Shades of Ol' Sam Walton.

Wal-Mart recently announced that China has to clean up it's act! They have to meet standards for energy efficiency, water conservation, reduction of non-recyclables, and they can't use or abuse child labor laws. I wonder how Walmart will enforce this? Never mind, at least it's a step in the right direction. At some point if China has to clean up it's act, and play by Americans rules, American workers may stand a chance of competing in the world work force again.

Link: Walmart tells china that there are new standards

"Wal-Mart's suppliers have been forced to get serious about pollution, Ma said. "Wal-Mart says if you're over the compliance level, you're out of business. That will send a powerful signal."

"If Wal-Mart were a sovereign nation, it would be China's fifth or sixth largest export market."
We send a lot of money to China.

"Many China experts say Wal-Mart's guidelines could be more important than the government's."


Whether this will help Wal-Mart's relations with U.S. customers isn't clear.
"Our customers care; they just don't want to pay more," one Wal-Mart executive said.

"Labor costs have risen, Wong said; a worker typically earns as much as $132 a month."

"We hope to get more customers," said Barry Friedman, vice president for corporate affairs in Beijing. "We're not doing it solely out of the goodness of our hearts."











 

Anna Hamilton, Friend Of Us

Well folks, I'm in a difficult position, so I’ll try to be delicate, but hide the china in case I don’t succeed. Anna Hamilton is a friend of mine and I will always listen to what she has to say. She has done many magnanimous things for our community, and her heart is in the right place. She gave her “We’ve got trouble, right here in River City” speech at rotary, I introduced her. Only this time the “trouble” is legalizing Marijuana, and the “river” is the South Fork of the Eel. It hits pretty close to home, as they say.


Being an old guy, I see a certain amount of humor in all of the squirming going on with the grower, and the business crowd. Forty years ago there was a different kind of squirming going on in the South Fork of the Eel. The loggers, the ranchers, were being overrun by a crowd of long-haired militant people bent on “taking back the land for the people”.

The locals had meetings about what to do about them. They all felt that we had to get rid of them, or surely there would be “hell to pay.” “Logging and ranching just cannot exist with dope growing, hippy dogs, and and the people don’t have any standards whatsoever.” “MY God, they even thought that cheating the welfare system, and living together in communes designed to “rip of the system” was okay”. Can you imagine that?

Out of the meetings, that were designed to try to head of the infiltrating scourge headed to our beautiful canyon... that was about to be defiled... if we didn’t do something about it. It was decided that a judge here in town was “a hippy lover”. We voted almost unanimously to have him recalled. The recall election was held, and he retained his position. The cops clandestinely rebelled, and as much as said; “that they would no longer do anything about hippies, drugs, welfare, or vehicle crime because, the Judge now had a mandate to protect the hippies”. We wasted our time doing all that squirming, the Back to the Landers are still here

The flood gates opened, and there was no stopping it. The loggers and ranchers tried spraying to get rid of the “hippie weed” that they grew here. Out of that futile attempt, the environmental movement took over the north coast. The “Back to the landers” claimed all kinds of rashes and birth defects caused by the spraying. Some claims were real, and some were bald face lies that worked just as well, because nobody questioned the thought that “chemicals had to be bad”.

After the “Back to the Landers” became established, and became ingrained, they started openly growing marijuana, to the point that they were walking all over the local people, I personally had a grower tell me, as a merchant, that I should “just plain kiss his ass, because if it weren’t for people like him, I would just plain dry up and blow away”. I always thought that was particularly unfair, because he, and people like him, drove the local people that we used to depend on out of here, and killed all of our local industry, making local merchants almost completely dependant on them. While I’m in this china shop, dancing on all the china, I want to make it clear that this person was one of the “Bad Apples” that you find in every barrel, and was miles away from the normal rather non-violent “Hippy Dude“. So, don’t holler at me, I’m Frank today not Ernest.

That was at a time that CAMP was just starting, and the growers were in a panic. They thought that if we all banded together we could stop CAMP. They made up a list of merchants that said: “These Local Merchants are for Civil Rights”. It was well understood that if you didn’t put your name on that list, that you would be boycotted, and you would get to, personally, feel the effect of the marijuana dollar. Well CAMP is still here. We did all that squirming for nothing.


About thirty years ago, I introduced a man by the mane of Chris Thiel(Sp?), from the Humboldt Sheriff’s Office, to The Garberville Rotary Club. He said that we needed to band together to stop the growing in southern Humboldt, or there would “be Hell to pay” he suggested letter writing campaigns to every politician on our lists. He claimed that, slowly and surely, the grower was driving out industry, and supplanting it with “a product that would one day either be legalized, or eradicated” and either way if we didn’t get rid of it now, we would rue the day.

What should we do about legalization? Having been there before, I understand that we might as well all join hands, back up to the ocean, and try to stem the tide. We’ve done it before, it never works. So here we are.
Rue…

Amsterdam, the California of Europe.

This is another of my "Outside looking in" posts. Please feel free to correct my misconceptions and mistakes, but "I tells it as I sees it."

Amsterdam is often referred as the “enlightened capitol of the present world”. It used to be Greece. Amsterdam allows prostitution, and openly allows marijuana and hashish to be smoked above coffee houses, on the second floor. Needless to say, there are a lot of two story coffee houses in Amsterdam.

I noticed that it is darn hard to get any real information about Amsterdam, it’s almost like they have a publicity censor that works the internet. Recently there has been a big push in Amsterdam toward cleaning out the drugs and prostitution in the famous City. It appears that some folks don’t like the way that the city is heading. They say that it is bringing in too many undesirables. They are even closing down the Drug Sanctuary on the park on the river.

Most people really don’t care if the addicts go away. They are still somewhat ambivalent about prostitution. I guess they think that young people need some place to go to learn the art of making love. I wonder how much the hookers charge for prosti-tuition.

People traveling back into Germany from Amsterdam are thoroughly searched, and sniffed by drug dogs. Many are caught trying to conceal drugs. How stupid is that?

Maybe if California legalizes drugs and prostitution we can attract the “Cool” tourists of the world, Amsterdam be damned.

I’ve posted some of the best links to Amsterdam below, and their changing ideas.


1992 http://bigjournalism.com/mwalsh/2010/03/14/sex-drugs-and-euthanasia-amsterdam-1992/

2008 http://www.javno.com/en-world/some-dutch-cannabis-coffee-shops-to-go-up-in-smoke/206157

2010 http://www.dutchamsterdam.nl/545-coffeeshops-netherlands


"The leveling effects of the Sixties were more radical in the Netherlands than in other countries. Consensus decision making (which in later years became known as the poldermodel) led to the gedoogcultuur. The official tolerance that resulted has earned Holland, and Amsterdam in particular, the reputation as a place where anything goes — the world capital of relativism."

"Kids will have sex, whether you like it or not. So, at 12 years old, they get education and can go to a clinic to get contraceptives. Anonymously, if they want. Their parents won’t know.
Does this stimulate Dutch adolescents to have sex at a younger age, as critics might claim? No. Dutch youngsters have their first sexual experience relatively late. And more importantly, the number of abortions and unwanted pregnancies among teenagers is the lowest in the world."

Drug Tourism
Last month the mayors of two towns in the South of the Netherlands have announced the closure of all coffeeshops — eight in total — within their municipalities. The reason? The nuisance caused by ‘drug tourists’ who cross the borders in search of soft drugs banned in their own countries.

“There are 25,000 drug tourists per week who visit these coffeeshops,” says Mayor Han Polman of Bergen op Zoom.

"A 2007 report by Amsterdam’s Department for Research and Statistics shows that of the 4.5 million tourists who spend the night in Amsterdam during a given year, 26% visit a coffeeshop. According to the Amsterdam Tourism & Convention Board, 10% of tourists even mention this as a primary reason to visit the city."

"At the same time, coffeeshops are more or less forced to deal with criminal organizations. The latter tend to have sophisticated growing operations in out of the way places. Others rent houses, squat abandoned buildings, or even break into home of people who are on vacation in order to set up temporary weed farms.

They are not just supplying Holland’s coffeeshops. It is estimated that half of the Dutch cannabis users buy their supplies on the black market. At the same time, last month a Dutch police commissioner stated that the illegal export of Dutch-grown marijuana generates about 2 billion euros ($2.58) each year."
"Meanwhile, the Maastricht city council has accepted a motion to move coffeeshops current located in the center of town to three “coffeecorners” at the outskirts of the city — close to the border with Belgium.

Mayor Gerd Leers says he prefers to maintain the policy of gedogen, and for now is interested merely in trying to minimize nuisance caused by hordes of drugs tourists by decentralizing the coffeeshops."






e

Do drugs make you smarter?

The common Buckwheat grain is said to develop a mold that L.S.D. is derived from.

They say that "if you remember the 60s, you were never really there."
Spyrock brought up a point that I have often pondered. He sent me a clipping from A. Hoffman, the developer of L.S.D.

“Dear Mr. Steve Jobs,

Hello from Albert Hofmann. I understand from media accounts that you feel LSD helped you creatively in your development of Apple computers and your personal spiritual quest. I'm interested in learning more about how LSD was useful to you.

I'm writing now, shortly after my 101st birthday, to request that you support Swiss psychiatrist Dr. Peter Gasser's proposed study of LSD-assisted psychotherapy in subjects with anxiety associated with life-threatening illness. This will become the first LSD-assisted psychotherapy study in over 35 years. I hope you will help in the transformation of my problem child into a wonder child.

Sincerely, A. Hofmann”

Spyrock went on to say:
this is the guy who invented lsd in 1939, it was pure, no other ingredients were added.
i'm copying all of this from elsewhere.

until 1967 everything was beautiful then the insanity began.

the cia got into the business of altering human behavior in 1947.
project paperclip brought 1000 nazi specialists to work in the us military and civilian institutions to continue their work on controlling the mind.

the us army got interested in using lsd for interrogation purposes in 1950. from 1956 until 1975 us army intelligence experimented with hallucinogenic drugs.

the cia and army spent over 26 million testing lsd code name ea 1729. contracts went out to 48 different institutions for testing. the cia concealed their participation by contracting to various colleges, hospitals, prisons, mental hospitals, and private foundations.

the lsd i will refer to is the same type of lsd that the cia used because of the similarity of symptoms between their reports and what happened to musicians or hippies after 1967. we shall be speaking of cia-lsd, not pure lsd.

government agents had the ability to cause permanent insanity, identical to schizophrenia, without physician or family knowing what happened to the victim.

when the first reports came out that the cia could administer a tasteless substance into the beverage of one of their most responsible co-workers, and drive that man into a mental institution, or cause him to jump out of a window to his death, all existing cia records were destroyed.

i found this all on the internet looking for the why of your topic.
i've often wondered why so many people went nuts or died after 1967 or turned into the assholes that have irritated ernie for so long. now we know why.

while we all wait for the few former hippies left alive to sue the government. i'll share these words from bd.

while preacher preach of evil fates
teachers teach that knowledge waits
can lead to hundred dollar plates
goodness hides behind its gates
But even the president of the United States
sometimes must have
to stand naked.
End quote.

Back when I was growing up, I attended college in San Francisco.('63-'64) I had plenty of opportunity to do drugs, but I was particularly un-interested in altering my perception of reality. Remember, I’m the guy that only believes in “reality“. Things that can be hit with a hammer. I didn’t do drugs, and I didn’t drink alcohol. I was raised in the Briceland Bar, and I didn’t see a whole lot of intelligence in the bar scene. Some engaged in a lot of big talk about how smart that they thought that they were, but the smart talk didn’t seem all that real to me. I used to wonder how smart they were in the morning.

My roommate in college sometimes drank too much and he expected sympathy the next morning. I really didn’t care, and went about my noisy clamor. One night he brought home a bottle, sat two shot glasses on the table, poured two shots, one for him and one for me, and said “drink”.



I went about my standard polite refusal. About how I preferred not to drink. He said, “you don’t understand, I said drink. it wasn’t a choice”.


I considered the alternatives, being a country boy, just out of working in the woods, I was I really good shape. So, I considered flat refusing and standing my ground. He was also a country boy, just off a rice farm in Gridley. He was also in very shape… but about twice my size. So I said “here’s too ya”. and bottomed it up.



He poured another, and looked at me. He said “you’ve never been really drunk have you?”



I said: “Nope, I don’t drink. I never really saw the point in drinking. What would it be like if something happened that I needed a clear head to deal with it, and I was all screwed up and drunk?” I though that was a great point. “I don’t believe that there is any God that is going to take care of me. I’m the only one that gives much of a darn about what happens to me, so I take real good care of myself. I don’t push my luck, because when I do, it seems like something always bites me in the rear.”



He said “well your going to find out what a hangover is like.”



I guess that I really didn’t get that drunk, I remember every agonizing moment of it. The place next door had a fire the week before, and I wondered if I could get out of the building if it was on fire. We were on the 4th floor. My girlfriend lived on the 5th floor and I was certain (In my mind) that she would need rescuing. Then, I lived in San Francisco, they have earthquakes! What would happen if there was an earthquake. Can you imagine how tough it would be to rescue your girlfriend off the 5th floor and make your way out of the city to safety, all while being DRUNK!



I’ve seen drunk people in emergencies before. To hear them tell it, they claim; “I just sobered right up when I discovered that there was an emergency”. Maybe in their mind they did, but they were still spinning, and doing everything wrong, and getting in the way of other people. So, the thought of being drunk seriously bothered me.



In the world that I was raised in, alcohol was bad enough, but “drugs” were out of the question. We were told that L.S.D. would fry your brain and that it would make a person think that they were smarter, when outwardly, the things that you did made it apparent that you weren’t smarter.



Then there was the variety of drugs that made you feel better while you accomplish zero. Or the ones that made you scratch your face off, and make your teeth fall out. It occurred to me, early on, that I was not a “altered state of being” type being. I’ve always been real fond of reality. I don’t need drugs or religion lying to me about anything.


I’ve heard a lot of stories about how people have expanded their minds with L.S.D. Eased their pain with painkillers, or plain old Marijuana, or used drugs recreationally. Most people do, it’s just not my bag.



Does anybody think that Steve Jobs invented the Apple computer because he was wacked out on L.S.D. or do you think that he would have been better off without it?




e

I'm all ears.

Once I moved about like the wind. Now I surrender to you and that is all. -- Geronimo

It has become more and more apparent to me that my words sometimes offend people. What I might think is humor over the human condition, others see prejudice and malice. At what point is it not okay to mention the things that happen around us. At what point does conversation become unacceptable.

I encourage open comment on this blog and have not deleted anything except flagrant viciousness directed toward me or others. This blog is a good place to post your thoughts. I encourage comments. Some tell me that they read every word written here, but they don’t comment or add their own thoughts. I accept that, but I don’t understand it. I don’t ever make fun of people that have trouble communicating, and more often than not we can all understand a poorly communicated position. So, the fact that you may not be able to write well is no excuse for not adding your thoughts here.

Lately, it has been occurring to me that I am one of the few people that lived here before the huge influx of people that came here in the late sixties and early seventies. We now have three generations of the “back to the land” movement living here. The people that were born here rightfully feel that they are a part of culture that exists here.

I was talking to an old friend this morning about my use of the term “Newcomer”. I consider the term to be tongue in cheek, while others see it as being just plain cheeky.

I was wondering if anybody really cares about what it was like before the influx of new people? Is it important? Tell me how this area has benefited from the back to the land movement. I’ll listen for a change.

Spring Fever

Okay, I’ll admit it! Spring may be my favorite season, if for no other reason than; I get cabin fever in the winter, and I can’t wait to poke my nose outside and get some fresh air and sunshine. Even though I get tired of the rain, I like the rain, especially when it rains hard and makes the skylights on my house roar. The early rains of Fall make the dry brown grass start to turn green again in an early promise of renewal. Mother nature likes to tease me with little promises. A blade of grass here, and Daffodil or two there. Pretty soon about the 1st of February I start itching to get outside.

The ground hog comes out on the 2nd of February and always has discouraging news about more of a long winter. I grumble to myself; what does a ground hog really know anyway. I pass it all off as Ground Hogwash. But, the rains keep coming. Soon, I can’t stand it, and I go for a walk in the rain. I don’t wear a raincoat because for some reason the locals never wore raincoats. If it was raining too hard we didn’t go out in the rain. There was an old expression about “not being smart enough to come in out of the rain”, so locals just didn’t go out when it was raining too hard. If you had work to do outside, you would just wait until the hard showers were over, step outside when it slowed down, then come back inside when it started raining too hard again. Because, we had great pride in having sense enough to come in out of the rain.

The Newcomers that came up here to get back-to-the-land, showed up dressed like later-day Daniel Boones, complete with a Jim Bowie knife strapped to their belts and a coonskin cap. They smelled like patchouli oil, B.O. and dirt. I don’t see any of those guys any more. I think that they got rich and winter-up in Puerto whatch-a-ma-callit now.

The thing that we always noticed about the newcomers is they had raincoats and Vibram soled barn boots. When it was raining hard the locals would sit inside, usually in a restaurant booth with a good view of the street. We’d look out the windows and watch the newcomers walking up and down the street in the rain. One of us would mumble, “look at them damn fools, no sense to come out of the rain”. Then we’d feel real good about ourselves, being inside where it was dry and smart.

If one of them would head for the door we would bet whether they would wipe their feet or just track mud all over hell. We had a theory that city bred people didn’t know how to wipe their feet, because they’d never seen mud before. Humboldt County must have been a wonderful learning experience for them.

But, I was talking about spring wasn’t I. About the middle of February there is a little flower that comes out that is a real pretty flower. It only grows in complete shade. It only blooms for a short time. We called it a Zebra Flower, because it has three Zebra striped petals about ¾ inch long it has long green waxy leaves, with pea sized grey/green spots on them. The Newcomers call them “Slink Pods”. They are very abundant, but unknown by most people, because few people walk around in a dripping wet forest in mid-February. Just us cabin fever types.

As kids we would tell the girls that if they picked a bunch of them and rubbed them between their hands and rubbed it on their arms, they would smell like flowers. Which is true. They would smell just like Zebra Flowers, otherwise known as The FETID Adders Tongue. Fetid like in rotten meat.

Slink pod photo by:

Brother Eric Vogel, F.S.C.

The Indian warriors start blooming in February and into March I learned from Kym the other day that Indian warrior was a parasite plant that grows of the roots of other plants, just like mistletoe grows of the limbs. Why didn’t I know that? I’m ashamed that I didn’t, but at least Kym knew it.

The Buckeye trees are starting to get small leaves, and the Dogwood is starting to get green colored buds. I saw three gray squirrels doing the squirrel thing, where they circle the tree at blinding speed, chasing each other. They speed around the tree at such a blinding speed that you can’t tell who is chasing who. I had to laugh. Even the squirrels are getting kinky nowadays. A manage a trois of squirrels??? That’s just a little to squirrelly for me!

The skunks are breeding, I’m not really sure why Skunks think that the only place that they can breed in in the middle of the freeway. You can expect to see, and smell, a lot of road-flattened skunks in your travels.

Now, if you are a Birder, the swallows should be showing up any day now. So start watching. See if you can be the first to see a swallow. They show up at Benbow, because they nest in the freeway underpass. They fly up into the little holes in the bridge and nest inside. I usually don’t look for them, I just notice one day that; “Hey, the Swallows are back”.

Photo of Clif Swallow By Dori



The bridge used to be great habitat for them, because of the lake, and the bugs that the lake provided. It will be interesting to see if the swallows can survive without the lake. I know that the Newcomers want to take the dam out, because it was not their idea, but I feel that the dam was beneficial for the fish, in that it provider deep water pooling that was lost due to the erosion that the floods caused. But, what do I know. Time will tell, and as always, it will be too late.

But, spring is coming!

A question from "Anon"

“So, why did you promise yourself that you'd never do this post?”
(About the post below, "oh The horror")




I think that if you read carefully, you will understand that the “Indian Island Massacre” has become the focal point of our shame and pain between two people. During normal everyday life, we all become one community, we work and play together and become one. We are all just friends and family. Any post about “oh the horror” inevitably becomes the source of a new conflict. Usually not between the people with great history on the north coast, but between the “them and us” among us. Or the people that just woke up and heard a story that the early whites killed Indians. Then they say “Oh, how could they”, but they never bother to really try to understand how they could. Not only could they, they did. I think the questions should focus on why it happened. Then you find a failure of government and law and order. You try to see yourself as an early white man. You take it further back and include what would make that man be who he is. You go further back and include his early life, and maybe the trials and tribulations of a wild, wild west trip to California, through a gauntlet of Indians that are trying to kill him. Then you began to understand a little of the bitterness. The whole time you realize that a truly wise man would be able to differentiate between right and wrong, but we aren't talking about wisdom, we are talking about what happened.

You need to read carefully the statements of people like Spyrock, who is by his own admission; “i'm a six generation native american. and i'm proud about that. not ashamed. ernies right. you had to be tough to survive”. And he also said: “when you talk about uncle jack and all those scalps that just meant he was a great warrior by indian standards because that's what he had become by living or surviving here.”

I know from the stories that I was raised with, from my grandmother, my dad and uncles, and local people that “Uncle Jack” Farley killed any Indian that crossed him, but was good to the ones that didn't. He attributed his long life (104) to his friendship with the Indian people. One of his philosophies was “twenty-five Indian lives to one white man's life”. For some reason the Indian people respected that. How do you explain that? I've wondered if it might be the same as battered wife syndrome, where a person really thinks that they did something wrong, and tries to make up for their perceived misdeeds.

The only thing that I know is, that people really don't try to get beyond “oh the horror”. Which causes me to wonder why. I've come to the conclusion that it has to be people that haven't heard the old stories, that I was raised with, to get any kind of understanding. That puts me into a “them and us” mindset. It seems to be okay for “them” to form an opinion, but not “us”. “They” don't see that.

That's why I simply shouldn't bring it up....

"Oh, the horror"

I promised myself that I wouldn't do this post. I wanted to ignore the annual shamefest that people seem to want to delve into.

Recently Jerry Rohde, a respected North Coast historian, wrote an article and published it in the North Coast Journal, a respected North Coast publication. The article was about what most of us already knew, the early settlers were scoundrels, thieves, murderers, and ne’er do wells. Much like we have here today.

I hate these revelations over what “really” happened in early California history. Certainly there was a genocide of the Indian people. If any of the young people, that advocate anarchy, would just look at California’s history from the 1800s, they could easily see what anarchy is like. Greed corruption, and yes, even genocide will occur. May-the-toughest-thug-win. Lawless conflict will turn even the meekest toward the lawless pursuit of survival.

Few understand the pressures placed upon people when they are put into a lawless environment with the challenge to survive. Many will bluster and act tough, with the hopes of scaring away any challengers. We see it all day long in Southern Humboldt. The people that don’t have law enforcement for protection will stockpile guns and ammunition. Many times, automatic weapon fire is heard echoing down the canyons. Most of the people that I know, that have those weapons, don’t really intend to use them on anybody, but they want anyone that might mess with them to think that they would. Beautiful-little-meek-but-rich-girl Patty Hearst readily grabbed an automatic weapon and helped her captors rob a bank. She did that out of trying to impress her captors that she had value, and to not kill her. It’s called Stockholm syndrome in psychology. But, the issue at hand is the pressure that the people of the 1800s found themselves in.

The “Murdering scum” that the North Coast Journal’s Hank Sims referred to were people like the Kelsey’s. The Kelseys that Kelseyville was named after. Their trip to California was to come over the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The Kelseys and a man by the name of Bidwell, (Maybe you have heard of him) had hired Indians on several occasions to guide them. The Indian guides that they hired invariably led them into ambush, where they would have been killed if they hadn’t been well armed. They finally abandoned the idea of hiring Indian guides and decided that they would have to make it over the mountains on their own. Mrs. Kelsey was only sixteen years old and had an infant child to care for. In trying to find a path over the mountain they left Mrs. Kelsey behind with their provisions. When they returned they discovered that Indians had stolen most of their provisions while Mrs. Kelsey hid. The Kelseys and Bidwell lived on wild game that they could find. Game was scarce in the high snow covered elevations. They finally made it to the Sacramento Valley in the area of Stockton. They almost starved, and they almost froze to death. On their trip to California they gained a deep and abiding hate of Indians that they kept up until the day that they died. Many more reasons for them to hate Indians came up during their lifespan. It is said that a Kelsey would shoot and Indian just to watch him jump.

These are the kinds of stories that I hate to tell because somebody will always say; “The Kelseys didn’t belong in California anyway”. Like it or not the Kelseys are an important part of California history. They were involved in the Bear Flag Revolt among other things. Mrs. Kelsey, who was the first white woman to cross the Sierra Nevada mountains, was also the one that made California’s first flag. The Bear Flag. Yet, there are people that want to change the name of Kelseyville because the Kelseys killed Indians. There are people that want to change the name of Larabee Valley because Larabee killed Indians. If that were the criteria for changing name of a town, they will have to change the name of all of the towns named after the California Missions, or the Franciscan Monks, including san Francisco, because they all ruthlessly used, and slaughtered, the Indian people.

Jerry Rohde hinted at some of the thuggery that can abound in the absence of law and order. He mentioned the rancher that was killing other ranchers and blaming it on the Indians. Many ranches became part of other ranches that way. It was hard to protect yourself against that kind of person. You had to be on his side, or some value to him, or you might be the next victim. To survive on the north coast you had to be tough as nails, or belong to a group of people that was. Clearly people feared for their lives. They conducted themselves in such a fashion to appear that nobody should mess with them. When the Indians on Indian Island were killed, it was well understood that it was the act of a conspiracy of a large, and tough as nails, group of people. Nobody gave any information about the murders out of fear. Those that said anything probably voiced approval. It wasn’t healthy to go up against the group of thugs. But, I’m also sure that not many in the group really liked what they were doing. Many felt they had no choice. It was clear that the law wasn’t going to help them. They had petitioned many people, many times, to no avail. Yet, many in the group probably didn’t even tell their wives what they had done.

I know many stories about how brutal and ruthless the Indian people could be, and I know many stories about how brutal and ruthless the white man was. The fact remains that it was a failure of law and order that allowed what happened to happen. To say that the Indian owned the west and that the white man was the interloper is ridiculous. The intrusion in the west by the white man wasn’t anymore stoppable than the recent intrusion of the “Newcomers”. The only difference was Law and order. The Newcomer came to the north coast, and law-and-order made him pay for the land. Never mind that the white man “stole it” from the Indian people.

Now, to get to my point of this whole manuscript. What pains me is the need to continually pick the scab of old wounds in the name of “history” or “getting it right”. Sadly, for the later-day-historians, they will never get it right, because there is too much that they don’t and never will know. There are too many stories that will never be told. Stories about rapes and murders and mayhem on both the Indian and white side. If the historians were smart they would listen to the very wise Indian people that say they have forgiven the white people. As indeed, I have forgiven the Indian people for the things that they did to my family. I take the blame and the credit as Hank Sims said that I should. The Indian people and the whites have, for the past 140 years, have lived in peace and harmony. Indeed, they went to the same schools, intermarried, hunted fished and worked together, and have become close friends.

It was the same white settlers, that the later-day-historians claim whipped up the hate against the Indian people, that actually petitioned the Governor, and indeed the President of the United States, to solve the Indian/white conflict. Little or no help came. The Government solution was tantamount to telling the settlers that the Government officials understood that they needed protection, but we're busy right now. The government and law enforcement came too little, too late. It was a failure of government and law-and-order that led to the inevitable chaos that settled the West.

The locals, both white and Indian learned to live together and respect each other long ago. In a lot of cases we are one family. I have many Indian relatives and friends. Usually when an Indian person is outraged about what happened and wants to drag up the past, pick open the scab, and bring back the pain, it is an outsider Indian. Not many locals want to start the fight over. They do not want to bring up who-did-what again.

I’m sick to death about “Oh, the horror” every time the horror is brought up. There was horror enough to go around on both the white and the Indian sides. What I would like to see more of is “Oh, the History” or “Oh, the culture”. I would like to see more of how the Indian people made baskets, or how and why they burned the land to manage the bush and provide new shoots for making baskets. I would like to see more of what Ben Schill recently did. He translated an Indian poem, "Abalone Woman" about how the flint came to the ridge behind Salmon Creek, and how the red marks came to be in the abalone shell. Why a man said “Women don’t like me, only squirrels I will eat”, and he became an eagle. Great and interesting stories, about how the north coast came about according to the Indian Legends. One thing that I’ve always wondered, is how did the Indian people know when to not eat mussels to avoid paralytic shellfish poisoning? So much has been lost and so much time has been wasted on, “Oh, the horror”

I want to see the tales of the horror ended. Too much has not been told, on both sides, to delve into “Oh the horror.”

Thank you Olmanriver.

Olmanriver


I think you know that Estle Beard is one of my heroes. Without the book Genocide and Vendeta I wouldn’t have been able to put together the many verbal tales of the settling of the Long Valley and Round Valley into a cohesive story that finally made sense to me. His book dotted the “I” and crossed the “T”. for me.

About midway through the book, it hit me how horribly brutal the settlement of the west was. Just like many nouveau students of north coast history I wondered, why didn’t they just leave the Indian people alone. So I dug through the information that I already knew about my own folks migration west. Many of my own family was killed by Indians on their way to California. My 3G grandfather Cull and his son being among them. I also had a group of relatives that were attacked in Arizona on their way to California, only in that attack they were the survivors. It was my grandfather Middleton that had the Indian sneak down his chimney in the middle of the night. I’ve heard many fabled stories about that.

All of my relatives on my fathers side originate in California in the 1850’s. My 4G Grandfather Benjamin Taylor was a wagon master that brought the Branscombs to California. He owned a ranch in Sonoma County. My 3ggrandfather Benjamin Branscomb worked a ferry in the Marysville area. Then moved to Sonoma county and started a dairy that sold milk to the booming San Francisco area. Only later did they move to Branscomb California and build the small town with their wealth that they accumulated in Sonoma.

Once the migrants headed to California their die was cast. There was no turning back. The further west they came, the more persistent the Indian attacks on the migrants were. At some point the migrants were past the point of no return. They couldn’t turn back to civilization and make it home, and their desperation began. They had to make it to California, where they felt that there would be safety in numbers.

The safety in numbers that they sought turned out to be blood thirsty miners fighting over gold claims. The “civilization” turned out to be disease ridden filth, with little or no organization. The law was mostly by mob rule. ALL of my family members HAD to leave the Sacramento Valley to live. They had no choice.

Not everybody came to California for gold. They had heard about the great fertile land that could grow crops year around. By the 1850s most of the Sacramento Valley was being ranched, and farmed, by thugs and big time thieves and racketeers. Even the great John Sutter had a brutal and shady side to him. My family chose to move to the Laytonville area, to drive their stake and build themselves a life. They had ever reason to believe that the pony soldiers were going to keep the peace.

Little did they know that the very peace that they expecting from the pony soldiers turned out to be quite the opposite. In the attempt the round up the Indian people and put them on reservations, they only scattered them and caused mass starvation amongst them. The Indian people were hungry and bitter. Just like any human will, they turned against the white man and they felt that eating their cattle and horses was inarguably justified. The settlers needed their cattle for survival. Few settlers were in the class of the great cattle barons of the Sacramento Valley. They had what we would nowadays call an old MacDonald farm. The had a few chickens, they had a milk cow, a pig, and maybe a horse or two. The more successful of them had a few head of cattle that they hoped would bring them some prosperity. A few of those were people like Jack Farley, Jeremiah Lambert and Bob Poe.

When Jack Farley brought the high bred horses from Indiana to California he expected to breed and sell them to make his fortune. The people of Long Valley petitioned the Government for protection against Indian depredations. It was about that time that the pony soldiers left, almost completely, to fight the Civil war. Jack Farley and the ranchers of Round Valley were left with little or no protection. Without doing something about the Indian depredation they would have to leave the country. There would be no surviving without their animals and safety. After petitioning the government with little or no response they organized a group to force the Government hand in protecting them. The government authorized groups like the Eel River Rangers to round up the Indian people and put them on reservations. The Rangers only drove the poor Indian people into worse desperation. They fled in mass to the Long Valley, were they had in the past been treated fairly by the local ranchers.

Coincidently to the local Indian people showing up in Long Valley, a group of marauding Modoc Indians showed up from the north. The Indians banded together and started killing the cattle from local ranches. They killed Jack Farley’s horses. He he had most of his money tied up in them. That formed the mindset that the ranchers had to protect themselves. They took the group that they had already formed. They went after the Indians that had driven the horses to Horse Canyon. The Indians had killed the horses and were busy cutting up the meat when Farley and his group found them. There is rumors that I have heard that the ranchers killed hundreds of Indians. If that was true there would have had to have been far more ranchers than the four or five that have been named. There are still many inconsistencies. Among them, the date that this all happened. I have heard many dates, and I’m sure that it happened in the early 1860’s but I’ve never heard an exact date.

I believe that it must have been like the statement from Olmanrivers article said. “I can imagine Uncle Jack on seeing this--I'll bet he had red crosses in both of his eyes”. They started killing the Indians, at first with no remorse, then soon they started dreading the killing, but they went on to kill most of them. At some point they lost their stomach for the fight. They took the remainder of the Indians to the reservation in Covelo and took the babies home with them and raised them as their own children.

I have heard stories that some of the ranchers suffered great remorse for what they had done, but most steadfastly agreed that they had no choice. I also heard that Jack Farley became a great friend of the “Good Indians” and they had taught him their “Medicine”.

This is a compilation of the stories that I have heard and I have told it much as I heard it. Without justification or comment. I made the statement that the historical accounting was as: “The following story is just the fuzzy recollections of a person recalling stories about Uncle Jack.” To some, it was probably one of the best accounting of what really happened. But, I’ve heard many, many stories. Some much more brutal than this telling, and some that claim the Bloody Run was much exaggerated.

With the great respect that I have for Oldmanriver, I still put the story in the category of “one more story”. But, I want to hear all of them. I have deep gratitude for the research that River has done for the Indian People and my family, and the whole Eel River Valley. His research has been far more important to me than even Estle Beard. River has found deep truths, that I would have never have known without him. I most especially want to thank him for the great and kind things that he has done for the local Indian People. Some of us have the great privilege of knowing him personally. All I can say is you would like him. He walks the walk.

Andrew Jackson Farley

I was born and raised in the South Fork of the Eel River canyon. Most of my young life was spent in Laytonville. In 1955 we moved to Garberville where I have spent the rest of my life up until now. I have had the good fortune to have known many people that knew many local history stories. I loved hearing the stories, but I have noticed that all the stories that I have ever heard was different, depending on who was doing the telling. Most of the stories had about five different versions.

Sometimes I would point out that I had heard a different version. Often the person that I was listening to might say; "Who told you that was the way it happened?" If I said "John" told me, the answer was always "well you know John, you can't believe a thing he says." Or "Fred" or "Jake" or "Lafe". All the names I mention were made up, but you get the idea. Whoever was doing the telling was certain that they had heard, and was telling, the only true version of what “really” happened.

Some where in the back of all these stories is the truth. I soon learned that if I wanted to hear all the stories, I had to listen like it was The-God's-Honest-Truth. It never did me any good to shut somebody down, or point out a “lie”. That seemed to be a good way to never hear another story. I always tried to get my story tellers away from everybody else. Especially away from the girls in my family. The girls always to like to point out that they knew better than what was being told, and that would be the end of sometimes a great and epic tale. There is no wetter blanket on a story than some of the girls in my family... and... maybe a few of the boys.

I ended up having heard most all of the versions of every story, because all of the old story tellers knew that I hung on every word that they said, and that I absolutely, unconditionally believed the stories. Which I really did. I always understood that there was a logical explanation for the differences in a story.

As I said, I've heard about five different versions of every story. With “Uncle Jack Farley” I've heard about ten different versions of his life history. He was a man that cut a wide swath. The following story is just the fuzzy recollections of a person recalling stories about Uncle Jack. This is the kind of story that I love to hear, and it adds a dimension to the things that I all ready know.

I've come to think of the stories that I've heard as “Bullshistory”, because you can't totally believe them and you would be a great fool to base any kind of an opinion on them other than something important happened back then, but we will never know the truth. I've said it many times and I will say it again. “We can't judge people back then with todays standards”. We know about them because they survived. We don't know about my 3great Grandfather Cull because he and his son disappeared on their way to California, about the same time that Jack Farley was headed out here.

Another thing that I often say is “I don't know the true history, but I know where the bodies are buried.” and I used to know who to ask.

The photo below is a photo of the headstone of  “Uncle Jack”, Andrew Jackson Farley. His headstone reads: “Andrew Jackson Farley” “Died April 11th 1908” “Aged 104 years” “Pioneer of 49”

As you might guess, I truly do know where most of the bodies are buried. Maybe the only true thing that I do know.

The following story is from the Mendocino Historical Bulletin. My friend "Olmanriver" found it and emailed it to me. I would really like you to know "Olmanriver", he is a great researcher, and has provided me with many new stories about the South Fork Canyon and my checkered history. But alas, he wishes to remain anonymous.

The story is a little crude in the telling and the spelling, but what you see is what you get. The notes in maroon are mine.


Photo by: Janis Branscomb

The STORY OF JACK FARLEY
He was a pioneer of 1848 and came to California by way of Bakersfield. He and a companion were scouts for the party. They had agreed to be back in camp on a Friday night, Only Uncle Jack showed up. They waited all day Saturday, and on Sunday went look­ing for the other man. They found he had been scalped by the In­dians. Up to this time they had been trying to get along with the Indians. After that Uncle Jack said he would kill 25 Indians to get even for the one scout they had killed.

I did not hear of any other Indians being killed on the rest of the trip. They did not starve like the Donner party, but were awfully hungry.

They came upon a cow which they killed and ate. The cow be­longed to the Spanish and they got caught with it. The Spaniards made them work out the price of the cow and more,

Jack got to California just after the gold strike. He mined at Placerville, or Hangtown, as it was known then. In 1849 he went to Willits, then to Napa, 1859 and 1861 found him in Auburn and Oroville. In 1851 he was in Trinity County, All of these trips were made in good weather, and he would stay in Napa for the winter.

The trip from Trinity County was a long one, so he decided there was a closer way. In 1852 he came by the way of Covelo, do down the river to Dos Rios, over the hill to Long Valley, When saw that valley, he fell in love with it.

I don't know how patents worked, but he had a patent on the property, dated 1855, I think he had to mark out his property, build his house, and it was his.

Now back to the mining in Trinity County, He had a dog who was always with him. This dog could smell trouble a mile away and would let him know.

The Indians up that way were under "Happy Jack," a half-breed. He was a lot meaner than a full-breed. He stirred up what we call the Modocs and wanted them to kill all the miners. He sent about three or four Indians up each creek, killing and scalping the miners. When his dog let him know that the Indians were coming, he would get behind a tree and wait,

Uncle Jack called his gun "Old Meat in the Pot," He also had a six-shooter. Both were cap and ball. He would shoot one Indian with his rifle and the rest with his six-shooter. He scalped them because -the Indians believed that a scalped Indian could not go to the- Happy Hunting Ground, This happened two years in a row. Af­ter burying all the miners, he would get out before they found what.-, had happened.
On his way out he found a ledge of quartz, just full of gold. He broke off several chunks-and put them in his saddle bag. We had a piece at the ranch when I was a kid. I don't know what hap­pened to it, but the 1 1/2" square piece had a least an ounce in it). It was five years before they got the Indians out of there and put them on an island in Tule Lake, He went back looking for that ledge, but he never found it. He went almost crazy trying to find it again,

Being a horse lover he went hick to Indiana and got an Arab­ian stallion,a Palomino with flaxen mane and tail, as well as five good mares. He planned on raising some good horses. He paid over $5000 for them.
All of this travelling was on horseback. After he returned, one evening he went out to look at his horses and could not find them. The next day he tracked them over the hill and down into what is now called Horse Hollow. There he found them killed, dry­ing. Being alone, he went back to Long Valley and got a lot of help to punish the Indians and put them on the reservation at Covelo’

These Indians were Yukis and Tatus. They were not the same as the local Indians; they were Kaza-pomos, but not true Pomo. They spoke Athabascan language, and had already made their peace with the whites and had begged them not to kill them when the white man's stock disappeared,
Uncle Jack got all the people in Long Valley who had lost stock. He was a captain and I was led to believe that he went to Fort Bragg and got the soldiers, but thanks to Estle Beard, I have found out the truth. William Frazier was a Lieutenant. The others were J. P, Simpson, Jeremiah Lambert, B. S, Burns, Robert Poe, Woodman and W. H. Cole, and probably others. They had all lost cattle. They decided to put the Indians on the reservation in Covelo.

(Jeremiah Lambert was my 3G grandfather, Robert Poe was My 3G grandfather, I believe that Kym Kemp might know who W.H. Cole is.

B.S. Burns adopted "Foxy" Burns.  Foxy was an Indian that was an infant at the time of the Bloody Run Massacre. B.S. Burns took foxy home in a gunny-sack strapped to the saddle horn of his horse. Foxy was raised and educated by the Burns family, and to my knowledge he was treated as one of the family.

My 3G grandfather Poe adopted two Indian Children. I'm not sure if it was one or two children, but I know that one of the Indian children got into the grainery and ate so much grain that it killed him.

I have a relative that was raped by two Indian men. The men were tracked down and hung. I have more to that story but some things don't need to be told. 

There is no truth to the story that Indian children were kept mostly as slaves, at least not occording to the stories that I've heard about the Laytonville area. Most of the adopted Indian children were treated as well as any of the other children. I should add that all children were raised with a very firm hand back then. People today would certainly claim that it was child abuse. Again, I will have to place this under the heading of Bullshistory. The stories that I've heard certainly paint a fine picture of the early pioneers, but I'm sure that they weren't saints.)

They went out to Horse Hollow and found the Indians had moved. The men tracked them down across outlet Creek and up over the hill to the Eden Valley side.


It was late when they came upon them and decided to wait until morning. They camped about a mile away from the Indians. During the night a cold wind came up and the Indians moved to the Outlet Creek side of the mountain. When the men awakened the next morn­ing and found out what had happened, they tracked them back over the hill and found them camped on a creek. They slipped up on them. The Indians were still sleeping. The first one out was the chief, and on his belt hung the flaxen-colored tail of Farley's stallion. (I can imagine Uncle Jack on seeing this--I'll bet he had red crosses in both of his eyes). He shot the Indian in the belly to get even for that trip back East to get the horses than having the Indians kill them. This shot woke them all up and they came out fighting. I have heard that they killed two or three hundred. They did kill 37 bucks and two squaws, captured 17 and put them on the reservation.

-I have heard how the battle of Bloody Run got its name. Some say it was horse blood, from washing the meat.I know better. This chief stumbled over into the creek and all the wounded too, as it was downhill and that is how Bloody Run got its name. Even after the railroad was built and later, when student doctors from U.Co would go up there to find skeletons and take them back to U.C. where they would assemble them.
Another time, just after this, Uncle Jack was out looking for his stock. There were no fences, so they roamed wherever the best food was. He was riding down Cherry Creek with "old meat in the pot" across his saddle in front of him. All at once an arrow hit his cantle, just in front of him. Looking to see where it came from he discovered an Indian under a manzanita bush, lying oil his back with his bow across his front. At that time he was reaching for another arrow. "Old meat" was pointed was toward the Indian. Uncle Jack pulled the trigger and caught the buck lengthwise. It made him mad, he killed the Indian and scalped him, cut the skin off of his back and tanned it.

I know he made a knife scabbard out of it, and maybe a razor strop. The San Francisco Examiner, January 29, 1895 said that he also covered a chair with it. I do not believe it. He was not that gruesome. However, The Examiner had a picture of him sitting in his chair with the 25 scalps hanging on the wall.
Uncle Jack died in 1908. The inscription on his headstone read that he was born in 1804. There is a nice iron fence around his grave that he claimed to have owed his long life to being friends with the local Indians and learning all of their medecines.

I've heard stories about Uncle Jack that made him sound like the greatest man that ever walked the face of the Earth, that he was the epitome of charcter, that his word was as good as gold, a man to be looked up to. Others say that he was a monster worse that Hannibal Lecter. One thing that is undeniable, He survived! For 104 years!

Doing laundry.

In the business world there is a term for cleaning up things that have been hanging out there to long and need to be dealt with. Like dirty laundry that has been in the hamper too long, It begans to smell. So every now and then a business will do what is called "doing laundry". And they will deal with things that are long over-do, like a blog post.

There is a rumor out there that I'm remodling the store, and building new check stands. Every now and then, I see a friendly familiar face poke in the front door to make sure that I'm busy. The news seems to end up back on my blog that, sure enough, I'm building something. Others speculate that I'm on vacation.

Oregon wrote:
”If Ernie is building something you can take my word for it, he is on vacation.”

Oregon knows me all to well. There is nothing quite as much fun as building something. Oregon and I built many things together as kids, he went on to be a world class saw-filer, and I went on to be a refrigeration guy.

You city folks probably don't know this, but the saw filer is the guy that makes a sawmill run. Whether the mill makes or loses money depends on how good the saw-filer does his job. Being a saw filer is the most important job in the mill. If you don't believe me, you should see how many fingers are pointing at the saw-filer if production drops off. But, of course, all fingers are pointing at themselves if things are going smooth.

I spent a lot of time with Oregon as a kid. I have to say that I've never enjoyed working with anybody as much as I enjoyed working with him. He always knew what I want wanted, before I knew myself. He'd be right there doing it for you, or showing you what was needed. We never needed to talk out loud to be able to communicate, which is a great quality in the places that we worked. "The woods" is not a quiet place.

One time behind Eureka, he and I were building a logging road. There was a big old-growth redwood stump on a point that the road had to go around. I was on the top end of the stump with a Cat, cutting the roots and soil down around it and pushing it off below. As I cut the dirt down I was pushing it around the stump down to Oregon. He was on another Cat, pushing the dirt down over the hill below, to become the foot of the road. Once I got all of the roots cut. I was going to come down off the hill. I looked below me to see that he had cut the dirt out from under me, and I was on top of about a six-foot drop off. I looked over at him to try to figure out what the heck he was doing. He had a great big grin on his face. I had to build a new road off my stump.
He thinks that's called a sense of humor!

I often see that bumper sticker that says; "If you can read this, thank a teacher". Fair enough, but there should be another bumper sticker that says: "If you live in a house, thank a logger:.

Don't you people fool yourselves, I've been following every word here.

Now, I've got a quiz for you. I have included a few photos of a redwood tree that was recently trimmed downtown. The question is; did they kill this tree by cutting off all the limbs???

I knew the lady that planted that tree, she was Mrs. Tucker, Ted Tuckers Mom, Bruce Tuckers grandmother. The tree was planted in the side yard of her house that stood where the back part of the Gitty-up Coffee Stand is. I wonder what she would say if she knew what happened to her beautiful tree.

The tree has some history in Garberville. Several times in years past it has been gloriously decorated as the town Christmas Tree. The top blew out of it a few years ago, fortunately, nobody was killed. After that, a couple of years ago a whirlwind went through town about 6:00 am. A limb from that tree broke the TV antenna on top of our store, over two-hundred yards away. Again, nobody was killed. The owner of the tree wisely decided to trim it.

Recently a rash of business owners have decided to remove the redwoods downtown. The trees were causing damage to the buildings and were endangering anyone near them in the wind. As you know, city folks expect to be taken care of. So if a limb kills them, they always try to blame somebody else. But, the same people are out there hugging these trees, trying to save them. Bear in mind, all of these trees were planted in my lifetime. Sadly, there was such a fuss about what could, or could not, be done to these trees that the property owners took them clear out. They didn't simply trim them, like they might have done if there hadn't been the pressure to “save them.” Sad how things work out isn't it?

Band of Brothers.

I’ve often said that I can’t imagine a world where I would be bored, or have nothing to do. It seems to me that the world is a most interesting place. I know, that I make it sound like I drink a lot, but I don’t. I never drink in the middle of the day, and I never have more than one drink in the evening, that is if I can remember to have one. I can’t stand the thought that something interesting might happen, and I would be out of it. I would never even try Marijuana. Not even after having heard the hoard sing the praises of the glorious weed. I just don’t think that it could improve me in any way.

What would happen if a 747 aircraft had to make an emergency landing on the freeway? There I would be, stuck at home, because I would not be allowed to respond as a medical first responder if I was drunk. I have a friend who says; “I don’t want you to have a disaster, but if you do, I want to be prepared, and I want to be there to help you.” I fully understand that thought, and I would like to keep myself prepared, for the same reasons.

There is a real feeling of accomplishment to be part of a team that works well together and accomplishes the things that need to be accomplished. There is a feeling among first responders that can only be described as “esprit de corps”. We work well together, we train together, and accomplish together. Seldom does political influences enter our thoughts.

I try to avoid literary offshoots into big words and vague concepts, but sometimes the place that you find yourself allows no other descriptions. I read a lot, and I try to understand the things that I read. I try to keep an open mind and be objective. Seldom do I make a stand on any controversial issue. I’ve been warned that “being in the middle of the road will only get you run over”, but most times I can clearly see that there is more than one side to any issue. As I said, I read a lot, sometimes I think that I read, and think about things, too much. I often feel that I have understanding of things that others fail to even look at, or consider.

Years ago, I decided that I would see if I could understand William Shakespeare. There seemed to be a consensus amongst well-read people that he was one of the greatest writers that ever lived. So, I decided that I would read a few lines and try to understand them. Sometimes I would spend an hour trying to understand a single paragraph. Fortunately, there is a lot of things on the Internet to help you understand what he was saying. I read a lot of foolish girlie poems that didn’t impress me much, but soon I started to see the humor that he could stir in even the most silly moment. I started reading the more manly-man stuff, and more of what he had to say really resonated with the way that I think.

Firefighters often refer to themselves as “brothers” I thought that it had something to do with religion, but I later found out that it was from Shakespeare’s King Henry the fifth, so I became particularly interested in the St. Crispen’s Day Speech. I started with; “We few, We happy few, We band of brothers”. Okay, at least I knew where the expression came from, but I was still confused as to why they would call themselves “Brothers”. I went on the read the next part; “For he to-day that sheds his blood with me, shall be my brother”. Whoa... Blood? Whatever they were doing together must have been important, shedding blood over anything sounds like serious commitment. I thought a lot about that. So, I started at the top of the Saint Crispen's Day Speech. It starts with;

WESTMORELAND to King Henry V. “O that we now had here
    But one ten thousand of those men in England
    That do no work to-day!”

I read that to mean that Westmoreland thought that they needed a LOT of help.

The King had taken his troops across the English Channel into France, with the goal of taking back the land that the French had taken from England. The King and his troops had landed on shore, tired and seasick, many had dysentery. The troops were in no frame of mind, or body, to do battle. The English were greatly outnumbered, and were going to have to fight battle-ready French troops. If King Henry V stood any chance at all, he would have to stir the emotions of his troops to be willing to fight valiantly and successfully.

He mounted a rock in front of his troops and he said;

“What's he that wishes so?
    My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
    If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
    To do our country loss; and if to live,
    The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
    God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
    By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
    Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
    It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
    Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
    But if it be a sin to covet honour,
    I am the most offending soul alive.”

Now, if you take that apart and put it back together, it is a very good start to a rousing speech. What he said is simply:

“We may die here, if we are to die, let's get on with it. But, if we do this battle and live, we will have all of the glory for ourselves.

The fewer to share our glory, the more glorious our deed will become. Who would wish for more men?


I don't wish for wealth in the form of gold. Nor do I care who eats at my expense, I don't care who wears the clothes that I buy. Such outward things mean nothing too me.


But, if it is a sin to seek honor. I am the most sinful soul alive.”

Pretty good start, don't you think? Then he continues:

“No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
    God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
    As one man more methinks would share from me
    For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
    Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
    That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
    Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
    And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
    We would not die in that man's company
    That fears his fellowship to die with us.

The King goes on to make his point that he doesn't wish to share the honor with those who feared to join in the battle.

He says that the men that didn't have the courage to join in the fight should not be allowed to share in their glory.

He goes one to say, if there is any still any among them that doesn't want to fight this battle, to say so now, and he will by sent away, and that the King will even pay the expense for him to leave.

He is adamant that the person that fears to die amongst them, fighting for the same cause, shall not have the honor of fighting with such brave men.

“This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
    He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
    Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
    And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
    He that shall live this day, and see old age,
    Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
    And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
    Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
    And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.”

Crispian's day is a similar holiday to our Thanksgiving, which has nothing to do with the fight, but it will become an anniversary to remember the fight that they had there in France.

He that makes it safely through the fight, and gets home again, will be proud of what they did in France. And they will peel back their sleeves and proudly display their scars.

“Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
    But he'll remember, with advantages,
    What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
    Familiar in his mouth as household words-
    Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
    Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
    Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
    This story shall the good man teach his son;
    And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
    From this day to the ending of the world,
    But we in it shall be remembered-
    We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
    For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
    Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
    This day shall gentle his condition;
    And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
    Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
    And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
    That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.”

Old men forget, and eventually all things will be forgotten, but while we still remember, we will remember proudly that we fought and won the battle on Saint Crispins Day. All the names of the valiant soldiers will be remembered and named aloud. Every man shall teach his son, and it should be remembered until the end of the world, “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he, today, that sheds his blood with me, shall be my brother.

He closes with: Those that didn't fight with us, will think of themselves as cursed for not fighting the honorable fight, and indeed, will not be able to think of themselves as men.

It almost makes you want to be part of something glorious doesn't it? As I look back on my career as a firefighter, because I kept myself trained and sober, I have been to most all of the big events in the Garberville Redway area. It hasn't always been fun. But, I've been to some pretty amazing happenings. Happenings too numerous to remember. Some of the highlights are: I was at the Garberville Fire Hall/ Mateel Community Center/ Blue Star gas plant fire. (all one fire). I was at the Southern Humboldt Building Service/Branding Iron Bar fire. I was at the Trees Restaurant/Branding Iron Bar fire. (Yes the Branding Iron burned twice) I was at the One Log House fire. I was at the major propane leak in Redway. I've been to many plane crashes, and many more car crashes. I've been part of a team that has saved many lives and much property.

It's very rewarding to have the younger firefighters ask me about the “big ones”. We all sit around and play “what if”. Like in, “what would you do if you were the only one on the scene of a fire, and you had to make the decision to enter the fire alone? What would you do? There is no one pat-answer. So, there is the rule book, and there is reality. Sometimes nothing you can do is really right. Usually you have your “brothers" to help you make those decisions.” My life has been saved more than once by “my brothers” so a person forms a pretty close bond in the “Band of Brothers”.

But, it is always fun to sit around the fire pit at the Redway Fire Department Barbecue, our own little Saint Crispens Day, strip our sleeves, show our scars, and remember the “big ones” that we have been to.

Reading Shakespeare has helped me understand some of the feelings that people that work closely together in a serious manner have for each other. Knowing the bond that the firefighters have formed for each other also helps me to understand the bond that soldiers form for each other. I know in my heart that the soldiers that work together become "Brothers" even moreso than their own true brothers. The bond that they form helps them see through "the fog of war". (I went on here for a while, but decided to back out of it. I think that you can appreciate our soldiers in your own fashion, without my help.)

Anyway, I hope that some of you will pick out some great literary work and try to understand a little bit of it. Most of it didn't become great for no reason. It can be interesting. Have somebody recommend some good stuff for you. There is still a lot of winter left, and it will help pass the time......

Strange occurances.

Well, this post is going to be a little hard to follow, unless you are one whom normally tries to follow this blog. Then you will know that it leads nowhere, but it does so in a random fashion.

As you know, at least those that follow this blog know, I look forward to the comments that are posted here. I find that the comments are far more interesting to me than the stuff that I write. Maybe that’s because I already know the stuff that I write about. Are you following me so far?

I’ve never cared what people say here, as long as it was not mean to someone else, or completely filthy and disgusting, I even let filthy and disgusting slip by as long as it’s done in good taste.

Back when I was trying to be a sports fan, I followed the San Francisco Giants, and the Forty-niners. They would be doing mediocre-good, until I would take the time to watch a game, then it seemed to me that they would invariably lose. I got to the point that I wouldn’t watch the game, because I felt that I was jinxing them to watch. Finally, I figured out that I couldn’t be a very good sports fan if I refused to watch the game because I felt that my mere watching was causing then harm. So, if your team is doing real good right now, it’s because I’m not watching them.

I had to laugh at Bunny for thinking that she was “closing” the conversation by making a comment. I’ve felt that way myself several times. A blog would be moving right along with lots of comments, then I would add something, and all of a sudden it would end, and my comment would just be left hanging there. I would always wonder if it was something that I said, or the way I said it, that just chased everybody away. So, I feel compelled to tell Bunny that; No, you are not a “closer“. Please keep commenting, I enjoy your input.

Spyrock is busy defending his drug of choice, Diet Pepsi. I got a kick out of that. We all rabidly defend our favorite addiction. Mine seems to have become coffee. We have a very good coffee roaster in Redway, so I can enjoy good fresh coffee every morning. I’m sure that I wouldn’t make it through the day without it. Whenever I go to a strange town and want a cup of coffee, I ask the kid behind the counter at the coffee stand if they have any real coffee. They always look at me like I’m nuts, and say, “yes sir, we have a double-moca-frapaccino-decaf-deluxe for only $7.95. I usually just walk away, because I know that if I say anything that I’ll just get mad. But, through the years, I’ve discovered that I like the things that are good for me. I just instinctively know… I’ve always liked just a little REAL butter on things, while everyone else was scolding me about animal fats, and how much better the imitation butter crap was for you. Those of you that read a lot know that a little real butter is better for your health than the other hard margarines. See? My body knew that! Just like Spy knows what’s good for him. I think that “moderation in all things” is a good philosophy.

I get a big kick out of the old guys that have fallen head over heels in love with Suzy Blah Blah. Get over it boys, she’s much to smart for you! She’s the only one that knows the key to puzzle that unlocks the hole to China.

My life has been real busy lately, we are remodeling the Radio Shack store which if proving to be great fun for me. I like building things. Today we cut, split, hauled and stacked two and a half cords of Madrone for the Redway Fire Department barbecue this Memorial Day Saturday.

But, just because I’ve been busy is no reason not to keep posting here. I always take the time to read, even when sometimes my fingers won’t poke the keyboard.

Have you noticed any interesting happenings lately?

Sallaway

As you know, I have a lot of photographer friends. Who is the better of them would be impossible to determine. Each is talented in their own way. All seem incredibly talented to my simple eye. Kim Sallaway is an outstanding photographer. I've gone to a few photography shows before, like the exhibit at the Humboldt County Fair. I never seem to agree with the judges as to who is the best, so I'm not sure if my taste is so much better than the judges, or worse. But, just like all critics, I know what I like.

The thing that I always notice about Kim Sallaway's photography is that I can never just glance at one of his photos and move on. I always seem to stare at them a while, and see where it will take my eyes. I put a few up here for you. See if you can see what I mean.

The top photo is a picture of Shelter cove from the north. I was so fascinated by the sunlit green wave with the foam on the top, that I called him to see if he had photo-shopped it. He assured me that it was a “Straight up, straight shot. No photo-shop”. If you place your hand over the buildings on the left, the wave becomes a grassy mountain with a snow cap. I spent a while doing that. I know that I'm easily entertained, but it amazes me how Kim always seems to evoke my curiosity.

One thing that Kim often mentions is; “We live in the most beautiful place in the world”. He should know he traveled most of it.

Fred "Coyote" Downey. Local Indian Elder

Did it take you a while to look at everything??? I thought so.

This is a link to Kim's photo sight kimbacan.com





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Typo?

I was working out on the store loading dock today, and I was using a pallet for a saw horse. I assume that the pallet was made in China, because what is not these days. At first, I didn't pay any attention to the spelling, because my poorly functioning brain doesn't pick up on typos all that good. After I looked at it a bit and saw what it said, I thought maybe it really was some kind of a word, but I finally decided that it was probably a typo.

I got to wondering; if something was important enough to label, wouldn't it be important enough to check the spelling, so the meaning wouldn't be lost? One of my favorite phrases is “if you know what they meant to say it's close enough”. The label on this pallet wasn't close enough to being right that it was clear to me what it meant to say. So it failed the clarity test.

I often don't know whether to laugh or cry over some of the Chinese/English translations. In many cases, it just gets too sloppy to understand.

So, I got to thinking, maybe the pallet really was RESUABLE, and not REUSABLE. Maybe, if I didn't like their spelling, and sued them over their lack of common diligence and lost, I could re-sue them, because the pallet clearly states that it is “RESUABLE”.




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