Sunday, December 27, 2015

Prayer for the World

Prayer for the World

12-27-15

Something's bothering me. Something's on my mind.  It's a trend. To me, it is subversive and purposeful and I wish it would stop. I will vote to make it stop. If you won't try to make it stop, I won't vote for you. Period.

Here it is. I wish people would stop saying that simple, common moral  virtues like tolerance for others, respect for people and cultures different from your own, fairness in competition, responsibility toward your environment, or kindness and awareness in your choice of words can be dismissed as "political correctness."

I don't know diddly squat about politics. But I do know right from wrong. I know bullying when I see or hear it and I was raised to stand up against it. Morally, in any religion, bullying and hate and deception and pollution and intolerance are wrong. If I say you are wrong for bullying someone who disagrees with you - if I say you are wrong for hating me or somebody else different from you - if I say you are wrong for placing corporate profit above public health - if I say you are wrong because you are stepping on the backs of the poor or the weak or the dark or the confused or the unloved - I am not being "politically correct" - I am following the moral principles by which I was raised. I will vote for those principles and nothing else.

That's what's on my mind on such a winter's day.



Peace, Love, and California Dreamin'
Jim

Friday, September 18, 2015

Life on The Farm

Life on The Farm

9-18-15

On the south side of Highway 156, hidden in a cozy redwood grove, lies one of San Juan Bautista’s best kept secrets. The Mission Farm RV Park, or, as I simply call it, The Farm, is most of the time about as laidback and peaceful as laidback and peaceful gets. It’s a clean, quaint, mostly adult trailer park with a natural, homey feel in keeping with the historical atmosphere of our town. Most days, you would be hard-pressed to find one nervous person on the premises.


Not that the residents on The Farm don’t give a damn, mind you. But if there is one thing that the lot of us has in common it’s that we’re a little picky regarding what we get excited about.  If you come running in here all jumpy about some kind of trumped up personal emergency, the reaction you will get will likely be a polite stare, a sympathetic head shake, and a friendly, but mildly disinterested “I’ll have to get back to you on that one.” Nobody here is going to up and join the militia just because you lost your I-phone or Missy messed her britches. Sorry, but you are just going to have to figure that stuff out for yourself.

On the other hand, if you sincerely need assistance or advice on a sober, practical level, like backing your 36-foot rig into a 37-foot space, or building yourself a redneck deck out of salvaged farm pallets, you can get that in a jiffy. You ought to see my redneck deck. You’d be envious.


The majority of the 120 campsites here are occupied by year-around residents, some of whom are sleepy old retirees like me, while many noble souls are still heroically punching the clock. Most of the more “experienced” campers have cheery little companion dogs that provide a measure of entertainment in the mornings, as they tug on their leashes and drag their shuffling masters from tree to long-suffering tree.

The redwood trees are what really make the place special. The owners of the park planted the forest in 1971 in what had been a vast walnut orchard. Forty-four years later, the redwoods tower over the property, providing a merciful afternoon wind break and pleasant shade from the midday sun. Even more than that, though, they lend dignity and strength to the surroundings. They keep a stately watch over things and their very presence makes you humble.


The Farm is like a miniature nature park. Somewhere up in those swaying redwood branches nest gently cooing mourning doves, always in twos, sounding virtuously sad, carrying on courageously despite their woes. One doesn’t have to be old to live on The Farm, but it probably helps to have an old soul - like a resilient coastal redwood or a mature pair of mourning doves, married for life, content to scratch around in the gravel together early in the day. Near sundown, if you watch carefully, you can see red-tailed hawks darting through the trees. What are they hunting? The furry, nimble grey squirrels? An occasional field mouse? A wayward, twitching bunny? As the Sun sets, silent, stealthy, wary white-tailed deer migrate slowly around the perimeter of the park, finding water and foliage along San Juan Creek. In procession under the highway, where are they heading? To the Mission to pray?

One of the things you notice right away about the park is how clean the grounds are. The maintenance crew, under the direction of manager Susan Cox, keeps the place groomed and neat for the permanent residents and for vacationing families and weekenders.
“We don’t advertise much,” Susan says, “and we don’t have a web site. Most of our holiday business comes from word-of-mouth recommendations. We see people who come back every year, holding their family reunions in the clubhouse and enjoying activities in town. They feel safe here and there is none of the hub-bub and congestion you find in the city. We are a family-oriented park and people come to have a quiet good time.”

Living here is a unique experience, combining a sense of independent repose with a feeling that you are part of an active community. Potluck dinners and barbecues on major holidays like the Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, and Christmas are a real treat. Campers share delicious homemade dishes and easy-going, friendly fun in the spacious, old, ranch-style clubhouse. Surrounded by fruit trees, colorful flowers, and rusty antiques, this is the park’s social center and emergency quarters. When visiting bicycle tourists, camped out in the nearby tenting area, find their lightweight gear under siege in bad weather, Susan generously opens her clubhouse doors to shelter them from the storm.


The major El NiƱo episode of 1998 caused quite a stir on The Farm.  A combination of rain-soaked ground, unrelenting precipitation, blockage of the San Juan Creek underpass beneath Highway 156, and a failed stock tank levee in nearby San Juan Canyon resulted in serious flood damage in the park. Evacuation was necessary as the high water mark rose to nearly two feet on many of the permanent structures. Evidence of the standing water can still be seen today as “bath-tub rings” around the bathhouse, the clubhouse, and the other buildings. Could we be in store for more of the same this year?  Our Emergency Preparedness Plan outlines preparation procedures and evacuation routes if something like that happens again. Let’s keep our fingers crossed that we can stay high and dry this time. My glamorous redneck deck would be no match for another two-foot flood.


Peace and Love from The Farm
Jim






Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Anthropophagy

Anthropophagy

7-29-15

I learned a new word this week. Anthropophagy: n., the eating of human flesh; cannibalism. Eww.

A most interesting read is The Indifferent Stars Above: The Harrowing Saga of a Donner Party Bride
by Daniel James Brown. Really, he treats the whole hunger/desperation thing very respectfully. The topic is not sensationalized and it doesn't come close to being the centerpiece of the book. Which is a good thing.


My San Juan Bautista Book Club chose this book for our July group discussion mostly for its local historical significance. Several of the survivors of the Donner Party (an unfortunate name - it sounds too much like the Dinner Party, you know? - I prefer the Donner Group) came to settle in the surrounding area, including Sarah Graves, whom the author used as the main character of the story. I was greatly impressed by the amount of scholarly research involved in this work and like I said, he worked around the grisly details with dignity and aplomb.

Sarah Graves was one of several women to make it out alive. The men folk did not fare as well in general. Do mothers have more to live for? Are women physiologically more adaptable to cold and physical/mental hardship than men? Brown talks about survival issues and the biology of hunger in a very studious way. I found all of that pretty fascinating.


Basically, the deal is that a group of people from Illinois set out to the west coast on an 1,800 mile journey in the time when Missouri's western border was the edge of the newish United States. They got hoodwinked into taking a supposed shortcut to California called the Hastings Cutoff and found themselves stuck in the vicinity of present day Truckee CA in the Sierra Nevada precisely when a ton of snow arrived. Merry freaking Christmas.

A lot of them died. A few struggled through Donner Pass to get help. A small number was subsequently rescued by three relief groups of brave souls from Fort Sutter. Mistakes were made during the journey from Donner Pass to safety, mistakes which nearly killed the emaciated, crazed refugees. Using handmade snowshoes which soon were thrashed by the elements, one group plunged down into the steep canyons of the North Fork of the American River, adding miles of difficulty to their trip to Johnson's Ranch. Indigenous Miwok and Maidu people were instrumental to their eventual success.


The strongest group, the devoutly Catholic and tightknit Breen family, miraculously survived the whole ordeal intact. The Breens eventually recovered and settled here in San Juan Bautista, and their descendants are still thriving today. Nice folks. Smart as the dickens. Hardy stock.

Some members of our book club simply couldn't finish reading this book. The struggle and the violence (and the anthropophagy) were just too much to imagine. Too squirmy. Too squeamy. I didn't feel that way. I liked the psychological tension, although I didn't share with the survivors the desperate need to stay alive. I came away with a definite feeling that no matter what the circumstances, eating human flesh would not be an option for me. Death? I'm okay with that, if need be.

Most likely, I think I would have either died going over the pass with the first bunch or made it out to get help. Or, and I still think this would have been the smartest thing to do, I would have plunged back through the snow east to Truckee Meadow or Reno and waited out the winter down there.  Hunkering down for weeks on end with little or no food and getting buried by tens of feet of snow? I don't think so. Easy for me to say, but still...

I was glad to get all the way through the messy parts to the epilogue, which is where Daniel James Brown really earns his stripes. The wrapup of the story is excellent as he smooths out the uncomfortable psycho-wrinkles and explains his fascination for the character of Sarah Graves. If you decide to read this book, please don't quit it without reading the epilogue. It will make you feel human. The stars may be indifferent, but you don't need to be.

Peace, Love, and Vegetables,
Jim

For further reading: http://www.utahcrossroads.org/DonnerParty/





Saturday, July 18, 2015

Journey to Beachland

Journey to Beachland

7-18-15

We need some rain, folks. The Golden State is fast losing its shine. Even too-cute-to-sweat Santa Barbie Land is starting to fade around the edges - the nicely landscaped shoulders of Hwy 101 look like they are gasping for breath. Big signs say "Using Reclaimed Water" every quarter mile from Goleta to downtown, but I don't think they are using enough. Everything looks thirsty. The dolphin fountain by Stearns Wharf has been disconnected, decommissioned, droughtified - no water, the dolphins are newly polished, ringed by plants. In a bizarre twist, I saw two fat girls jogging on the bike path near East Beach. What the hell is going on? Fat girls in SB????


You don't even want to know what the rest of So Cal looks like. Not quite Texas, but getting there. From the rolled down windows of the non-airconditioned and spectacularly ugly Spugly the Gas-Efficient Sweatbox Transporter, vast portions of the interior of the state could pass for a crumpled version of Oklahoma. And I don't mean that in a good way, in case you think dirty, dusty, and hot are cool. Dirty, dusty, and hot are not words that the founding fatherdudes included in the Last Whole California Hippie Constitution.

The new wave of resident hipsters in SB seem oblivious to their plight for the most part. They walk boldly into busy crosswalks tapping merrily away on their phones as though their 4G microwave signals could and should repel GPS-guided motor cars. Wouldn't it be deliciously morbidly funny if a texting Kia driver mowed down a jocular texting pedestrian and it turned out they had been texting each other? It will happen somewhere if it has not happened already.

I visited the Mission Santa Barbara for the first time since about 1988. It now costs $8 for a tour of the church and $4.32 to light a candle in the crowded lobby. The moneychangers are in charge of the temple, Jesus. It's time to come back and kick some tourism tail.


For free you can walk around the grounds and check out some beautiful vegetation and colorfully tiled Stations of the Cross. Here's a cool looking passion flower.


The Stations of the Cross, for those of you not in the know, are a devotional aid depicting scenes from Jesus's agonizing walk to his dying ground carrying a wooden cross upon which he was summarily crucified. If I remember correctly, there are fourteen stations in total. Station number four shows Jesus and his mother Mary. She kinda looks like she might be imploring him to drop that crossbeam and run away to California. "Come on, Jesus, forget this stuff, I got a VAN!"


A week or so ago, the Mission sponsored the annual chalk on the sidewalk art show. Several drawings were still in pretty good shape. The drought is good for something anyway.



I had great visits with my friends in town before heading home via San Luis Obispo and the Pacific Coast Highway. Eddie All State reminded me to remember that old saying: "Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional." Don't cling. Let it go. Makes such good sense, no?

The traffic on the  Big Sur Coast was intermittently crazy, but as usual, the scenery was just the right medicine to make me forget all about everything else. Works every time. My vacation  from being on vacation is temporarily over. Now it's back to being on vacation again. Ahhhh, life is good.



Peace, Love, and the Mighty Spacific,
Jim



Monday, July 13, 2015

All Along Her Watchtower

All Along Her Watchtower

7-13-15

Harper Lee's first book comes out tomorrow. First book. As in before TKAM. She wrote it. Not you. Harper. Lee. Remember that.

I keep reading all these pathetic sniveling comments on the internet by otherwise seemingly intelligent adults. Things like they are afraid to read this book. They don't want to know how Scout turned out or who Atticus became or what happened to Jem. They don't want to know. Isn't that amazing?

To Kill a Mockingbird was such a powerful story with such deeply developed characters and such a holy moral code. It etched into people's minds the ideals of justice and innocence and loyalty and parenthood and righteousness. And reflection. That narrative. That language. Boo.

I was one of those people. If I am to be honest with myself, I have to admit that I spent half my life looking for a woman who could measure up to Scout. Or the Scout who was etched in my mind anyway. Pathos!

That was not very fair to the women I actually met, loved, married, and left. Downright delusional, really. I was well into my fifties before I cut out that nonsense. That borrowed righteousness. That pretend ownership of a character I did not could not create and could not should not control.

Scout, alas, belongs to Harper Lee, not me. Not you either, dummy. A tremendous sense of liberation awaits you if you have yet to realize it.

I can't wait to read Go Set a Watchman. I am going to feast on every word. Rejoice in every conversation. Soak up in wide-eyed fascination who became what and how. In the future that came before. Time. Is. Not. Linear. People and places and stories...not yours. Hers. From her watchtower. She's the watchwoman.

Harper. Lee. Set my mind ablaze again. I promise not to cling to anything as my childhood turns to ashes and my future takes its place. The future that always was. The past that will never be. Right here. Right now. There. And then. It's your world, Ms. Lee. I'm just passing through.

Peace, Love, and Fiction,
Jim




Saturday, July 11, 2015

Upright, Unscathed, and Home

Upright, Unscathed, and Home

7-11-15

What a nice feeling to ride all morning and not fall over once.

I can't describe the elation I felt when I got back to San Juan Bautista today. I mean I was ABNORMALLY happy. Whatever vortex of gloom awaited me on the Big Sur coast did not try to follow me inland, thank goodness, and I rolled up and over the Aromas highlands without incident. Some very nicely tended fields along San Juan Road between Tarpey and Hwy 101 relaxed my somewhat guarded psyche. This scene made me feel like order had been restored to the Universe. Maybe I don't need to install a handlebar airbag after all.


Once I topped out past all the horse farms and Eucalyptus groves on the long haul up Cole Road, it was a simple downhill run down bumpy old Anzar back to the City of History. I felt like a few hundred years worth of ghosts were giving me a standing O as I wheeled into town. Congratulations, man, you tumped over a couple of times, but you didn't kick the bucket yet.

Kick the bucket, bucket list...what's the deal with the bucket anyway? What does that even mean?

I missed out on two cool events this morning in town. One was a gathering of indigenous people at the Mission San Juan Bautista  protesting the nearly certain upcoming canonization of Padre Junipero Serra. Old Junipero was pretty much a masochistic fiend in the eyes of the local originals. Torture and death squads and all that. The decision by Pope Francis to make Serra a saint is a real puzzler. It does not appear to fit in with any of the rest of Frank's overwhelmingly progressive agenda. A political bone thrown to gain support on other issues? What about the unmarked graves full of real bones from real ancestors of real Americans? So disrespectful. Cruel, actually.

The other spectacle in town was much less serious - a carnival - as in a kiddie carnival with rides and junk food and stuff. I rode by all the hullabaloo on the way back to the Mission Farm Campground. It looked fun, but I was hot and hungry and too goldang old for that scene anyway. I'm glad they came, though. I don't know for sure, but I think it was the first time the carnival has ever been here. Good for the kids. Good for the parents.

So tomorrow is a day of rest. Then Monday I will somehow move myself to Santa Barbara for long overdue visits with Eddie All State and the Earl of Montecito. I need to ask Dr. Googlie about telekinesis. So far, Morgan Freeman and Kurt Vonnegut have been no help whatsover.



Peace, Love, and Wormholes?
Jim





Friday, July 10, 2015

Poultry Noise

Poultry Noise

7-10-15

That giant clucking sound you thought you heard this afternoon was me. After another fishtailing, dirt-eating encounter with a patch of dune sand and a close shave with the rear end of a Waste Management truck, I stopped on the outskirts of Carmel-By-the-Sea to reconsider my vacation plans. What the bleep is going on here?

Shortly after my little talk with myself, I officially chickened out. Bck-bck- buck-CAW!


I have ridden the magnificent, narrow, winding stretch of Highway 1 from Carmel to Ragged Point three times as part of other, longer rides. The risk of getting crumpled by a rented RV or a speeding convertible was, each time, more than balanced by the reward of witnessing one of the world's greatest coastlines up close and personal. Riding a bicycle south on that road is literally and figuratively a breath-taking experience.

This trip, though, I haven't been able to shake the nagging feeling that something is not quite right. For the first time, I am fearful of barrelling around those switchbacks. It might simply be that I am getting too old for these hi-jinx. I mean, that's going to happen sooner or later, right? I've put a lot of miles on these bones.

Physically, I feel okay - not in great condition, certainly - but strong enough. The bigger concern is mental. I'm just not feeling the lure of that road this time. In fact, quite to the contrary, I am being repelled by it. Weird.

So I'm just going to trust my gut, turn around, and ride back home. I'll put some gas in Spugly the Spectacularly Ugly Transporter and buzz down 101 to Santa Barbie Land in a more conventional manner. Not very green, I know. But I'm tired of falling off the Dream Machine. That gets old fast. Plus if I keep it up, I'm surely going to break something.

I stopped for lunch today at the Giant Artichoke Restaurant in Castroville...try The New Vegetarian sandwich sometime...artichoke hearts and avocado and Monterey jack...mighty good.

Lastly, for all of you facebook meme addicts, this one's for you.



Peace, Love, and Intuition,
Jim