha, ha. “They think that Sweet Mary is about Marijuana… Ha, ha, ha. But, all the time they knew, or at least suspected, that it really was about Marijuana.
By the time that “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” came out, they had the plausible deniability thing down pat. The Beatles must have been laughing uproariously behind closed doors. The more that they denied that the songs had anything to do with drugs, the more the kids knew that the the songs really did, and the more popular the songs became. Every kid joined in denying that “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” was about L.S.D. The song was actually about a little girl named “Lucy”. That was often proclaimed, dripping with self-righteous indignation. Ah… but secretly they knew, and parents were easy to fool, because they are dumb.
I learned to drive on the ranch when I was 9 years old. I was driving a water truck watering logging roads when I was 15 years old. Driving was nothing to clown around about on the steep dirt roads in the logging woods. One little mistake and you would most likely die. Needless to say, I took driving very seriously.
I used to race go-carts on a dirt track, My cousin Oregon and I built a water cooled go-cart that had a large outboard motor stripped down to the motor that was tucked neatly behind the drivers seat. It would do 0-80 mph in the same gear. It would literally tear up a dirt track. It would smoke a paved track. The only problem is that we were forced to go fast to get air over the radiator. We got our thrills driving the darn thing. Soon nobody would race us because they didn’t like being humiliated. So, I knew about go-fast racing and skidding around on dirt.
By the time that other kids were just learning to drive, I had all of the danger-danger out of my system, and was only concerned about getting somewhere safely. I didn’t feel the need to test my skills, or experiment on the highway.
I started smoking when I was ten. I got a few lectures from adults about how stupid it was, and if they had one wish it would be that they would NOT be addicted to nicotine. I was unaware of what an addiction was at the time. They assured me that if I kept screwing around with smoking that I would become addicted. I would lose my ability to run, jump, and hike, and all the things that I loved to do. I knew these people well, I trusted them, I believed them, and I quit. I shudder to think what would have happened to me if I had continued to smoke tobacco.
When the other kids started to smoke at thirteen and fourteen, they would invite me to go with them and hide somewhere and smoke cigarettes. I would simply say, “been there done that, have fun”. Smoking always seemed a little childish to me, having quit at ten years old. I always have to chuckle when I see a kid smoking a cigarette, boy does it seem dumb. But, you can’t tell some kids anything… It’s part of their rebellion.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, I might have grown up a little faster that most kids around me. The fact that I stayed very busy in my youth gave me less time to be bored and get into trouble. My perspective may have been different than my peers.
When we were kids growing up, we were told the things that we couldn’t do because we were too young. “Nope can’t do that, you’re too young”. It seemed like we were too young to do anything that adults liked to do. It was the “do as I say and not as I do generation of parents”. As soon as a kid could sneak a can of beer out of the fridge, they would try it. Some kids thought; “wow that was good”. So kids wondered what else parents were keeping for themselves. Kids were told that they couldn’t drink alcohol because “it was bad for them”. They were told never to have sex out of marriage because they could get syphilis or worse yet get pregnant.
It seemed like everything that the kids of the sixties were told was “bad for them” was great fun. The sixties turned out to be about “Free Love” because kids found out that sex was fun. They soon learned that drinking alcohol was fun. Then they had the Beatles telling them, wink-nod, that smoking marijuana was great fun. Then the Beatles song “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” was implying that LSD was also great fun, and their parents told then that it wasn‘t good for them. So making love, smoking marijuana, and dropping acid turned out to be fabulous fun. The best part is was it was rebellion, and in-their-parents-face. The sixties child was free!
Sadly, some of my friends got caught up in the thrill of the sex drugs and rock and roll way too deeply. I have a few friends that went clear off the deep end. They got tangled up in cocaine. they discovered that they were addicted. Most found their way from cocaine to heroin, to come down softer. Some died laying on the floor in their own puke, unconscious and gasping for breath. Somewhere the fun left the sex drugs and rock and roll.
Many of the big time performers of the sixties got way past their ability to cope. Most people can think of many names of the celebrities that they knew that died of drug O.D.’s… The sad finale of the chapter of fun of using drugs that the Beatles glorified.
It just seemed to me that John Lennon never grew up. He never tired of trying to shock people with his drug use or sexual escapades. He sang songs about how screwed up the world was, and how wonderful it would be if everybody could just get stoned like him. He never followed through to tried to imagine what the world would really be like if everybody was stoned.
So when people all join hands, stand in a circle, and sing the praises of John Lennon, forgive me, but I watch with a certain amount of incredulity. I feel like an Indian on Columbus day. I don’t see John Lennon's life work as anything to celebrate.
I’ve seen the aftermath of the thrill of drugs just to damn many times, someone laying in their own vomit is nothing to be happy about. Some live to do it all over again, and some go back to their maker. I wish that there was some way to connect the young person starting to play with drugs to the pathetic shell of a human dying in their own puke. “Imagine” if young people could do that.
I’m sorry about my cynicism. But, I got to see the whole story. From not knowing a thing about drug use, to the finale episode. Many of you, that came in the middle, may have had enough information to know how to use drugs recreationally and not go too far. I know that most people don’t die from drug use, but many do. Those few that die, remind me that I was told that this would be the result of the Beatles glorification of drugs. Even if it is wrong to think that way, I’m reminded of that every time I see the poor people that got beyond their control. I see the dying shell in the puke, and how damn sad it is. Imagine that.
No excuse for stupid people!
I was driving home from Alderpoint yesterday. As will happen with people like me that like to live it the real world, I started thinking about the clueless people that I always seem to run into, or more likely they run into me. I often wonder how some people get through a single day without killing themselves or somebody near them. Some people are so unaware of their surroundings that a mountain lion could be sneaking up on them and they wouldn’t even know it. Can you imagine that? They surely wouldn’t have lived a single day back in the 1860’s. They are fortunate that they live in the here-and-now, where people are obligated to take care of the people around them. People constantly have to remind them: Don’t step in that hole! Watch out for that limb! Don’t trip! Hold onto the rail! Don’t put the batteries in backwards or it will explode! It goes on and on but you get the drift.
About half way up the hill I came upon a county road crew. I saw the flagman with a stop sign in his hand. I edged over to the shoulder of the road to leave room for oncoming traffic. I pulled right up next to him, leaving him room for comfort, but able to communicate. I’ve done plenty of flagging with the fire department, so I was thinking to myself how much he probably appreciated someone that knows what they are doing. I’m comfortable in most situations.
The traffic went through smoothly, because I had left them plenty of room. The flagman turned his sign around to slow. As I start to pull away, the flagman slowed me down, I expected him to thank me for knowing what I was doing, but he said. “Turn your lights on. It’s raining and it’s foggy on top”. I could tell by the look on his face what he was thinking, I have a talent for that. He was thinking: “Idiot, I don’t know how some people make it through a single day without killing themselves or somebody near them.” I thought about explaining that the blank look on my face was because I was deep in thought and I was not really oblivious. It just seemed like he wouldn’t have been interested.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Jury Summons
The court system is certainly laid-back. They treat everything with the knowledge that they can totally screw-up your life if they want to. If they send you a Jury Summons, you MUST respond. They are smug in their knowlege that you are out there doing the best you can to jump through their hoops. Never-mind what else you are doing, it's your duty as an American citizen is to drop everything and drive to Eureka, or what ever courtroom that they summons you to, and do your duty, God Bless America.
Woe be unto him that tries to ignore a summons! How do they continually seem to be able to summons ME? I once got a parking-ticket fine from Santa Barbara. Yes, Santa Barbara! I've never been there in my life, and I don't think that my truck has either. The only thing that was right on the whole ticket was the license number. Even more insulting, the ticket was on a Yougo. I wouldn't be caught dead driving a Yougo. But it was my responsibility to prove that THEY made a BIG mistake, thus taking hours out of my precious time. It probably wouldn't have taken that much of my time, but I had to lecture and embellish in the letter that I wrote them. Being borderline obsessive-compulsive... Oh hell, I'm probably full blown obsessive-compulsive. I maybe wrote too long a letter, but everything seemed to go away. I think that it was my detailed explanation that saved me!
Anyway I'm obviously attention-deficit-syndrome also, because I keep following my anger instead of my subject. I got a jury summons last October. I'm not sure when, because the courts are so important that they don't even have to pay postage, or get a date on the letter stamp cancellation. The summons was to appear for November 09, 2010 at 8:15 AM. I guess they get 15 minutes to make coffee. I responsibly put the summons the middle of my desk to get my attention. That's where I put everything that I need to deal with. Sometimes the pile gets ahead of me and I don't get back to the bottom for a while. I need something like a compost bin that I can turn every now and then. Anyway, the summons got buried until it was too late to reply. I was secretly overjoyed, because I could honestly say "I forgot". The universal slackers reply! Hah! Home Feee!
NOPE! By November 17th I got a computer generated scolding for "failing to appear. One of the reasons that I sometimes wait too long to reply is they never allow you to make-up a good excuse. There IS NO excuse, from me, that will make them happy. They leave a place for my Doctor to say why I won't be there, but I just can't tell them myself! I find that very insulting, like I would LIE to them.
Anyway, they foolishly left me a blank on the scolding letter that read: "REASON FOR FAILURE TO APPEAR" Hah! They finally want to hear from me! Good!
So, I wrote them the following letter:
December 9, 2010
Jury Commissioner
Superior Court of California
County of Humboldt
825 Fifth Street, Room G03
Eureka, California. 95501
Dear Kerri L. Keenan
Court Executive Officer.
Re: 100092292
Things to consider:
1- I am 65 years old. I am unable to retire because I’ve led a rather frivolous, but fun filled life. So, I'm still working for a living.
2- I work as a refrigeration contractor. My wife and I also run a retail store in Garberville. My job allows me a lot of free time, but I have to be available to cover emergency freezer and refrigeration calls. Ice-cream has a habit of melting down in my dalliance. Sometimes, when I have to send a customer to other contractors, to get things repaired, they don’t come back.
3- My wife needs to be out of town once a week, to visit and care for her 96 year old mother. I feel that the store runs better in her absence when I’m close-by. That’s a myth in which she allows me to persist.
4- The retail store has employees, for which I’m able to fill-in when they have their various life emergencies. However, they can’t fill-in for me.
5- I am a volunteer first responder, (fire/medical). It gives me great joy to be part of saving a person’s life. It also gives me joy to be part of a fire-department that often saves a home, or a business from a fire. It gives me less joy when we are only able to save the buildings next door, but some days just don’t go as well as others. Often we don’t have a full crew. I love my community, and it’s people, and I feel very responsible for it.
6a- My wife tells me that I don’t hear very well. I know that is not true. She continually mumbles and expects me to figure out what she is saying. I find that to be annoying. I can hear the news on the TV just fine. Sometimes I miss a few things because she screams at me to turn the TV down, then I have to listen for the next broadcast. And… she wonders why I watch the same thing over and over. Sometimes I take a nap while I’m waiting for the next broadcast.
6b-I see very well without my glasses, as long as the light is very bright. Please pardon the large type, my computer screen gets all fuzzy when I type smaller.
7- I am a prostate cancer survivor. I’m am rather proud of my doctors, because, I am “cured”. I am glad that I’m cured, because, I don’t like sympathy! As you might imagine, nobody has been cured of prostate cancer without a few side effects. Mine are: When nature calls, I stop whatever I’m doing and go the restroom. That’s absolutely no problem at all, as long as nothing is between me and the restroom. I’m in control of my life, and it’s functions. As I say, this is not a problem for me at all, I only involve myself in things that allows me the freedom to be where I need to be when I need to be there.
8- I consider myself to be a good citizen, even though I’ve been told that voting will put me on jury-duty, I vote responsibly, and I follow most of the laws that I agree with.
10- I have often served on juries in my hometown of Garberville. That was back when the country was run by it’s citizens, and not the evil corporations, and bought-out politicians. Back then, we could afford to have our own courthouse. I had a gentleman’s agreement with the local court that I would serve any winter’s day. I was too busy in the summer. Quite often the judge, or his assistant, would call me in, to see if I could qualify to be a juror.
11a- I was a juror a few times, I was even the jury foreman a few times. Most often I had a great deal sympathy for the accused, but we found the person guilty of their crimes. It was with some comfort to know that we were right, according to the laws of the land.
11b-One person, whom everybody knew was guilty, but the lawyers couldn’t thus prove, was turned loose. I would love to tell the story, It’s a great story! But, my time is too valuable to write about it, and I know that your time is too valuable to read about it.
12-You asked me to state the: “Reason for failure to appear”. I don’t really have the time to go into it, and again, neither do you. Besides, I think the 5th amendment tells me that I don’t have to tell you. I could be wrong, I’m not a lawyer. Also, I’m not going to consult with one unless I have to.
13a-I could probably get a note that would get me off jury duty from many of my doctors. I probably really don’t hear that well, but I’m functional. I probably really don’t see that well, but I’m functional. My bathroom habits are inconsistent, but, thank-God, they are not incontinent… yet.
13b-I’m getting more sympathetic in my waning years, and it’s likely that I would just turn some poor person loose that has been harassed and harangued by the legal system. I know that it can be unyieldingly cumbersome at times.
14- (Because, I can’t just stop at 13). -You will probably, wisely, throw this letter in the trash. So I am, wisely, going to save a copy of it. That way, I can just forward this to you on your next query as to why I’m not there. I move slower now, so I find ways to save time.
15- I would probably qualify as a member of a jury-of-their-peers if you have an insanity case. Otherwise, I most respectfully request that you remove me from your jury list.
Respectfully,
Ernest Leroy Branscomb
429 Maple Lane
Garberville, California
95542
To any friends that may wish to visit me in jail, I like peanutbutter oatmeal cookies.
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