In the presence of greatness

Not all of Oregon’s pioneers arrived during the 19th century. Saturday afternoon, I shook hands with a real-live 20th century aviation pioneer in the city of McMinnville. It was an interesting few seconds that I’ll remember.

I’ve met a lot of “can-do” people. They have drive, energy, a sense of purpose and an intensity that inspires, awes, intimidates or angers others. The room changes when a member of this club— the “movers and shakers”— enters.

Delford Smith, founder of Evergreen Aviation is in a different category. No, he possesses all of the above and more. In his late 70s he still can “do” with the best of them.

But Smith is also a longtime member of the “could-do, and did” club. That’s a considerably smaller group. While in the presence of this man I felt a sense of history, a feeling that a man’s destiny had been achieved.

Admittedly, that’s my reaction after only about 12 seconds of relatively uninterrupted interaction with this man who has overcome adversity from birth forward and has created positive change on a worldwide scale.

Those seconds passed by in a flash, from my friend Jim Ray saying, “Del, I’d like you to meet...” to my rather forced, “It’s an honor to have met you, sir.” Just around 12 seconds.

That kind of statement, including words like “honor” and “sir” doesn’t usually come to my mind. I’m an egalitarian and though I do follow protocol and will defer to the aristocrats among us in order to avoid controversy or conflict, I tend to balk when called upon to pay homage to the notion that not all of us truly are created equal.

I knew very little about Delford M. Smith before we met two days ago. And he said nothing that could have revealed the man inside his expensive black suit. But the way those around him seemed to be energized by being in his presence indicated to me that this was a very different kind of encounter.

Now, I’m not easily star-struck. I’ve been in the presence of greatness before— and I won’t say that I’d blindly follow Smith, or any one else for that matter. But that 12-second contact has left me with a growing desire to get a little more of the same.

Yep, I’d like to hang out with this guy for a while. No doubt I’d discover plenty that I don’t like about him; but I’m just as sure that time spent in his company would benefit me.

Placed in an orphanage shortly after his birth, Smith has made his way along a rocky road.

He was adopted before his second birthday; but his new father was killed just three months later.

Though penniless, his mother refused to give up her child. She worked in a glove factory and took laundry into their one-room house that ironically had no running water and was heated only by a wood stove.

As his mother’s health began to fail, Smith took on more and more responsibility. He gathered coal that fell from trains and sold it for pennies; and he maintained three newspaper routes, sold ice, worked in a kennel and caddied on weekends.

At seven, he managed to obtain a bank loan and to start his first business. The loan amount was $2.50; that purchased a lawn mower. By working hard he managed not only to pay back the loan but also to save money for the down payment on a home for his mother and to fund his college tuition.

You get the idea.

This man went on to serve his country in the Air Force and later to found aircraft companies that changed— and continue to change— the world.

Through it all, he maintained a commitment to doing good. His partner, Dean Johnson was killed in a plane accident. But Smith carried on, dedicating himself to helping others both inside and outside of the context of his companies.

His young son, Air Force Captain Michael King Smith, died before age 30 in an auto accident, and the father managed to channel his grief into a project that will enrich the lives of millions and, no doubt, inspire hundreds of young Americans to serve their country.

He built the Evergreen Aviation Museum and Captain Michael King Smith Educational Institute, a project his son had been instrumental in developing and one near to the hearts of both men.

To ensure that the world would come to McMinnville, Oregon to honor his son, Smith acquired Howard Hughes’ Spruce Goose and transported it from Long Beach California.

This historic aircraft, which flew just once shortly after the end of World War II, shares space with a half-hundred other aircraft in a huge building near the city airport.

Next to this building, another giant structure is about to open. Here, visitors will celebrate aviation and space exploration in an I-Max theater. And beyond the beautiful theater, which is slated for opening later this month, is the foundation for yet another great building which will house artifacts from the space program.

I learned nearly all of this after I looked Smith in the eye for a few seconds, grasped his hand and heard words approaching idolization flow from my mouth.

After some research and reflection on the adoration visible in the eyes of those surrounding this remarkable man, I’ll stand by my words. It was an honor to share a little time and space with Delford M. Smith.

My bark is worse than my bite

I met a pit bull in the shadow of the state capitol today. He was a friendly looking “good boy,” perhaps in part because of his coloring – he looked a bit like a palomino pony.

His body was rock hard, though, as is always the case. That tightly coiled musculature always seems to me to be a clear warning of the potential for mahem.
But, I put on a happy face and pretended not to fear this creature. I called him names like, “Sport,” and “Fella” and hoped that he couldn’t smell my fear.

Apparently, he didn’t as I’m here to tell the tale. And while I’m at it, let me share another dog tail – this is the account of an encounter with another dangerous canine - - a meeting at the crossroads that took place in Kensington (my neighborhood in San Diego) in 1959.

I crossed Adams Avenue, the only intersection likely to offer any kind of traffic, without incident and made my way north on Marlborough Drive. I only had to make two right turns, though Middlesex does veer to the left just before becoming a long cul-de-sac in the 4300 block.

I was about halfway home – maybe a bit farther – walking on the east side of the street. I stepped off the curb and began crossing Lymer Drive or Norfolk Terrace – two of three streets that form a sort of pitchfork shape with the points intersecting Marlborough.

When on my bike, I often took a lazy detour east on Lymer, passing Norfolk at the midpoint and then slipping back toward Marlborough on Rochester Road. Taking that "scenic route" at least doubled the distance I had to travel to cover those two blocks, but, on my bike, such matters were of little consequence – a few extra strokes of the pedal, nothing more.

My gaze, that night, was probably focused on the pavement, having been cast downward to negotiate the curb. Suddenly, an unexpected movement caught my eye.

Startled, I froze in place – perhaps a quarter of the way across the street.

It was a dog! He was padding along next to the curb, approaching the intersection from my right.

Had I continued walking, our paths would have crossed just before I could ascend to the sidewalk on the other side of the street.

My having stopped short, facing the animal caught his attention and he, too, put on the brakes.

We each stood our ground for what must have been just a few seconds, but seemed to be a long time. Both of us, no doubt, were processing the situation.

My risk assessment was fairly straightforward: this was a dog and just about any dog is a threat to people. They all can run faster than we can and can bite us and make us bleed.

The dog was probably operating on a higher level. He no doubt understood that I was a human and was probably confused by my behavior.

Most humans display affection or anger toward dogs. They either call out – something along the lines of "here boy!" or "Whatcha doin'?" – or they bend over and grab a real or imagined rock and threaten to hurl it at the dog.

I imagine this dog would have advanced in a friendly fashion if I had offered my current favorite canine salutation: "Hi, Pooch! Are you a good dog?"

I've been told that a friendly tone and an extended hand – with fingers curled – will usually get the tail a-waggin'; and that's a sure sign that the dog isn't looking for a fight.

But on that autumn evening I lacked the skills and experience to take control of the situation – and the dog no doubt became nervous, suspicious – worried.

He finally took the initiative. Hoping, I imagine, to back me down, he began to growl and show his teeth.

Already frozen in place, I then became further immobilized with fear. I assumed that the growling was a precursor to an attack; but I couldn't find a way to communicate the message to my feet that I wanted to back up – to yield the street to my increasingly belligerent adversary.

Familiar only with two options in similar circumstances: fight or flight, the dog must have become even more confused by my inaction. He certainly couldn't have understood the term: "scared stiff."

Finally, perhaps in frustration, the dog decided to escalate the situation; he issued a snarling, threatening, barking challenge and took a tiny step toward me.

As a sixth grader, I was about half way through the 13-year process some refer to as socialization. The mission of public schools, at least in part, is to create good citizens who are able to co-exist with others in harmony.

When confronted by one who didn't have the advantages evolution had provided to me, I discovered that neither my advanced human brain, my years of education nor my opposable thumbs were of any use in direct combat at the intersection of Marlborough and Lymer (or possibly Norfolk Terrace).

No, when confronted by that little dog, all of my human abilities shut down completely. In the final seconds of our battle, I acted without thought, without reason, without intention – I acted on pure instinct.

When that dog barked at me. I – involuntarily, but apparently convincingly – barked right back.

And MY bark carried the day. The dog retreated and left the field of battle – with his tail between his legs.

That night, in a small clearing near the center of Kensington, I became king of the forest…the top dog!

Hey, Dude! What’s up?

At the south end of downtown Corvallis, the Willamette River curves into a lazy and quite asymmetrical “S.” The midpoint is near the junction of highways 20 and 34 - - an intersection that features bridges and ramps.

In the shadow of those elevated auto-paths, right at the south end of 2nd Street, is a skate park. It’s located on Shawala Point, a small peninsula formed by the Marys River as it joins the Willamette.

Before surrendering its identity and becoming part of the larger Willamette, the Marys River forms a floodplain wetland riparian setting along the river with a boardwalk trail leading west from the skate park. The trail connects the two areas, or the Mary’s River Natural Area can be accessed from the other side of highway 20.

The same trail continues northward into downtown and other developed parklands along the river.

As I approached the skate area, my eyes were attracted to the upper body of a teenager gliding silently and smoothly from right to left; he was visible above the rim of what turned out to be a big concrete bowl filled with playthings.

The young man was moving across the bottom of the depression, arms hanging motionless to his sides and with a rather stoic expression on his face.

I parked and as I approached on foot I discovered about a dozen youngsters, all male, most on skateboards, but a few on low bicycles. They were performing stunts by using the flat surface and various inclines, ledges, rims, walls, rails and other strata that were obviously intended to replicate architectural and construction elements found in and around streets and buildings.

There was a complete absence of safety equipment among participants and the site was unsupervised; and as I watched, it occurred to me that the chances for injury were significant. But, other than head injuries, I suppose few of the scrapes, strains and breaks that must take place there are life threatening – and at least these folks don’t have to contend with traffic.

A 20-something admitted to being one of the “old-timers” and to having been involved with planning the park. He also confessed that the greatest personal lesson gained from that experience was that it’s probably wise to trust professionals who offer advice – even when they are grown-ups.

Though my new old-timer young friend pointed out a half dozen things he now wishes could have been designed differently, he and his colleagues seemed very capable of making the most of the imperfect layout.

Perhaps its imperfections only add to the appeal, as the goal was to replicate conditions that exist in the “real world” where none of the design process considers the interests of skateboarders.

The park is owned and operated by the city of Corvallis. Park workers handle trash and do a good job keeping ahead of graffiti, pigeon droppings and the constant accumulation of fallen leaves and branches from nearby trees.

Please take a look at some photos I took at the skate park.

From sea to steaming seafood

I enjoyed a delicious crab - - er, half a crab, actually - - in Newport, Oregon. My guy was a good-sized Dungeness, featuring a rugged and resistant “exoskeleton” that blocked easy access to the tender flesh that resides inside.

I was provided a sort of crab-cracker along the lines of nutcrackers I’ve used in the past and a small, but mighty fork with offset tines that were effective for twisting, tearing and then probing and extracting.

Every morsel was precious and tasty. I worked hard to push, pull, pry, suck, lick or slide even the tiniest chunks of white flesh out of its casement and into my ready maw - - by way of a little cup of drawn butter.

I intend to make a similar foray onto eastern docks - - perhaps in Newport Rhode Island - - and to sample Atlantic crab. Perhaps I’ll get lucky and score some soft-shell crab made to seem so desirable by Jack Nicholson in “As good as it gets.”

Though the tourist season has clearly not yet arrived, I found the people of Newport to be friendly and forthcoming. As is my style, I engaged several in conversation - - including a pair of crab-boat owners who told me that it’s still possible to make a living on the sea, but not easy.

One of the pair admitted that without his wife’s income - - she’s a nurse - - and fringe benefits, he might not be able to afford to continue. He also admitted that his boat is for sale.

Residents of this once-isolated community seem proud of their town and didn’t display the “I-got-to-get-outa-this-place” attitude I’ve found to be prevalent in small cities this far away from the nearest big one.

A good road - - currently under repair - - links Newport to Corvallis; it’s about an hour’s drive. But when the town was founded, it was nearly inaccessible by land. An unwillingness to raise funds to extend the railroad further delayed the establishment of a land-link, though ships were able to navigate to the railhead.

Today, Newport is one of a number of scenic and memorable seaside stops along highway 101 – the Pacific Coast Highway (or “Pea See Aitch,” as it’s known in southern California). Tourism may be the biggest industry, but the mountains of crab traps parked near the docks and dozens of boats in the harbor indicate that fishing remains an important part of the culture and economy of this picturesque seaport.

Having heard that the oceans are being emptied of their bounty and are in danger of serving only as the site for “farming” domesticated seafood, I wondered whether crabs might be an endangered species.

I didn’t find any specific facts regarding changes in the crustacean’s population; but then I learned that mama crabs produce about two and a half million eggs at a time and I’m guessing that we’ll have crabs around for a while longer.

Half a Dungeness was plenty for me; but I’m already looking forward to repeating the exercise on the other coast. I also ingested a raw oyster “shooter” which, to be frank, I found unsatisfying and a glass of root beer. The total bill, including a tip, was $13.

It might be nice to get out on one of those boats; but, to be honest, I got a little queasy from the rolling motion of the dock. Those folks who are able to actually perform hard work while being rocked and rolled around on the open sea are certainly a breed apart.

The two I spoke with were a bit crabby at first, but they warmed up after a few minutes and their love for the sea and their work was evident.

I’m tempted to make one more dash to the coast while I’m still in Oregon. I’m hearing good reports on Tillamook, which is famous for cheese. I’m thinking that a crab Po’ Boy smothered in fresh cheese might be worth the trip…

Where ever I wander, there's no place like home

        “Home” is at 4345 Middlesex Drive.
        In my memory, that place remains as solid and tangible as it was for nearly four decades of real time when our family owned it.
        It is a two-story Spanish-style house on a cul-de-sac in east San Diego.
        There are three bedrooms upstairs and a large living room, family room, dining room, fourth bedroom, kitchen and two hallways or entry rooms downstairs.
        We referred to the family room as the “TV Room,” the dining room was our “Breakfast Room” and the downstairs bedroom was my father’s “Den”.
        From the back door stairs led down to a brick-floored, patio, complete with a fireplace and built-in seating.
        In front, a small porch perched two steps above a walkway that curved through the large front yard. Most of that yard was covered with ivy and fruit trees, but along the side there was a strip of desert plants that my mother calls “succulents”.
        I recall every inch of that house, of the yard and of the section of canyon that was part of our property.
        I know the neighborhood and am familiar with dozens of routes leading from our house to Adams Avenue, which was “Main Street” for Kensington, the center of my universe for the decade during which I passed from age eight to eighteen.
        I left Middlesex Drive by foot, bicycle, bus or automobile several thousand times over those years only to return within a few hours after school or church or other events.
        I lived in that house, occupying the same room, sleeping in the same bed for those ten years; and I have never since stayed so long in place – any place.
        I finally moved away from home in the summer of 1967.
        Through two marriages and the raising of two children, that house continued to be the dominant landmark in my life, though I never lived there again full-time.
        I probably wouldn’t have done so, but the idea of buying or inheriting that property and ending up back on Middlesex Drive for my golden years did cross my mind many times.
        When my father died in 1994, I urged my mother to give up the house, but I had mixed feelings about seeing it sold.
        And, after she finally did let the property go, I never went back – somehow the thought of seeing it under new ownership makes me uneasy. Perhaps I’m troubled by the fact that others can now make changes and that this place with so much historic significance – to me at least – may be remodeled or altered in ways that make it no longer seem like … like home, I guess.
        Looking back, I recognize that the house and its environs were very positive for me. I had my own room – a large space with windows on two walls, a huge closet and very few restrictions on how I ornamented and utilized it. I felt safe inside that room – I had privacy and freedom there. I spent a lot of time in my room and it was happy time.
        My love for reading and interest in writing blossomed in my room on Middlesex Drive, I discovered music by way of an old radio that I endlessly took apart and put back together (I always managed to make it play again, but each time I reassembled the thing, I found homes for fewer parts).
        I know there are 15 steps in the staircase; I’ve counted them hundreds of times. I know that tobogganing down those stairs works far better on an inflated air mattress than on cushions from the couch. I know you can spy on the occupants of my sisters’ room from the sunroof outside my parent’s room by looking through a small closet window – if the closet door is left open.
        I’ve crawled under the house through a small opening in the patio and I’ve been in the “attic” – which is only a crawl space itself, accessible through an opening in the ceiling of that same sisters’ closet.
        I’ve been up way before sunlight, folding newspapers for my route; and I’ve heard birds and seen nocturnal animals that roam Middlesex and surrounding streets in the pre-dawn darkness.
        I fired my father’s pistol into the canyon from that sunroof and I snuck into a neighbor’s rec room five or six houses down from us and looked at pictures of naked ladies behind his bar.
        And when I was 14, I snuck high school cheerleaders into my room late at night for orgies.
        The neighborhood was great. I would have loved…
        …Ok, I never snuck any cheerleaders into my room.
        I would have loved to have a lake in my back yard; but living on the edge of a canyon is also pretty cool. The canyon was a place for discovery. My little sister and I, with a couple of neighbor kids, formed the “Canyon Club” and frequently slipped below the lip of the mesa, looking for adventure.
        We circumnavigated the cul-de-sac at the end of Middlesex on a trail we blazed ourselves a hundred or so feet down into the canyon.
        We discovered artifacts, built forts, snuck up on homeowners who were oblivious to our presence below them, and generally engaged in rock-throwing, bug catching, climbing, jumping and goofing around that only kids consider to be fun.
        The center of the cul-de-sac, of course, was the street, Middlesex Drive itself. Our street was made of huge concrete slabs that were welded together with flat strips of tar, laid down in a regular pattern that created excellent, though a bit oversized, foursquare courts.
        Other, disorganized, seemingly random black tar-lines created jagged and irregular stripes that patched breaks in the concrete.
        Traffic was light and we played endlessly in the street, only occasionally shouting, “Car!” and yielding to oncoming traffic.
        I could tell a hundred more stories of childhood and adult adventures in that house, along Middlesex Drive and in the canyon surrounding our cul-de-sac…
        Though I accept the truth in the statement, “You can never go home again,” I know that, in many ways I’ve never left Middlesex Drive and that I never will.
        Even if I do finally “settle down” and actually spend twenty or thirty years in one place, the word “home” will still evoke memories of the cul-de-sac, the canyon and that two-story house numbered 4345.

Have we met?

Never able to remember names and faces (somebody has to be the world’s worst at everything and this may be my category), I’ve already become more than confused about whom I’ve met and where I met them.

It’s day 26 and I imagine I’ve introduced myself to at least 300 people among the six facilities I’ve visited. Now, even before I sit down for the first meal some of the folks are looking familiar and I have that feeling of UN-déjà vu.

It’s not at all pleasant. I understand and agree with the statement that one of the sweetest and more welcome sounds is someone saying our name. I know that people notice when one doesn’t remember a name. I wish I weren’t so deficient.

Believe me, I’ve tried memory techniques. Given enough time and a relatively small number of items to remember, I can commit a dozen facts, objects, titles or about anything to memory – for a few hours or days.

But these neat people are coming at me two or three at a time and there could be 15 or 20 in less than an hour. There’s just no way I can carry on a conversation AND remember names.

I’ve decided that the greater benefit (to ME) is to absorb some wisdom and insight. I wish I could do both, but my wiring seems to make it nearly impossible to catalog mugs and monikers.

Oh, do I wish it were otherwise, my friend.

By the way, I didn’t catch your name the first three times you reminded me; let’s try one more time. . .

Pretty Darned Fantastic

Ask Adobe, the company that invented the Portable Document Format (PDF), why the world needed another computer file format and their answer is simple, yet profound: it “maintains information integrity.”

The company that brought us Photoshop and PageMaker— using a new language called PostScript that describes the way images, including type, are displayed on paper, computer screens or any other surface – has made it possible to transfer such images across time, space and computer platforms.

A Mac user can send a file to a PC user with full confidence that columns will line up, type faces will be retained and that photos and other images will appear just where they are supposed to be and at the right size.

It’s wonderful.
Better, yet, PDF files can be displayed over the internet.

When you post a message using HTML (hypertext markup language), each computer that downloads your file applies its own settings when displaying that message. Often, messages don’t fit, typefaces can’t be matched, images end up misaligned and parts of the message extends off the screen— either vertically or horizontally . . . or both.

Not so with PDF. Users may have to scale documents up or down to match the resolution of their individual monitors, but the integrity of documents is retained.

This is particularly beneficial to those who prefer to print out information they find online. A properly formatted PDF page will fit perfectly on the size sheet of paper it has been designed for. Documents can look just great, including color, multiple type faces and even sophisticated design features for printing front-and-back, booklets, folded documents and more.

The travel industry has caught on to PDF technology and the use of what some call “e-brochures” is growing rapidly. These documents look great on the screen and are also formatted to print out perfect 3-panel brochures.

The e-brochure has three amazing benefits:

1. it saves money— information providers need only create a digital version of each brochure; online visitors can decide to print out one or more copies for their own purposes, using their own paper and ink; and there are no mailing costs


2. it saves time— information seekers get immediate information online and can print a copy in a matter of seconds to use for whatever purposes desired; information providers are out of the distribution loop as downloading PDF files requires no overt action from the sender’s end


3. and it allows easy and inexpensive updating— there need be no more casting of uncalculated hundreds of brochures into the trash as digital updates now replace ink-on-paper; new and updated information can be incorporated at any time and the changes are instantly available to visitors to the web site.

While printing out e-brochures may go against the notion of paperless offices, being able to take an up-to-date document along to meetings or for reference purposes is often helpful. PDF files make it possible to create top-notch documents that, as the name states, are completely portable.

I can carry hundreds of pages of PDF files in my flash storage device, or data stick. This object is smaller than a butane cigarette lighter and mine hangs from my neck. With that data in hand, I can print out (or download) files wherever I go— using other people’s computers and printers.

For more information about PDF, visit Adobe. Ironically, it’s an html file, but the information is clear and there are many links to more detailed sites.

The sun did not shine...

No doubt long-term Eugene residents consider this morning’s drizzle to be no more than a common nuisance, but Wandering Dave hails from the southwest, where rain is as rare as jackalope sightings and rain “gear” is limited to an umbrella or two that are usually relegated to the floor of a closet and can’t be found when there actually is precipitation.

“Normal” rainfall in San Diego is about 10 inches. While I was growing up and forming my weather expectations, we received less than 10 inches most years – rain just wasn’t a factor.

Here in Eugene, the average precipitation expectation is just over 50 inches. The record is more than 75 and even the driest years see totals three or more times greater than those in Southern California.

Just as the Tule fog which can be very perseverant in the Central Valley and the June Gloom that tends to obscure southern California mornings can tend to bring one down, they and the Oregon rain can also have a calming effect.

Taken in the proper spirit, rainy, foggy and otherwise gloomy weather can actually be considered a respite (though many look at things the opposite way as in: “respite from the storm.”)

Sitting in a warm room (a fire can add even more to the experience) in a comfortable seat and looking up from time to time from a book or nap to see that the storm is continuing while all remains well here inside where we are safe and sound creates a good feeling – perhaps it’s a celebration of human beings’ conquest of the elements.

A fireplace awaits me downstairs; so I’ll go enjoy the rest of this rainy Oregon morning with a book in front of a blazing fire.

Born again...again

And The Rhythm Of Life is a powerful beat,
Puts a tingle in your fingers and a tingle in your feet.
    —Sweet Charity, 1969

It’s the Circle of Life
And it moves us all
Through despair and hope
Through faith and love
Till we find our place
On the path unwinding
    —The Lion King, 1994

Yakima was hit hard by the eruption Of Mount St. Helens in the spring of 1980. The city was in the path of nearly two and one-half cubic kilometers of debris projected from the mountain and high into the air; moret than a quarter-century later, some remnants continue to circulate in the stratosphere.

At the end of that day, the mountain was more than a thousand feet shorter and 57 people were dead. It was the most destructive event of its kind in U.S. history.

The biggest and heaviest chunks of matter fell to earth before reaching Yakima and the lightest particles passed above and beyond the city. Gravity acted as a filter, delivering tons of ash the consistency of sand down to this town— some 90 miles east-northeast of the mountain.

This ash, which coated the community to the depth of four or five inches, arrived in the form of a huge, dark cloud about an hour and a half after the explosion— having traveled about a mile a minute.

People who lived through that day tend to speak about it rather quietly. When the earth sends such dramatic messages from its very core, one can’t help but take notice— and to accept the reality of the event.

Memories of the aftermath include sweeping, shoveling and washing individual portions of the aerial effluent from roofs, walks, yards and vehicles.

Ash was hauled to formerly low areas, including gullies and canyons, in quantities that erased topography and created new flatlands for later development.

Every witness was also a participant as particles of silicon and other detritus dropped earthward, feeling at first like rainfall, but soon filling the skies and transforming day into night.

At the time, it must have felt that the world was ending, that everything beautiful was being engulfed in grey, ashen death.

But after it was over— and as always— the people and the earth recovered.

Perhaps it was because of the contrast between desolation and life, but most of those who survived Mount St. Helens recall that spring flowers and fall crops were more bountiful for years after the eruption.

Death and rebirth. The eternal cycle of life.

We are reminded of this repeating pattern every year as the seasons change. We are reminded of it in our personal lives when we encounter loss and recovery. And, from time to time when wind, water or fire reveal the awesome power of nature, we are reminded that the cycle of life is universal.

California Dreaming . . . NOT!

Growing up in San Diego in the ’50s and ’60s, I developed a pretty significant level of contempt for Los Angeles.

We San Diegans viewed California’s largest city as a vast wasteland comprised of hundreds of neighborhoods, suburbs and connected cities that, as the song goes, “are all made out of ticky-tack and all look just the same.”

Los Angeles had gangs and ghettos; it had gridlock and crowded… everything; it had big government and big business; and it had smog.

When you looked up “urban sprawl” in the dictionary you found a map of “the Southland.”

From our vantage point 120 miles to the south— the land of blue skies, open roads, diverse neighborhoods and friendly people— our communities and our lifestyles were as different from Los Angeles as night and day.

Fast-forward a half-century.

Today, distinctions between San Diego and Los Angeles are rather subtle. Camp Pendleton continues to provide a buffer, at least along the coast, but it now separates very similar landscapes.

From San Ysidro to Oceanside and then from San Clemente to Ventura, we now see a repeating urban pattern reflecting little or no creative planning for commercial or residential development. And this makes up just the southern third of what has been projected to become a solid block of communities stamped out of the L.A. mold— a block extending from the Bay Area to the Mexican border: “San-San.”

Today, I’m 850 miles north of the City of Angels— in the heart of a state that has gone so far as to warn their neighbors to the south, “Don’t Californicate Oregon.”

Strong sentiments. Perhaps the author of this crude admonition took note of what has happened to San Diego over the past half-century.

Now, don’t get me wrong. The world outside of Southern California has not been unaffected. The inevitable collection of name-brand eateries and other places of commerce have invaded intersections throughout the nation— and evidence indicates that the impact is worldwide.

And the huge homebuilding corporations that have made so many billions of dollars along California’s south coast are applying the same design and building techniques to the far corners of the nation – perhaps of the world.

The mall wasn’t invented in California, nor were other elements of city planning (perhaps more properly labeled “non-planning”) that have created that “been-there, done-that” feeling that seems to repeat every 20 blocks or so.

No doubt many of the influences that have transformed the landscape have origins outside the Golden State and simply multiplied more quickly in that consumer-rich Petri dish.

This point can be supported by mentioning a single company: Starbuck’s. Query to Oregon: How’d you let that little rascal slip through to California?

Well, if I’m sounding a bit defensive for my home state, don’t be deceived. I’m on the side of the traditionalists. When towns and cities look different from one another, they’re more interesting— and it’s easier to tell them apart.

I’m hoping that the farther I travel from La-La Land the more different things will seem. By the time I get to Montreal the transformation may be complete.

So, hooray for Central Oregon! Though inroads have been made by the MacWhosits and the Bed, Bath and Whatevers, here differences are still more common than are similarities.

Vive les différences.

Address unknown

Walking to the post office was a highlight of each day back in the winter of 1967.

I was 800 miles from home, trying to adapt to a roommate from east of the Mississippi, and making necessary adjustments to a place with a population about the same as my elementary school and with real-life, white, frozen SNOW on the ground.

The anticipation grew each morning as I hiked the quarter-mile or so down Main Street. My tiny post office box was the only private space in my life at the time. Anything in that box was mine and mine alone. Well, it was mine at least in theory.

I was a Vista Volunteer -- part of President Johnson's War on Poverty -- and managing mail was one of many topics we had covered during a six-week training program back in the fall.

"You can be sure that anything written on a post card delivered to your mailbox will be common knowledge all over town before you ever see it," we were told.

So, I wrote a glowing postcard to a buddy back in San Diego raving about the wonderful people I was meeting and their having welcomed us "Vistas" with open arms. I was certain that I detected a bit of a smile on the face of the post office clerk the next time I saw her...

Anyway, since those days of literally hiking through the snow to get my mail, the arrival of every day's postings has continued to be a significant event in my life. When I have been in a situation where I can hear the mail drop into my box, I've responded as if the phone were ringing by jumping up and going "to see what I got."

I've camped out by the mailbox many times when I could see the carrier coming. I would rather stand around doing nothing for five or ten minutes so I could get my mail at the earliest possible instant than to retain my dignity by going inside and returning after the carrier had left.

Now that I'm on the road, I have nowhere to check for my mail. Oh, it's being forwarded to Jesse in the Wandering Dave headquarters; but I don't give mail a thought. When talking with my son, I haven't asked once about the mail. For the first time in 40 years it's out of sight and out of mind.

Interestingly, life goes on. My entire world, to some extent, now fits in the back seat and trunk of my 1995 Saturn. I am disconnected from the ton or so of personal possessions that have burdened me for years and I am disconnected from the dedicated lines of communication that once seemed to be lifelines.

The Internet and my wireless connections have replaced landlines and home delivery. Being away from my base doesn't seem to have created a communications crisis.

I don't even miss that daily surge of anticipation before the mail carrier's appointed round. I look at others who may ask, "has the mail come yet?" or who may gather in the lobby and watch with interest as pieces are sorted into individual boxes.

Mesmerized, they take note of the shape, color and thickness of each item, wondering before they are slid into place, whether one interesting missive or the other might be theirs.

Ah, yes. I feel pity for those who are still under the spell of the Postal Service.

True, I've lost the potential that today or tomorrow I may get that letter of letters -- perhaps announcing that I've inherited a fortune or won a prize or am being offered an unbelievable opportunity. I'm no longer in the game. I won't be able to enter the Publisher's Sweepstakes, meaning it's certain that I haven't already won 17 million dollars.

But I'm OK with that. Because I no longer check daily for potentially great news, I also no longer suffer the disappointment that previously struck me nearly every day: disappointment that no notice has arrived of my ship coming in; and disappointment because after sifting through the ads and offers and solicitations and notices and bulletins and other baloney I usually didn't receive a single item of real interest or value.

I've only been off the stuff for a few weeks. But there have been no withdrawal symptoms and my days are no longer divided in two. For me there no longer is a "before the mail arrives" and "after the mail has arrived."

There is no more "postage due," no more "to John Doe or current resident," no more "important message, open immediately," no more "please forward" and no more "we need your help."

I wonder if I could become a man without a mailing address. Could I abandon all zip codes? Is it possible for an American to opt out of the USPS entirely?

I'm considering the possibility of never going postal again.

One hot little city

Redding resonates within me. In fact, if every day in Redding could be just like today, I might just have to put down roots and become a permanent resident.

The people are small-town friendly. The local government appears to be progressive and to have a sense of style that's missing in too many towns these days. Redding's points of interest include plenty of 20th and 21st century attractions - including a new state-of-the-art public library opening this weekend.

Situated at a crossroads for northern California, this community seems destined for growth - which isn't always such a good thing - and for an ongoing role as a hub for commerce, culture and whatever other areas of interest for which it might attempt to assert leadership.

Politics makes it impossible to predict such things, but believe the next University of California should be located in Redding. The slow start experienced by UC Merced may delay further expansion, but northern California deserves a turn and, to me, Redding is the hands-down favorite pick to click.

So, why the qualifier? Why did I begin by saying "if every day in Redding could be just like today..."?

Well, even though this is a hot, happening place, it also happens - - during summer months - - to be just plain hot.

Despite being ringed by snow-capped mountains, it doesn't snow or freeze in Redding. And apparently because those same mountains form kind of bowl that results in an inversion, hot air remains trapped near the ground. The result is long, hot summers.

A set of statistics that I was told to take with a grain of salt admits to average high temperatures above 90 degrees in June, July, August and September of 2006. Record highs have been measured above 100 as early as May and as late as October.

All time high temperatures are: 94 degrees for April; 104 for May, 111 for June; 118 for July; and 115 for August; 116 for September; and 105 for October.

That's way too hot for this kid. I grew up in San Diego and anything above 80 is outside my comfort range.

Redding looks like a great place to visit and prime real estate for a new UC; but my advice is to visit during spring or fall months. And if you decide to attend UC Redding, avoid summer school.

I've been to town

You ask me do I know the Milky Way?
I do, and furthermore I'd like to say
it isn't milky white it's dirty gray.
Especially when your world breaks down
I know because I've been to town...
     —Rod McKuen

Because I don’t swear, spit, tell dirty jokes or get drunk, a lot of folks seem to think I’m a prude.

I once told an off-color joke to a group of coworkers who were so startled by the fact that I had lowered myself to that level of humor that they paid no attention to the punch line; they just walked away shaking their heads.

But, make no mistake about it. I am a man of the world. I have, as Rod McKuen put it so poetically, “been to town.”

OK, I haven’t been there in the sense that I’ve lived there for any length of time. I’ve just been a visitor and much more a vicarious participant than an active one when it came to the dark and dirty deeds performed there.

All of that said, and again risking being considered puritanical, I believe that society actually does have a filthy underbelly. There are activities and interests that properly can be labeled prurient. There are patterns of behavior that are unproductive at best and self-destructive at worst.

Despite their protestations and their otherwise upstanding lifestyle, I’m inclined to argue that the growing legions of so-called “recreational gamblers” are being (or have already been) captured by the dark side of The Force.

After two days of unrestricted affection for the city of Reno - - based largely on its beauty under a layer of clean, white snow - - I plunged into an abyss occupied by pathetic participants in the something-for-nothing, winning-is-everything, what’s-yours-is-mine, gimme-gimme-gimme crowd that spends hours in dimly lit, foul-smelling dens of ill repute and iniquity.

These venues have no real reason for existing other than to separate the masses from their money and to line the pockets of those who are morally corrupt enough to benefit from the misery of others.

To assign adjectives like “fun” and “exciting” to gambling halls is an insult to the kind of wholesome and productive activities that they have replaced.

Families that might have otherwise been gathered around the fireplace roasting marshmallows, singing and telling stories are divided: Dad in the poker room; Mom playing slots and the kids in a video game room permeated with overflow smoke and inundated by the same clanging, clinking, ringing and beeping background noise only casinos can generate.

The kids may be tired, they may even be bored on many levels, but they’ve never been able to talk their folks out of so much cash - - handed over as the result of guilt and an unrealistic hope that the kids are having “exciting fun” in that tiny corner of the room outside of which state law commands that they not venture.

All right, I admit that the tide is against me. I’ve enjoyed watching Texas Hold ‘Em players who appear regularly on television; and I’ve always been intrigued by the mathematics underlying games of “chance.”

I’m not sure that there’s anything inherently wrong or evil about experimenting with gambling. But it doesn’t take much investigating to uncover the fact that many people aren’t able to stop the experiment. Things go out of control and lives are sometimes ruined.

Doesn’t that sound like fun?

States are sponsoring games of chance; economies depend on ill-gotten gains for their very survival. Senior Citizens are making the rounds of casinos and bingo parlors and star students are leaving school to seek their fortune at the poker tables.

If it seems a bit like the beginning of the end - - as in the rise and fall of an empire - - then maybe it is. Maybe this is part of a decline that will end badly for a nation of individuals that became successful by gambling that hard work and fair play would win the day.

It once did. And that was exciting.

Reno: Odds makers and Weather Forecasters

This brief foray into Nevada - - included in my itinerary almost as an afterthought - - may be memorable to some degree as a bit of a gamble.

Weather reports from a week ago indicated that I would be taking a chance by attempting to cross the Donner Pass without snow tires or chains. And, as it turned out, I was fortunate to make my way over between snowstorms.

Snow has been the dominant topic of discussion and concern ever since. Yesterday, an increasing and steady snowfall continued into the night, blanketing everything under two or three inches of the white stuff.

But the morning brought blue skies; and the melting process has revealed large patches of brown linked by black streets and white sidewalks.

Two questions remain: What’s happening in the mountains between here and Redding? What does Mother Nature have in store for me during the next 48 hours?

Regardless of the outcome, I believe I’ve already beaten the odds and am in a win-win situation. There are few sights that compare with fresh snow on a clear, brisk morning and today I had the chance to drink in such a sight.

Today before breakfast, I enjoyed the crunch of snow and thin ice under foot and the wonderful contrast between a clear blue sky and snow that not only coats horizontal surfaces but clings to the branches of trees and becomes lodged in every conceivable nook and cranny created by nature or humans.

For some reason, I feel more alive on a day like today. I’m not sure what that means; but it’s a sensation I first identified in those terms in the winter of 1967 when I lived in San Luis, Colorado.

That year, I walked to the post office each morning and never tired of stepping into depressions that had been puddles the day before but were now crowned by thin layers of ice that shattered pleasantly beneath my boots.

Most mornings were much cooler than today; one didn’t dare breathe deeply because the frigid air caused pain when forced too far into the lungs.

But nothing can improve upon that wonderful combination of clear, blue (unpolluted) skies and fresh, clean, whiter-than-white snow. It must have been on a morning like this that someone decided that the ultimate in pristine-ness could be summed up as being “pure as the freshly driven snow.”

I’ve been kept away from the historical and cultural wonders of Northern Nevada this week by the natural wonders created by the angle of the earth and by the luck of the meterological draw.

A few days ago I wondered whether I might have left Merced a month too soon. But then I might have missed this glorious day – and the excitement I’ll enjoy wondering what the odds are that I’ll find clear and open roads for my journey back into California.

More than 2,000 years ago, Julius Caesar stood with his legions on the banks of the Rubicon. He turned to his soldiers and announced, “the die is cast.”

My little foray back over the Sierra Mountains is insignificant by comparison. But my fate on Thursday - - just like on every other day - - depends, in a large part, on luck.

I’ll see you in Redding.

Is this ride worth an "E" ticket?

Every time Lucy offers to hold the football for a placekick, Charlie Brown is suspicious, but he invariably decides to trust her.
And every time, as he plants his left foot in anticipation of a perfect attempt, Lucy pulls the ball up over her shoulder and denies him the pleasure derived from sending the ball skyward.
Poor Charlie always ends up heels over head, sprawled in a disappointed and disillusioned heap on the turf.
Why does he subject himself to this repeated disappointment and indignity?
"Hope springs eternal," one might argue. Charlie Brown is a classic optimist, always hoping for the best and recognizing that it is possible that this time Lucy will poise her index finger atop the pigskin and allow him to experience that satisfying THUMP as the ball sails aloft in a classic trajectory.
"He'll never learn," another might counter. Only a fool repeats the same behavior again and again, each time expecting a different outcome.
Sales people love finding well-intentioned, good-natured, trusting people like Charlie Brown -- flim-flam artists love them most of all. They often refer to such folks as "suckers" and they celebrate P.T. Barnum's observation that there's another born every minute.
But it seems to me that "suckers" like Charlie Brown are often more generous and helpful than the more cautious types. They are quick to lend a hand; more interested, perhaps in doing than in deciding.
When I heard that Santa Rosa, California is the home of the Charles M. Schultz Museum and Research Center, my ears perked up (like Snoopy's?).
I suppose I identify a little with Charlie Brown -- I was shaped rather like him as a child (still am, unfortunately), and I was equally inept when it came to sports and romance.
But, as I noted earlier, Charlie is a bit of a sucker. And I was raised to not be taken in by the flim-flammers.
So, when I learned that admission to the museum was $8, I balked.
I was reminded of a visit to Disneyland back in 1968 with a now-former brother in law. We were discussing our itinerary when Lester looked up from his packet of ride coupons and asked, "Is that ride really worth an "E" ticket?"
Now, I knew from several previous visits to the Magic Kingdom that we would receive a ticket book with finite numbers of "A" through "E" tickets. The number of rides that corresponded with each ticket was greater than the number of tickets provided. So, choices had to be made.
It was permissible to use a higher-level ticket for lower-value rides, but not vice-versa. And Lester was noting that an "E" ticket was good for any ride in the park and should be considered the most rare and valuable ducat in the pack.
During the succeeding three or four decades, I've adapted variations of Les' question to situations like the Schultz Museum. Is, I wondered, admission to a museum dedicated to a comic strip really "worth" eight of my hard-earned dollars?
Now, I can afford the price of admission. Since I travel alone, my costs in such instances are literally a fraction of those facing others. A family of five, for example, must pony up not eight, but 31 bucks for a stroll through the facility. My decision is as much a matter of principle as of principal.
I delayed my final decision regarding the museum and strolled across the street to the gallery and gift shop which were located next to the ice arena (Schultz was a big hocky fan and built his own rink).
Looking at the price list as I passed by, I noted that the same family of five would be dinged another $56 if they decided to add a couple of hours of skating to their outing (paying $12 for the adults and teenager and $10 each for the two younger children).
After viewing dozens of items in the gallery and checking out hundreds more of rather pricey souvenirs (stuffed Snoopy dogs are clearly the big draw this year), I decided to check out the snack bar.
Well, the (you guessed it) Snoopyburger went for $7.50 and soda was another $2.50.
Suddenly, a family that may not have even known there was a Charles M. Schultz Museum and Research Center in Santa Rosa could find itself $137 lighter in the wallet -- more if they purchased memorabilia or fries with those burgers.
Now, I suspect that Charlie Brown wouldn't have balked at the cost, that he'd have gone into debt before disappointing Mrs. Brown and the little Brownie kids. And it's hard to argue with the assertion that "you only go around once and must grab opportunities as they present themselves...
But, an "E" ticket for the Charlie Brown museum?
Good Grief.

Stormy Weather

Snow continues to fall and uncertainty about weather conditions is making me leery of going siteseeing -- even into downtown Reno's casino region. Much of the time, medium-to-large-sized flakes of snow drift toward the ground. When they hit rock or asphalt they tend to melt quickly; but they are sticking to grass, plants, parked vehicles and rooftops.

I've enjoyed conversation with residents of the Sky Peaks facility and have been given permission to print a version of a column created by the editor of a building newsletter. But my general sense of well-being has been disrupted a bit today.

First, I would have liked to get out of the building and am feeling a bit cowardly for not venturing forth in what is really a very mild storm.

Second, I've now failed to convert some raw audio data into a radio clip for the second time. I am discovering that creating a minute of produced programming takes about an hour. Unfortunately, it also takes an hour to FAIL to produce a minute of useable product. I'm six or seven hours into part two of a series of pieces involving Paull McCoy of Santa Rosa, but find myself pretty much at ground zero.

It's all pilot error, I fear. I'm just not getting better with the software and hardware. I've made mistakes that have resulted in lost data and chopped up results.

I'm attempting to be philosophical about the time spent -- realizing that it's likely that I'll get better at this and wil one day look back with some kind of nostalgia at this time of fumbling with the dials and switches.

Meanwhile, I'm closing the studio for the afternoon and concluding that today is not a good day for radio clip production.

The Legend of Snowshoe Thompson

by Mick Mikkelson
Reno, Nevada

Flat land didn't interest John Thompson. So, when the U.S. government needed someone to deliver mail in the Sierra foothills, he eagerly applied for the job.
Thompson had emigrated from Norway at age 10. He tried farming, but he couldn't stop gazing at the mountains. He was under their spell and had to find a way to create a life high above the valley floor.
He gave gold mining a try but was still looking for his destiny in 1856 when, before his 29th birthday, he noticed an ad in the newspaper seeking applicants for a mountain mail carrier.
He was determined that he could fill the position and to demonstrate his unique talents, he chopped down an oak tree and carved out two skis - - each weighing over 12 pounds. He referred to the skis as snowshoes.
Thompson also cut a 10-foot pole for balance, direction and braking; he then mapped a route between the towns of Genoa, Nevada and Placerville, California - - a distance of some 90 miles.
When Thompson applied for the job, the postmaster was skeptical.
"Even men with mule trains fail to make the trip over the Sierra in the dead of winter," he told the would-be mail carrier. "We found some frozen to death."
But no one else applied for the position and the postmaster had little choice. The man forever after known as "Snowshoe" Thompson assumed responsibility for covering 25 to 40 miles each day, skiing through all kinds of weather and conditions.
The heavy mail sack made the job more difficult and Thompson's skis were cumbersome; so he traveled light, carrying only crackers, bread and dried meat for sustenance.
Blankets and coats would have been too bulky, so he depended on his exertion to keep warm.
Though he had carefully plotted his route, Thompson carried neither a map nor compass.
Nothing could stop this rugged mountain man. No blizzard was severe enough nor temperature low enough to make him call it quits, and the legend of Snowshoe Thompson lives on.
He is believed to have been the first person to ski in California and Nevada; and he was the only man to carry the mail between foothill mining towns in the winter months between 1856 and 1876, the year of his death.
A magnificent statue stands in the grounds of the Mormon Station State Park in Genoa commemorating the accomplishments of this Norwegian immigrant who yearned for life in the Sierra Nevada.

Snow Day!

White roofs, a sugary dusting of plants and ground and tiny specks of white lazily drifting earthward greeted me a few minutes ago when I raised the blinds from my cozy third-floor room.

I'm overlooking a sort of inclined courtyard whose major feature is a rocky riverbed. Water isn't flowing at present, not because of freezing, but it's obviously intended for erosion control during heavy rains and this tiny amount of snowfall will most likely either soak into the earth or evaporate in place.

Crossing Donner Pass yesterday, I saw lots more of the white stuff -- trees were laden with it and occasionally let go of clumps that landed with "plops' I could almost hear from inside my noisy Saturnl. Drifts were deep and tightly packed banks of snow sometimes towered over me featuring Grand Canyon-like strata indicating "geologic eras" representing the successive passage of snow plows over past weeks.

My own little layer will likely be gone later today -- current forecasts indicate that daytime temperatures will be too high for this fragile layer of 32-degree H2O.

Not enough for a snowman -- it would even be hard to scrape up a decent snowball. "But this is my first snow in a number of years and that makes it significant.

To those readers who will see no snow in their flatlanders' towns and cities I say -- "too bad for you."

Reno is lovely under a sheet veil of white lace.

I'm having a great time; wish you were here.

Home again in a strange new town

While sitting in the lobby following a delicious dinner (featuring baked salmon, rice, salad, vegetables, dessert and both hot and cold beverages), it occurred to me that I may have discovered the very best possible method of travel.

Because I reside in a facility owned by a huge corporation, I have travel privileges that allow me to stay free at other company-owned facilities throughout the U.S. and Canada.

Oh, and meals like the healthy and hearty one I’m now digesting are included at no charge.

Many of these facilities were built according to variations on a single theme. That means when I drive into the parking lot, I already know where to enter and how to locate the managers to get my room key. I don’t need a guide to find my room, or the dining room or other amenities including library, game room, computer lab and activity room.

I have been greeted with friendly enthusiasm at each of the seven facilities I’ve visited to date (just two, of course, on the current trip), and have felt immediately at home and at ease.

In fact, since I suffer a bit from back pain while on the road or while sleeping in a strange bed, I’ve actually left my room a few times in pre-dawn hours still dressed in my bed clothes and have sat quietly in an easy chair or at the end of a comfortable couch while the pain eased a bit.

When I moved into my home facility ten months ago, I was told about the company philosophy. “This is your home,” said my guides.

As we toured the facility, I jokingly asked, “Is this my big-screen television? And “Is this my computer lab?”

In both cases, I was assured that I had full access to all of the technology and other amenities. That I could have family and friends visit and only needed to notify the managers if I needed special accommodations.

Hot coffee is available 24 hours a day as are cold drinks and fruit. The facility is filled and surrounded by comfortable furniture. Residents are allowed, even encouraged to keep pets and are often seen walking them around the lovely grounds.

My point? Well, the feeling of being at home seems to be very transportable. I have no concerns about security or safety and have discovered that residents are curious about me and my trip and make me feel very welcome and comfortable.

I can spend as much time as I wish in conversation with others; conversely, I can stay in my room – they will even bring meals to me if I’m feeling a bit under the weather.

Imagine. Room service! And tipping is strictly forbidden.

Staying five days in each facility is beginning to seem like too little time. I’m meeting dozens of new people each week and would enjoy getting to know them better – but time flies and I must be on my way.

It’s nice to know that I’ll be back home again on Saturday. This time back home in Reno.

Where in the world is Antioch?

"Ante, Ock!"
The black-clad riverboat gambler snarled at a native American who faced him across the poker table. "Throw in some chips or I'm gonna deal you out."
A few seconds earlier, a passenger standing at the nearby railing, had gazed at the shore and asked her husband, "Where are we, dear?"
A third passenger was sketching a rough map of the area and entered what he mistakenly believed was the response to the woman's query: "Antioch."
And that, I was told, is how this riverfront community got its name. "Ock," according to my source, was the chief of a local tribe who was known for his slow play at the poker table...
Antioch, CA -- As a journalist, I consider it my professional duty to apply a healthy dose of skepticism to just about any statement. But it doesn't take much of a skeptic to recognize that the "Ante, Ock!" explanation for the naming of this burgeoning delta community just doesn't ring true.
Fortunately, local residents -- most notably, members of the Antioch Historical Society -- have done their homework and created an alternate account that seems better able to bear scrutiny.
Predictably, the shoreline that now marks the northern border of both the City of Antioch and Contra Costa County created a natural and logical path for native Americans, including more than one tribe of Miwoks (but probably no Ocks) who were enroute to and from the Bay.
Fish were plentiful in waters that reversed course each day with the tides and there's little doubt that nets were cast from shores that are now part of the city. Then, as now, the area is dotted with wetlands; a huge range of wildlife certainly occupied territory now filled with malls, schools, roads and housing tracts.
The first non-natives to arrive were Spanish explorers who conducted expeditions through the delta nearly 250 years ago. But early settlements leapfrogged from the Bay Area into the Central Valley and the Sierra beyond; and the process of "in-filling" didn't begin until the mid-19th century; it continues today.
Having dispensed with the legend of a poker-playing chief named Ock as the town's namesake, we are next offered a tale involving the Smith brothers.
WOO-OOOH-WOO-OOOH!
The skeptic's alarm sounds again as visions of cough drops and bearded brothers dance in our heads.
But then we're told that these were two OTHER brothers who came with their wives to seek their fortune during the gold rush and ended up applying their skills at tailoring and homebuilding to create an infrastructure that soon led to the first stages of the aforementioned in-filling.
In addition to being tradesmen, both brothers were ordained ministers and when the time came to name the settlement they founded, "Antioch" seemed to be a good choice.
Considered by many to be the birthplace of Christianity, the Syrian Antioch was where the apostle Paul reportedly began his work.
Once named, it took about 20 years for the settlement to grow to a population of 1,000 and another half-century to surpass 10,000. But when land closer to the Bay filled up with increasingly expensive housing, property that had formerly been agricultural began giving way to neighborhoods and the number of souls in Antioch doubled about every 20 years.
Today, with over 100,000 residents, the city is alternately referred to as the "Gateway to the Delta," RiverTown," the "Heart of Contra Costa County," "A-Town" and even "A-O" by some high schoolers. It's a blend of riverfront, historic western town and bedroom community and seems destined to continue growing even as traffic and other impacts begin to threaten the quality of life.
The city is bristling with new opportunities; and newcomers provide funding for schools and other civic facilities. But there is an underlying concern that growth may not be good just for its own sake and that more density may lead to new problems, including a higher crime rate.
Like many, perhaps all, 21st century cities, Antioch is discovering that these are the best of times and the worst of times.
Like most, perhaps all communities, Antioch is lucky to have a large majority of friendly, caring, hard-working and concerned citizens.
Most travelers never pass through Antioch and the world pays little attention to the goings-on here along the San Joaquin River. But this is the whole world for children growing up in one small corner of California and those who live here are challenged to make this the best Antioch it can be.
"Now, shut-up and deal."

Moving right along...

        Tomorrow, after a leisurely breakfast, I will steer the Saturn toward the rising sun, passing the scene of the accident that got things off to such a positive start, and then turn north once again onto Highway 99. I’ll be enroute to my second destination: Auburn, CA.
        I’ve enjoyed my time here, but am eager to move on. Auburn is the county seat of Placer and its history is tied to the gold rush. The word “placer” may come from Spanish, meaning “sand bank.” Thus, a “placer mine” is located in the bends of rivers, in hollows, in sand dunes and in other locations where sand is deposited by water.
        I’m expecting opportunities for photos of old buildings; but I’m also hoping for the unexpected – deposits of the kind of gold I’m seeking that will inform me about the people and culture in ways most tourists don’t see.
        I’ll be keeping my eyes open and hope to have plenty to report as I continue this adventure.
        Tomorrow is Day Six!
        So far, so good.

‘Wanderer’ crosses paths with Lodi teen

Just ten minutes after I arrived in town, it appeared possible that my friends’ predictions about Lodi might be right.

“Why stop in Lodi?” they had asked. “Why start a trip of 15 thousand miles with an insignificant 70-mile hop?

“And what in the world do you plan to do for five whole days in that God-forsaken outpost?”

Well, for me, stopping in Lodi seems the perfect way to start my 12-month trek through the U.S. and Canada. This trip isn’t about landmarks and famous attractions; it’s about lifestyles and ordinary people. I’m expecting a rich and rewarding experience even though I’ll pass within a few hundred miles of several major tourist attractions without paying them a visit.

As I see things, it’s perfectly logical to fly in the face of common sense and to voluntarily become stuck in Lodi for the better part of a week. What better way to make my point? I figured120 hours in Lodi will prove that anywhere is a likely location for discovery and adventure.

That logic had me eastbound on Kettleman Lane, just a mile short of my first night’s destination, where I bumped into Logan Stelmacher, 18, who was at the wheel of a pickup truck riding high on four huge wheels.

The tires on that truck are so massive, in fact, that they protrude beyond the body, forming rubber buffers along the sides.

Now my 1995 Saturn creates a far less imposing profile. It’s a rather nondescript vehicle with wheels that look like toys next to Logan’s big donuts. But the Saturn does have one redeeming characteristic, flexible doors and fenders.

Allow me to reconstruct the Kettleman Lane Incident.

With me in his blind spot, Logan eased into the right lane. His mighty right front tire encountered the pliable outer shell of my front door - yes, just inches from my frail body.

Huge treads grabbed at my side mirror, hoping, perhaps, to gain purchase so the truck could complete a transit across my windshield and hood. But the mirror snapped off and the tire never left the ground.

The force of impact compressed the outer wall of my door. Just as suddenly as the two vehicles had come together, the inevitable equal-and-opposite-reaction followed and we sort of bounced apart. In retrospect, it wasn’t an altogether unpleasant sensation, the two vehicles sort of brushed against each other, little harm done.

Two years ago, I was involved in another collision. This one occurred in Ontario – in the heart of the “Inland Empire.” I was stopped at an intersection when a young fellow ran into me head-on. I’ll never forget the look on his face before he shifted into reverse and took off in a classic hit-and-run maneuver.

But Logan, as I was to learn over the succeeding half day, is a different sort of young man. He continued driving only until he reached a clearing where, rather than accelerating, he slowed to a stop and jumped down from his cab.

Seeing this lanky young fellow coming toward me in the early evening with a big tattoo on his shoulder gave me pause. Frankly, I expected a bit of a confrontation – most of us tend to react with anger when we make a mistake; we tend to search for a way to blame someone else for our error.

But Logan’s first concern was for my well being.

“Are you O.K. sir?”

I looked into his clear eyes and believed instantly that he was truly concerned. He quickly admitted that he had been at fault, “I just never saw you,” he said.

He carefully – and quite legibly - - wrote his name, address, phone, insurance company and policy number on a slip of paper and waited politely for me to gain my wits.

This act of deference meant a lot to me. I’d only just met this young man but I had a good feeling about him. So, I suggested that he might prefer that we not involve the police or even our insurance companies.

He was obviously very pleased - - I’d say joyful- -and thanked me profusely.

“Now,” I began, “how do you think we can best get my car back in service?”

We agreed to meet for lunch the next day and he promised to do some legwork in the meantime. He called me an hour later to announce that he’d made some progress and was confident that we could effect all necessary repairs in short order.

The next day, during lunch, I learned that Logan is a bit of a daredevil. He enjoys risk-taking and will, in just a few months, take that trait to the limit as he begins training that will lead to his becoming a Navy Seal.

As I watched and listened to this young man describe his life and his plans for the future, I realized that my decision to choose the path less taken was already proved valid. Lodi will be a highlight of my trip not because of its history or natural beauty, but because it introduced me to Logan and a couple of his buddies who spent the afternoon “buffing out” some rubber tire marks from my door and replacing my mirror.

It was a minor incident in Logan’s life, just a few hours spent with an old guy and his little car and about ten bucks for a Pep Boys mirror. But for me, it was a chance to connect with one of the millions who will look out for me in my old age. They’ll keep me on the road, keep me fed and clothed, entertain me and - - in the case of Logan and hundreds of thousands of others who hear the call to duty - - keep me safe in a dangerous world.

Thanks, Logan.

And, Hey! Lodi! I’m glad I met you!

Crashing in Lodi --- Really! CRASHING!!

        He didn’t exactly come out of nowhere – it was a four-lane street and he simply sideswiped me. I felt, more than saw, the huge vehicle slide into mine and knew immediately that this was not a serious accident.
        My little Saturn seemed almost to bounce off of the big four-wheel-drive pickup. The truck was high off the ground, atop giant wheels.
        In fact, those enormous rubber doughnuts, combined with the plastic body of my car were the reason I had that bounce perception.
        Upon inspection, it was apparent that nothing but rubber had contacted the Saturn. The truck literally “ran over” my driver’s side mirror, pretty much demolishing it; and it left treadmarks on the door as it attempted to climb onto the roof.
        Fortunately, my young attacker had good reflexes and brought his monster truck under control before it could pancake the Saturn and all of its cargo - - including me!
        A late start combined with a stopover south of Stockton for a soda and stretch, put me on Kettleman Lane just after dark. My GPS-powered PDA told me I had just over a mile to go and all seemed well with the world.
        I was prepared for adversity. Over the past weeks, dozens of people have reminded me that travel cross-country is frought with danger.
        I’ve given their input a good deal of thought and a stock answer emerged; “I’m ready to take things as they come.”
        Weather, road construction and detours, problems with reservations, mechanical failure and even traffic accidents are all part of the deal for travelers and I believe I was and remain ready for any that don’t’ prove fatal to me or the Saturn. In fact, if the Saturn dies, I may get a replacement and continue the trip.
        As mentioned above, I was certain seconds after tonight’s collision that it was not a trip-killer. And I knew that I had five days in Lodi to get the car ready for the drive to Auburn.
        So I wasn’t a bit angry or even much concerned as I climbed out of my car and greeted the young fellow who had been driving the truck. I noted his “wife beater” shirt and broad tattoos, but something in his manner put me at ease and we never exchanged an unpleasant word.
        In fact, I was quite impressed by the way he conducted himself – he deferred to me in the initial stages of our interaction and then assumed a leadership role when I encouraged him to become the problem solver.
        We agreed that the only real damage was to the mirror and he offered to get that fixed. Moreover, he said he had access to tools and supplies that could erase the black rubber marks from my door. I’m a bit ambivalent about that as they could serve as a significant artifact of the trip; I’ll have to see them in the daylight to determine whether, for me, the historical and artistic value merit keeping them as a sort of symbol of my surviving the perils of Kettleman Lane in Lodi.
        I’m certain that my new young friend would have much preferred that my little car hadn’t ventured into his blind spot at such an inopportune moment; but I must confess that, pending any unforeseen hitches in tomorrow’s efforts to replace the mirror, I’m rather happy about the whole thing.
        When you get your motor running and head out on the highway looking for adventure in whatever may come your way, you better be ready to take a few lumps along the way.
        I’m off to a great start!
       

On the road with new media

"Ugh!"
We've come a long way since a sound like that was uttered by one cave dweller in an attempt to communicate with another.
With one word in their vocabulary, prehistoric conversationalists had no need for dictionaries.
"Ugh!" was an all-purpose term -- used as verb, noun or article and serving equally well as an indicator of past, present or future events.
Of course then, as now, humans made use of multiple communication channels.
The word "Ugh!" by itself was ambiguous; but, employing it while ripping a chunk of roasted wooly mastodon out of someone's hands probably meant, "Pardon me, but this is my portion. May I suggest that you get your own?"
Then again, a more demur "Ugh!" crooned softly by a caveman into the ear of that special cavewoman might have signified, "Oh, baby! Oh, baby!"
Inevitably, some innovative homo sapien took up a stick or piece of charcoal and made his point with images, crudely sketched in the dirt, or on a wall.
Later, inks and dyes made it possible to create messages that stood the test of the elements and of time.
Creating that first crude record marked the end of PRE-historic times.
The first image imprinted on a cave wall that survived until modern times constitutes the beginning of history.
Before long, pictures led to pictographs which led to the alphabet and, voila! Writing was born. OK, it wasn't really "before long;" early developments took centuries and there were plenty of setbacks along the way.
But, eventually, we made it to Gutenberg and his printing press; and finally, with the industrial revolution, the modern mass media began to affect our culture in rather amazing ways.
Photography, broadcasting and the recording industry further transformed us. But it took the Internet to finally empower the average person.
Today, with an Internet connection, just about anybody can transmit a message to huge, diverse and widely scattered audiences. And information travels nearly at the speed of light. It truly is amazing.
New media channels have opened in the Internet Age and audience members who are on the cutting edge of communication are drawing from both traditional and new media.
An exciting aspect of this new era of information transmission is that it includes amazing opportunities for two-way communication.
Consumers are no longer relegated to the role of information receivers; it is now possible for great numbers of people to join the discussion -- and, in some cases, to command huge audiences of their own.
As a student of communication, I learned that before the Internet explosion freedom of the press was enjoyed mostly by those rich enough to own a press. Just like books, newspapers and magazines, radio, television and the recording industry also presented high financial barriers to newcomers.
But today it is possible to find free Internet connections -- at libraries, for example -- and to create messages that are accessible by millions of individuals in a worldwide audience.
Now a retired college professor, I have decided to spend most of my time traveling. It occurred to me that an audience might exist for weekly newspaper columns describing my adventures.
It's hard to achieve success with a self-syndicated newspaper column. But I realized that other opportunities exist for me to share messages -- and that I don't need to convince an editor or publisher to provide the channel.
Before long, my decision to travel and do a little writing changed to operating a mobile media extravaganza featuring the use of no fewer than seven channels.
The "magnificent seven" include: this newspaper column; a blog; a photo gallery; podcasts; a map room; a discussion board; and weekly radio spots.
My Wandering Dave web site provides access to all of these outlets; it can be found online at WanderingDave.com.
Of course few people will spend time on all seven channels. But that is actually the point of this venture. In today's media context, senders are likely to miss part of their target if they rely only on one or two channels.
Modern media moguls need not be wealthy or powerful; but if they want to reach mass audiences, they should consider doing so in bite-sized chunks accessible through a combination of channels.
Armed with a laptop computer connected wirelessly to the 'net, an inexpensive digital snapshot camera and a plastic, battery-driven audio recorder, I'm going to be on the road for over a year in the U.S. and Canada. I'm calling myself a "mobile media mogul."
It's a brave new world where the media, once again, is the message. Ride with me.

Taking arms agains a sea of trouble

        Seven men gathered in the computer lab on Tuesday for their monthly meeting. They formed the club back in the 80s and enjoy talking about days gone by . . . you know, ancient history: before the Internet.
        I asked whether my using one of the machines would disturb them and they quickly made me welcome. Their friendly greeting provided an opening for me to pitch the WanderingDave.com website and to invite them to participate.
        When I showed off the map room, one fellow interrupted.
        “You’re gonna need a passport if you want to get back into the United States from Canada,” he warned.
        I smiled. This was a classic moment – an opportunity to be an advocate of truth and of open-mindedness.
        But the situation also presented a paradox. If I countered this well-intentioned but flawed advice with a dose of facts, I might “lose” this audience; but overlooking the misstatement would make me feel as if I were abandoning of my life-long compulsion to set the record straight.
        “I think you may be wrong about that,” I suggested. I was doing my best to follow Ben Franklin’s advice and “use terms of mild diffidence.”
        “I checked with the local official who issues passports and was told I did not need one.”
        Now, I would have been perfectly happy to let that dog lie – I don’t need to be proved right and I certainly don’t need others to come over to my side of every question.
        All I wanted was for my voice to be heard and for those present to recognize that there are two plausible schools of thought.
        But computer-club-member-number-two then chimed in: “No, he’s right. If you don’t have a passport, they’ll turn you away at the border. It’s a new law that went into effect last month.”
        Several others murmured agreement.
        I smiled again – though I suspect that my lips were thinner and some of the sparkle may have left my eyes.
        “Are you gentlemen not willing to admit to the possibility that you may be wrong about this?”
        I knew I was failing the Franklin test; but, believe me, this was a mild response compared with my historical retorts.
        Several remarks about “ignorant bureaucrats” and “it may depend on which crossing you pick” rambled by. I bit my tongue – vowing not to engage these ignorant wanna-be computer hackers in a battle of wits.
        Ah, some of you readers may deduce by my language that I’d already lost the battle for self-control, that I had developed a bit of an attitude. Perhaps I had.
        But one fellow allowed me to extend my silence by suggesting that we look online for the answer.
        Excellent, I thought. This could work out well after all.
        “Beginning January 23, 2007, All persons, including U.S. citizens…”
        Our online researcher began reading from a State Department website. His voice was filled with confidence and authority – here was the official word from the top dogs in our government…
        “…traveling by air between the United States and Canada..”
        OOPS! I was suddenly in a room filled with seven fellows who were suspended from the ceiling, hoist by their own petards. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but I’ll spare you the details.
        I resisted the temptation to say “I told you so.”
        Well, I kind of resisted.
        OK, I didn’t resist at all. I said, “You guys can all line up over there to apologize to me.”
        They took it well – though they didn’t go so far as to invite me to join them for their after-meeting pie a-la-mode…
        I retired to my room with a sense of accompishment. Perhaps these former miscreants will be less closed-minded in the future. And progress requires an open-minded populace. In a small way, I had championed truth, justice and the American way in the second-floor computer lab.
        I suspect that the club members may have talked about me later between bites of pie; but that doesn’t bother me a bit.
        “He didn’t have to rub it in,” one might have said.
        My favorite part would come next, though, when a thoughtful club member would feel compelled to conclude:
        “Well, he was right, you know.”
        Better to be only right than to be only loved. But better still, I know, to be both right and loved.
        I’m working on it, Ben.

True to mine own self

With less than 200 hours remaining before pointing the Saturn north and beginning my trip of a lifetime, it finally became imperative that a decision be made about Wandering Dave.
Who is Wandering Dave?
Ah, that is the question. Am I Wandering Dave, or do I just play him on the Internet? Is he a real person, or a creation designed for the marketplace?
In other words, when it comes to the Wandering Dave project, are the media the message... or is there another message or purpose that transcends the process of communicating?
It hasn't proved to be a simple question. As I've studied the media and their audiences, I've discovered that the most popular messages tend to be the least substantive and vice-versa.
American Idol (30+ million viewers), Deal or No Deal (17 million), and SpongeBob SquarePants (about 4 million every night Monday through Friday) outdraw news and educational programming and offer empirical evidence to support my theory.
Making Wandering Dave a loveable little fat man who rather awkwardly makes his way from place to place while meeting interesting, but always nice and uncontroversial folks would increase chances of attracting and holding a larger audience.
Making people a bit uncomfortable by challenging tradition and community standards is not the best way to create a large following.
After considerable thought and consultation with people I respect, I've made my choice. I'm saying "farewell" to any chance of capturing a mass audience seeking escape or titillation.
My public writing career began with four words: "I kind of clash." Wandering Dave, like his creator, will tend to wonder -- aloud -- why things can't be changed for the better.
In seven days, Wandering Dave and I will be on the road; we'll be traveling together in tight quarters for a year. We have finally had a meeting of the minds and I think we'll get along just fine.
And I hope you'll ride along with us at WanderingDave.com.