Sketches of the Once Upon a Time
A Poem for Michael
His goals are few,
with no worries to pursue.
A life well-stirred,
as variety is to stew.
Branching from his native view,
He's learned a thing or two:
How to handle a machine that spews,
Managing a newspaper crew,
How a lens can capture you,
Writing philosophy of the zoo,
Even joined a staff or two,
To teach others what to do.
Now he speaks with a clue,
Of how he's gained his world-view.
There's nothing left to misconstrue,
He's living life impromptu!
Rhonda Allen
Chico, California, 2002
Lyle
As I approached the last wisps of childhood, my best friend, Lyle Bibens, died of leukemia.
He was the oldest of three adopted children by the couple at whose wedding my parents had met.
Our families often spent cordial evenings together in our homes, as well as many vacations,
camping at Seacliff Beach on Monterey Bay along the Northern California coast.
Lyle and I were bonded from the earliest memories by countless adventures,
whose vague memories have been fondly recalled many times in the years since.
It was my first human death.
Out alone on the lawn in front of our ranch house in Hughson about a month later,
the reality of death suddenly dawned on me: I would never see Lyle again.
I wept uncontrollably at the loss of relationship we had so enjoyed.
As the tears dried, without any prompting, I took from his memory the quality I most admired:
His audacity to step into any situation and start conversations with strangers as we wandered about.
For me, who was at that youthful time much more reserved, it was always something of a shock.
This was perhaps the first time, and certainly not the last, that an epiphany twinkling,
a moment of sudden revelation or insight, clearly made itself known,
in the dawning of this philosophical mindset.
The First Koan
Sometime in the very way hazy long ago, cousin Debbie Hunt,
had a boyfriend named Teryl, who was my intro to the Buddhist slant.
At some point, the three of us were hiking Mount Tamalpais in the Bay Area,
and I uttered some comment about how astounding San Francisco Bay must have been,
before Manifest Destiny took root, and things begin their descent into the world I so decry today.
Teryl’s Zen-ish response was that it was really the same as it had always been.
It was likely my first koan; one I am still trying to crack.
The Nightmare
Dreams have never been a high priority in this existence,
But there was a recurring one that began back in the years before adolescence.
One in which I felt helplessly, hopelessly, powerlessly trapped beneath a suffocating, bean-like torrent,
Which only ended when I finally realized it was my spirit being conditioned by the world.
It may well have been the first intuition of all that has since transpired.
Manhood
One agreeable day in high school in the junior or senior year,
While chatting casually with a small group of male peers,
it suddenly dawned on me that I needed to learn to become a man.
From that day forward I would take as my own, emulate, as I had from Lyle,
any qualities esteemed from the many as yet unknown men whose paths mine would cross.
The New Tack
I had taken three years of drafting since the freshman year of high school.
My relationship with the hundred-ish peers I had been with since kindergarten,
in the small rural town of Hughson at the center of the Central Valley of California,
was sociable, but relatively aloof, so sitting alone at the drafting table for hours and hours,
with the thought that I might someday become a draftsman, or even architect, was a natural fit.
The drafting room was at the west edge of the campus across from the band room in another building.
One day while working away, listening to the band practicing, I suddenly realized a deep yearning,
to be more sociable, to participate with others and my future in an as yet un-articulable way.
That was my final year of drafting, and a senior year very different from anything,
theretofore experienced in the first twelve years of public education,
and the first of many tacks in the voyage that fostered this.
The Epiphany Voice
The Hughson Union High School Awards Ceremony for the Class of 1972,
was held out on the old football field a few days before graduation.
I was called up seven times for awards of recognition and small scholarships.
Looking out at my applauding classmates as I walked down the steps of the small stage,
the epiphany voice clearly stated in its ethereal way: “Surely, there must be more to life than this.”
Old School Daze
What pleasure I get from playing with language to the best of my moderate ability.
Thank the gods for computers, for word processing and its spelling, thesaurus, and grammar support.
It makes clear the remark the old woman made about there being so many spelling errors,
back when I briefly soloed the Waterford News in the old school daze,
of manual typewriters, erasable paper, and whiteout.
And real cameras and darkrooms, too.
Oh, how I so often long for that simpler time,
Where a pleasant sense of solitude and serenity reigned,
And the world with all its tangles was far away, only barely important.
Commentaries on Living
Sometime during my years at Modesto Junior College, while in the library walking through the stacks,
three small hardback, pastel-colored books leaped into the awareness and drew me like a magnet.
They were the “Commentaries on Living” by Jiddu Krishnamurti, an Indian philosopher.
Checked out the first one, and though it seemed worth reading, it made me sluggish.
So, I fairly soon returned it, and a week later nonchalantly pilfered all three.
It would not be until I had entered the working world a few years later,
that I was finally able to read them without drifting off into drowse mode.
It was the beginning of a lifetime of quixotic exploration, both inner and outer.
Finally, ten or twenty or whatever years later, in a twinge of rarely felt compunction,
I bought paperback versions, and dropped all three into the MJC sidewalk book return box.
Rest assured, that it was a move bemoaned many times since.
Wondering if they are still there …
The Fearful Body
Russ Kalen was one of the more than a few chiropractors through the years,
who spent many sessions trying to put my Humpty-Dumpty body back together again.
I recall him one day stating as he popped something back into place that it would not long stay:
“Mike, I think your body is afraid of you.”
That Voice
I was driving west into the late afternoon sun on my Honda CB350F motorcycle.
It had been a long day with a girlfriend in La Grange where she lived with mother and son.
There were two winding ways to get to Waterford where I lived in a trailer over twenty miles away.
As I came to the deciding fork, the epiphany voice in my weary head clearly said:
“if you go this way, you will be in an accident.”
Sure enough, as I came to a corner on Lake Road somewhere east of Turlock Lake,
Fatigue caused me to brake badly and start fishtailing toward some ugly-looking barbed-wire.
It was take it down and risk the asphalt, or tack on and find out what piercing rusty metal could do.
I chose the former and carry the reminders to this day.
Moral of the story: Do not ignore that voice.
My Mother
Something I wrote for my mother on her 94th birthday:
If I have not said or implied it elsewhere,
In this thirty-years-plus philosophical walkabout,
It should well be counted a good destiny’s good fortune,
To have been given a mother, such as I have had.
So calm, so rational, so intelligent, so good.
A modest, humble-to-the roots woman,
Of whom Buddha would be in awe.
Beverly Jean Kurtz-Holshouser,
Is her name, born September 4, 1929.
In this worldly mind’s quantum dreamtime,
She, such an unfathomable part, has performed.
She is the source, the seed, the blessing,
For this scribe’s life work and play.
Her loving son, Michael Jay
What Happened to You?
Many mothers incline to filter their grown-up sons as the ten-year-olds they so long ago were.
How often have we heard ones with mass murderers on death row tearfully declaring their innocence?
After returning from my odyssey, mine became increasingly aware that I was no longer her little boy.
One day, out of some blue, she exclaimed about the man I had become, “What happened to you!?”
“Life,” was my answer.
Sure Smells Like Cookies
The first seven years of my childhood,
were spent in a newly-built G.I. Bill three-bedroom home,
on East Pine Street, at the time a twelve-house cul-de-sac in Hughson, California.
There is little to tell of the early years before moving to the 30-acre peach ranch on Hatch Road,
but two anecdotes are standouts, shared years later by Betty Goesch, a neighbor at the corner of 7th and Pine.
The first is that at some point I wandered the block, and turned on who know how many water faucets.
The second was that my mother would take me down to Betty’s for a morning coffee klatch.
Betty always brought out cookies and milk, and I must have been somewhat vocal,
about shamelessly asking for them before they were courteously offered,
because Betty says my mother told me I should not ask any more.
My response, according to Betty, was to enter her home,
take a whiff, and announce that it “sure smells like cookies.”
Nothing remarkable, nothing extraordinary, but mildly amusing that the,
rascal-rogue-cad-rake-blackguard-scalawag-scoundrel-reprobate-ne'er-do-well nature,
was more than a little evident at such an early and supposedly, purportedly, ostensibly, innocent age.
The Town Crier
Have since those so-long-ago college years, had a penchant for being a town crier of sorts.
A handful of Circle K Club newsletters during the last year of college,
The Waterford News a year or two out of college,
yearbooks for the Oak Grove and Reyn Franca Schools,
and newsletters for foster families while at Creative Alternatives.
The I That I Dream
The I that I dream came into existence in Hughson,
in Stanislaus County, in California, in the United States of America.
Specifically, 37°36′11″N 120°52′1″W of this our Gaia, speck in the Cosmos that it is.
This mind-body is male, Caucasian, American English-speaking, with an all-rounder set of abilities.
It was raised on a small peach farm by decent parents a mile outside a decent rural town.
It was given a generic education that ended with a generic business degree,
followed up a decade later with a generic teaching credential.
It worked a wide variety of occupations in a wide variety of geographies.
It interacted with a wide variety of people and participated in a wide variety of experiences.
At age 36, it began what would evolve into a substantial body of written work.
What a remarkable thing the happenstance of being conceived.
What a remarkable thing all the happenstances that happen along the way.
And as for having free will, well, some claim it true, but these eyes see it a dubious assumption.
The Historian
A history teacher in college one day out of the blue pointed to a few of us and said,
“You are a historian … You are a historian … You are a historian … You are a historian … “
At the time it meant nothing – zipped past the youthful head of innocence, so to speak –
but in the years since, the realization of what he meant has taken unforeseen wings.
Appellations
Appellations by which I may be known,
or much more likely unknown:
Michael Jay Holshouser
Michael J. Holshouser
M. J. Holshouser
M. Holshouser
J. Holshouser
Jay Holshouser
Mike Holshouser
The solo initial: M
The nickname: Holtz
All three initials: M.J.H.
Mike Jay reversed: Yaj Ekim
And an infrequent nom de plume
Using a blend of ancestral favorites:
Andrew James Kurtz, a.k.a., Drew Kurtz
The Button
Sometime back in the early years after college,
as awareness of the world and all its horrors grew daily greater,
I told my mother that if I had a button I could push to wipe away all of humankind,
and give this spinning orb back to all our fellow earthlings, I would push it without a second thought.
But, other than mutually assured nuclear annihilation, there is no button of that sort,
and so, instead, a life of contemplation, and perhaps one day, suicide.
Much simpler to die to the world than push any button,
and that is certainly no simple task, either.
The Special Executive
My sixth grade James Bondian spy organization when I was wearing glasses:
SPECS: The Special Executive for Espionage, Counterintelligence, and Spies.
The Bad Penny
“The Bad Penny,” Lee Hoffmann used to call me. Why, I’ll never tell.
Definitive v. Tentative
Glynda Lee thought the title should be “A Stillness Before Time,”
but a more definitive “The” has always sounded better to me.
These Many Thoughts
These many thoughts are left for humankind’s unfolding reverie,
written by a witness, a seer, who was born in 1953 A.D.
to what duration he cannot at this writing say.
Geographically, it was called Northern California,
during the agricultural-industrial-technological epoch,
of the United States of America, a nation-state,
in what seemed the zenith and early decline,
of civilization as he elected to perceive it.
But history knows many such epochs,
so the accuracy of all predictions in time,
is for future scholars to ponder and pontificate,
as they always have, and undoubtedly, always will.
On Solving Problems
Unlike other interviewees during their initial career quest,
who ardently, breathlessly, mindlessly asserted they “loved” problems,
my youthful comeback was likely more to the point: “I absolutely hate problems.”
“So much so that I quash them as soon as they appear on any horizon.”
Who got the job? Well, I have had many, and abided most,
for as long as they were tolerably amusing.
The Solitary Existence
The domesticated existence was nothing I ever much cared to do for any great length of time.
Playing house, raising children, living in debt, mowing lawns, dealing with rat dogs,
giving up solitude, missing out on adventures, becoming a couch potato,
trying to please anyone but my Self, held no lasting appeal.
The True Cathedral
To all Christians and other faithful true believers:
While you have paid out ten percent of your hard-earned treasury,
to sit in hard wooden pews, listen to mind-numbing sermons, and sing tedious hymns,
pretending to love people you loathe, fearing a deity who is but an invention of irrational imagination,
idolizing a martyr long dead that you might well detest if he were to actually show up,
I have spent many a Sunday sunrise enjoying long, contemplative wanders,
breathing in and breathing out the one and only true cathedral.
Without History
“Without history, we are nothing,” a Merritt Hulst long ago said.
And now, I would say to him, “Even with history, we are nothing.”
One Boss in the Field
“There can only be one boss in the field,” I remember my father muttering under his breath,
After settling a wrangle with a crew contractor during the peak of some long-ago peach harvest.
Marriage
Had over ten women bring up marriage in this lifetime walkabout. And many if not all of them, would have made good partners, good mothers, good mates, had I been more into playing the domestic life. Was always drawn to more intelligent, rational women; no doubt because my mother was.
French Press
The reason I like making French roast-brewed coffee alone in my little studio man cave, is that I get to enjoy the process of grinding the beans to dust in an aging Krups grinder, stirring the mix in a Frieling French press several times, with the long Frieling measuring-stirring tool, and then swishing the silty brew in my Chubby stainless-steel mug whenever I take a sip. That way I relish the texture of the silt that slips through the two screens, and get whatever caffeine is left unsqueezed. Very Turkish, very quantum.
The Miscalculated Wave
These many thoughts began bubbling out in 1989,
After a head and neck injury invoked by a miscalculated wave,
While boogie boarding with my fifth-sixth grade class in Southern Kaliforny.
It was the finale of a short teaching phase, and the entrée to an assortment of switchbacks,
In the ever-kaleiscoping wanderfest of imagination, in work and recreation and every other whatever,
That has materialized all this whimsical chitter-chatter into this quantum playground.
It has been my way to allow spontaneity to fashion this destiny.
How It Started
After an until-mid-30’s adulthood of wandering about in every way life offered, words started coming to mind in 1989, while finishing up the second and last year of teaching fifth-sixth grade at Oak Grove School in Ojai, California. The Stillness Before Time is a random selection of aphorisms, that a book agent in Chico during the early-90’s writing period, suggested I put together from the first 300-ish pages that had been transcribed at that point in time. It could have been an entirely different book. See Standouts from the Return to Wonder to get a sense of the different choices that might have been made, or added, if it had been made a longer work.
Dean Evans
One early morning sunrise, soon after arriving in Chico after leaving Oak Grove School 1990-ish, I was sitting at a small table outside the Upper Crust coffee shop in the downtown. It was block away from California State University, Chico, my alma mater as a business major back in the 70’s. There was another fellow – tall, lean, long-haired and bearded, deep-voiced, about my age, could have passed for a white Jesus in some movie – sitting on the other side of the doorway. We began chatting at some point – instantly friends for life – and it proved to be a defining moment in this philosophical walkabout. Dean Evans was a high-wire electrician and autodidactic artist, who took to my writings, and ended up being a key catalyst in their gradual journey from scribblings in notebooks, to the digital format that current times allow. Their first entrée into the public sphere was in his two downtown coffee shop art shows. Dean taped several aphorisms, printed up on white typewriter paper, between his paintings. That led to someone connecting me to a local book agent, who was the one who suggested I select the 250-ish aphorisms from the 300 pages that I had digitalized by that point, that would become the first book, and years later, title to The Stillness Before Time website. The book never took off as anything marketable – it was too esoteric for the book agent, as well as any other publishers I have ever contacted – but Dean Evans was instrumental in everything that happened since. His “You are perfect. Pure gold. Brighter than the sun” is part of the flagship book’s preface, and “It’s a god-eat-god world” forwards the second book, The Ponderings of Yaj Ekim. He and I, along with his wife, Linda, and children, Jasper and Rafael, and their community of friends, had many memorable adventures together in the Chico decade, and a number of visits through the post-Chico years thereafter.
From a Back-And-Forth with Len Howard
Along with a moderate ABC education in small rural town Hughson, California, you can also thank Roland Russell for nonchalantly suggesting in early already mind-shaking college: “Mike, why don’t you write poetry; it’s kind of fun.” There was also a brief stint running the Waterford News early out of college, where I quickly learned to always have pen and paper and camera at hand as I wandered through the small-town metropolis and surrounding countryside searching for newsworthy fare. As for any brilliance, as you call it, it seems to be more about being something of a receiving unit, with the discipline to write down most the things that come to mind, along with a certain knack for word association, coupled nicely with an adroitness with word processing, greatly aided by the spellcheck and thesaurus functions. As to whether what I have written will ever be well known, or make any real difference in the future of humankind, or the welfare of the planet and all our fellow earthlings, I have many doubts and no time machine. A little too late to make the difference I would be seeking, anyway. I am afraid we are a little too whacked out at this stage of the game to turn the Titanic a less toxic direction. So, I have come to consider it an enjoyable diversion that fills some of the existential reverie, and am content that a few people in the here and there like yourself find it interesting.
From a Back-and-Forth with Chris Bava
Never met U.G. Krishnamurti, but did read a couple of his books toward the end of my stay teaching at J. Krishnamurti's Oak Grove School in Ojai back in the late 80's. Definitely one of the many wake-up callers. I'd read and listened to J. Krishnamurti for years, but he was dead by the time I got a teaching credential, and going down there was less about him than playing out the teaching game in an interesting environment. Oak Grove was a pleasant experience, but after two years I was done with both it and teaching. Moved up to Chico for a decade, over to Arcata for eight months at Humboldt State, and then back to Creative Alternatives in Stanislaus County.
Rural Living in the California Central Valley
Frugality and austerity have been founding directives in this existence. Have spent the Turlock working and retirement years in a rented studio with a wall air-conditioner unit, that I stopped using several years ago. During winters, I layer up and turn on a small stovetop burner, as necessary. In summers, it is wet t-shirts, the Brenda Athletic Club pool, and Geerbucks – my nearby Starbucks on Geer Road – where I must often layer to stay warm in the AC-chilled lobby. I was raised in this geography, on a small peach ranch, in an old wooden house. All it had was an oil stove and a wall air-conditioner in the hallway. The ranching life in the Central Valley of California was about enduring its version of inclement weather. Whether driving the tractor or grading peaches for hours and hours, I learned to matter-of-factly, without complaint, just take the hot, the cold, the dust, and the peach fuzz. And then there were the tree branches slapping my face, grabbing my glasses, and sometimes, but for martial art-level reactions, almost dragging me off the tractor. Having to wear layers during winter, or be sweaty and dirty in summer, were just facts of life. The cold water of the canal across Hatch Road where we lived, was the after-work treat, and sometimes the bath of the day during harvest There are hotter places and there are colder places, is how I have come to rationalize it.
The Entrée into Manhood
My introduction to manhood began at age seven, when I first began driving the very well-worn Ferguson tractor, the spine of our thirty-acre peach ranch, where I worked alongside my father and grandfather; both mild, unassuming, Depression-steeled, hard-working men. My father said, in his straight-forward manner, “You’re going to hurt yourself, and the best thing I’ve found to do, is to chew off the loose flesh, suck the blood until it stops, and then get back on the tractor.”
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
For a decade sometime in the twenties and thirties, I read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig, seven or eight times. And it was never the same book. Not because I had skipped over anything, but because my frame of reference at the time could not see, could not discern, whatever point Pirsig was making. Wisdom is the distillation of experience, and it is never-ending, from the first breath, to the last.
Always Look Twice
Early in the driving career, Francis Noeller, a Hughson farmer and friend to my father,
Said something in passing that has always stuck with me: Always look twice.
Those times when I did not, and should have, were always reminders,
That roads are the jungle trails of these, our modern times.
And one must always be attentive, if the goal is to survive the day.
Rich Man’s Life on a Dime
Rich man's life on a dime, is how this life has spun.
Why go to all that work, when the pearl was there for the taking.
Of course, being content to merely be, remaining single, never going into debt,
And being happy to sleep on a couch, or in a van, were key enablers in my unplanned epoch.
All the monotony it would have taken to become rich and famous and powerful,
Would have been far too toxic, far too boring, for this plebeian spirit.
Far more interesting to swing from adventure to adventure.
To let the mystery set this destiny’s mortal course.
And somehow, it has reached this moment,
This keyboard, this cup of coffee.
How could I not be content?
A Martial Inclination
Though I have never been a violent sort – am a happy drunk, so to speak – and have never been in a real fight at this writing, I have always had a casual, autodidactic interest in strategic and tactical thinking. In the younger daze, the second floor of the ranch tank house was my castle fort; armed with dirt clods and a pair of binoculars for keeping a lookout. Was drawn to chess and football in the high school years, and in the college years, some very realistic Avalon Hill and Strategy & Tactics wargaming boardgames. Missed the late Vietnam War by a high number – 273 is etched in memory – in the last draft in 1972. Would have gone without hesitation at that naïve age, but looking back, feel very fortunate to have never had to endure the real thing. Experienced it and other wars, vicariously watching who knows how many documentaries and movies, as well as an endless parade of cowboy, underworld, and every variety of shoot-em-up fare. Later in life, I put together a fairly large gun collection for just-in-case self-defense, paper plinking at gun ranges, and shooting squirrels, mostly out in nearby hilly cattle country owned by friends. Got into paintball for a few years, too. And along with guns, I collected lots of swords and knives and sundry other boy toys, as well. Also, a significant library of military theory and history books. Started some aikido and tai chi classes a few times, but did not have the interest to pursue them long. Have generally always avoided conflict by talking things out rationally, walking away, or skirting situations that harbored the potential for violence. Am not necessarily very good at many of these martial things; certainly not as an older man in decline. Just enough to get the gist of the harshness of our planet-of-the-apes paradigm, and lucky to have never had to hurt or kill anyone, so far. But, as Jack Palance famously uttered in the movie, City Slickers, “The day ain’t over.”
Mrs. Hoight
“I did it!” I happily declared, as I looked up and saw Mrs. Hoight, my kindergarten teacher,
Looked at me, with the same look, I’m sure I did many years later, during my turns as teacher.
Mr. Przybyła
Looking down at the Nazi Swastika I had carved at the top of wooden desk,
Mr. Przybyła, my fifth grade teacher, asked “Why did you do that?
“I don’t know,” I answered, and truthfully, do not, still.
The Banyan Seed of Corruption
The early indications of criminality are akin to a Banyan seed cast nonchalantly by a breeze,
Or even a Tootsie Roll, covertly snatched by a young boy from a grocery store shelf,
And too hastily, too greedily, opened in the rear seat of the family station wagon.
The world only saved, at least for a bit, by a mother’s ever-constant virtue,
A mumbled apology to the cashier, and plea that a father not be told.
Memo to Self: If you are going to be a thief, be smart about it.
Most Responsible Kid I Have Ever Seen
When we lived on East Pine Street in Hughson, California,
Something before we moved out to the Hatch Road ranch when I was age seven,
A neighbor, an elementary principal in nearby Empire, who had observed me playing alone in the yard,
Exclaimed to my parents, “That is the most responsible kid I have ever seen.”
I know better, but it was perhaps true during the early years,
Before the world took me by the scruff,
And taught me better.
A Tale of Two Worlds
From the back seat of my taxi – while I was yabbering away on what topic you might easily presume –
He quite firmly, with a calm voice, said he would have to kill me, if I did not shut up.
He was of Middle Eastern descent; Saudi Arabian, is my recollection.
This was in Chico, California, in the mid to late Nineties.
Before September 11, 2001, Anno Domini.
Hey, no problem, bro, relax, put the box-cutter away.
The Forklift Driver
Although I have enjoyed so many things in this span of dreamtime,
All I ever really ‘wanted’ to do was be a forklift driver.
The spatial flowing of it, drew the farm boy.
On a forklift, in the field stations I in youth worked,
I was a fighter pilot, flying solo all about the asphalt jungles,
On which my iron horse and I, rallied about, putting order to daily chaos.
Such was my satisfaction, that I once even used vacation time at Creative Alternatives,
To work the peak of a walnut season at Ron Martella’s huller on Tully Road in hometown Hughson.
Ten-hour days in California Great Central Valley’s late summer often very warm weather.
Every moment absolutely, priceless, in the very-very right-here-right-now of it.
The hardest part was in those rare moments when it slowed down.
And even then, there was always something to do.
The Medicine Bag
Have got quite the medicine bag to dip into whenever the mood arises. So much stuff available, and all but legal anymore; the anarchy of these modern times being what it is. I have done plenty of whatever I could get my hands on since going late-bloomer-beyond alcohol and marijuana in 1989, but am not an addictive personality, and can take-it-or-leave-it anything without a twinge. If I was to give into addiction, it would be to sugar, and I do not mean the sweet spot between the upper thighs. Have never messed with crystal meth or PCP or fentanyl, though I might dabble in buzz-level amounts if I found a trusted source. Have all kinds of alcohol at the ready in the home base, too, but with pre-diabetes a hovering reality, a few here and there beers or shots of anything 90-proof is generally the limit, but no day is over until it is over.
Enjoy starting off the occasional day with a micro-dose cocktail, coffee in the Studio 101 patio or Geerbucks, dancing on the keyboard writing and editing the babble, watching online the Planet of the Apes do its thing, and chatting with baristas and whoever wanders by. And then aqua chi, a nap or three, food, and Netflix. Toss in there some food shopping, the occasional medical check-up, a weekly visit with Mom and Sis, and the nutshell is complete. Straight or stoned, this retired life has become a quietly pleasant, minimalist routine. There is just nothing I have desperately got to do in this dreamtime anymore. And in retrospect, there never was. I have always just swung from vine to vine doing the best I can. In order to keep me on board, in order to keep me participating in this droning earthly game, wily imagination has enticed me, allowed me free reign, with an endless stream of philosophical and anecdotal thoughts, to stay in her fold. Don Miguel Ruiz’s Mitote – the chaos of 1,000 voices all trying to talk at once in the mind – returns to tabula rasa when knowledge of the world, within and without, is stilled. Simply a matter of setting down the garden fruit plucked so long ago.
And Then There Was the Time …
Eighth grade homeroom teacher, Ruth Rollins, was reading aloud, as she did every day after lunch.
That day it was Robert Heinlein’s Tunnel in the Sky, with a plot I cannot now even vaguely remember.
And I, in the front row right in front of her, was reading a copy I had found in the school library.
At first there seemed to a bit of irritation as she became aware of my early mischievousness,
but then, realizing I had become a reader, she half-smiled with that twinkle in her eyes.
Something for which, during this most magical dream, I have ever been grateful,
and years later was fortunate to be able to thank her at birthday party for her sister.
* * * *
I followed a dog across the fields of the small-town high school behind our house.
The old woman who owned the wandering canine called the sheriff.
All I recall is the front door opening to a sea of legs.
* * * *
I suddenly realized my mother could never make all the owies go away.
* * * *
I was meditatively wandering a budding almond orchard during a lunch break,
and suddenly, perception for the first time transformed into the indescribable state.
* * * *
I fell asleep while on walkabout in the nearby hills of La Grange, California,
and awoke inwardly asserting, “I’ve got it,” to what can only be described as a presence.
Got what, it took years to discover, over and over and over again.
* * * *
I was hitchhiking around Europe for a few months,
and while staying with a family in South Wales in the United Kingdom,
I one night awoke with the thought that my father back in California needed to talk to me.
After tossing and turning for a bit, with no let-up on the recurring thought,
I finally got up, called collect, and sure enough, it was true.
Dad had been ‘beaming’ for me to call,
To see if it might work.
* * * *
Blane Franca, friend and boss, called me a machine compared to other co-workers.
* * * *
I was on an outing to a Southern California beach with my fifth-sixth grade class,
from the Oak Grove School in Ojai, where the second year of teaching was nearing its end.
I had never bodyboarded before, and was not at all prepared for the wave that used the board as a sail,
to quickly slam me headfirst into the smooth sand beneath the crashing turbulence,
and forever altered whatever direction life had thus-far offered.
It was precursor to all these many thoughts.
* * * *
Selena Mitchell wondered aloud what I might have been doing,
when this or that aphorism spontaneously bubbled into consciousness.
“Who knows?” was my tardy quip to that long-ago Chico dinner party moment.
“They just keep on coming and coming, and I diligently tag them,
with neither time nor place nor anecdote.”
Circa Y2K will have to do.
Random Babble
All this random babble has been scribed since leaving a teaching job in Ojai in 1989.
Apologies for all the repetitiveness, but it has been more a journal of whatever sprang into mind,
than any kind of cohesive narrative, or cohesive anything, for that or any other matter.
Basically, it all boils down to this fact: You are the indivisible, timeless mystery,
and for all practical and impractical purposes, you are on you own.
Rotsa ruck, best wishes, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
Breadcrumbs: Life Resume
http://michaelsbreadcrumbs.blogspot.com/2015/01/under-construction.html
Michael J. Holshouser
1112 Cedar Creek Drive, Unit 4
Modesto, California 95355-5213
The Stillness Before Time
http://thestillnessbeforetime.blogspot.com
EDUCATION
Cultural Language Acquisition Development Certificate
Humboldt State University, Arcata
Multiple Subject and Single Subject Social Studies Credentials
University of Pacific, Stockton
Bachelor of Science, Business Administration
California State University, Chico
Associate of Arts, Business
Modesto Junior College
TIMELINE
Turlock - Retired April 1, 2011
Aimless wandering and any general puttering that comes to mind in whatever time is left In the magical mystery tour for this aging sack of flesh and bones.
Turlock - 2000 to 2011
Employee & Foster Care Training Coordinator and RFS Student Transportation –
Residential Care, Foster Family Agency & Reyn Franca School, Creative Alternatives, Turlock and Denair
RFS Coordinator – Reyn Franca School, Denair
FFA Coordinator – Foster Family Certification and Training, Turlock
Administrative Assistant – Creative Alternatives, Turlock –
Foster Parent and Employee Training, FirstAid/CPR Instructor, Advertising, Interim Human Resources Coordinator, Transportation Coordinator, ITFC Program Coordinator, Notary Public, Graphic Arts, Grace Bishop Scholarship Chairman, Christmas Party and Silent Auction Chairman, Special Projects Coordinator
Instructional Aide – Reyn Franca School, Creative Alternatives, Denair
Child Care Worker – Residential Care Homes, Creative Alternatives, Turlock
Technical Support – Sandpiper Technologies, Manteca
Chico - 1990 to 1999
Express Coordinator, Machine Operator, Copy Consultant – Kinko's
Sales, Craft Fair Coordinator – Meraz & Associates
Barista – Starbucks
Security – Grass Valley World Music Festival - Maple Creek Presents
Taxi Driver, Dispatcher – Eagle Taxi
Sales – Christensen Designs, Manteca
Author, Publisher, Website Design – "The Stillness Before Time"
ATM Technician – Wells Fargo Armored Service Corporation
House Restoration – 1111 Oleander Avenue – Lee Hoffmann
Security – Chico World Music Festival - Maple Creek Presents
Security – Shakespeare in the Park - Maple Creek Presents
Clam Shucker, Dishwasher – Annual Bravo Opera Ball - Zephyrs
Auction Aid – Public Estate Auction – Mansfield Auctioneers
Operations, Teacher, Partner – Residential Care – Chico Hedway Programs
Sales, Ferry Harvest Farmers Market – Mountain Fruit Company
Social Security Administration Payee – Patrick Dauwalder
Sales, Stock, Custodial, Inventory – Sierra Stationers
K-12 Substitute Teacher – Butte and Tehama County Schools
Ojai - 1988 to 1990
Morning Bread Baker – Ranch House Restaurant
Housesitting/Caretaking – Various Ojai Homes
Fifth-Sixth Grade Teacher – Oak Grove School
Summer School Director, Bus Driver, Yearbook Advisor, Options Instructor,
Drama Lighting Director – Oak Grove School
Waiter, Host – Franky's Restaurant, Ventura
Arts and Crafts, Trail Riding, Counselor – Gold Arrow Camp, Huntington Lake
Hughson - 1983 to 1988
Fifth Grade Teacher – Hughson Elementary School District
Child Care Worker – Creative Alternatives, Turlock
Assistant Social Worker, Foster Home Program – Creative Alternatives
Photographer – Weddings, Special Events, Portraits – Self-employed
K-12 Substitute Teacher – Stanislaus County Schools
Forklift Operator – Martella Walnut Huller
Publisher, Sales, Layout – La Grange Rodeo Program
Animal Trail Naturalist – Old Oak Ranch, Columbia
Word Processing Instructor – Alpha Com
Editor, Columnist, Photographer, Sales, Layout – Hughson Chronicle
Children's Program – Strawberry Bluegrass Festival, Yosemite
Teaching Aide – Modesto Montessori School
Hired Hand – Roen Ranch Right Fork Cattle Company, Waterford
Los Gatos – 1982
Consultant – California Commission on Violence Prevention, San Jose
Sales – Chanticleer Children's Bookstore
Waterford - 1980 to 1982
K-12 Substitute Teacher – Stanislaus County Schools
Forklift Driver – Martella Walnut Huller, Hughson
Publisher, Sales, Layout – La Grange Rodeo Program
Home Reconstruction & Caretaking – Merritt Hulst
Waterford - 1978 to 1980
Editor, Columnist, Photographer, Sales, Layout – Waterford News
Yearbook Advisor – Waterford Elementary School District
4-H Photography Instructor – Waterford 4-H Club
Sales – Combined Insurance Company, Merced County
Sacramento, Reno – 1977
Department Manager, Home Division – Weinstock's, Sacramento and Reno
College Years – 1972 to 1977
Industrial Specialist, Engineering Branch – Alameda Naval Air Rework Facility
Waiter, Busboy, Dishwasher – Sizzler Steakhouse, Alameda
Swimming Instructor, Lifeguard – Ceres Recreation Department
Forklift Driver, Weigh Station Master, Sample Machine Operator, Bin Tagger
Joan of Arc Field Station, Hughson
The Early Years – 1953 to 1972
Farm Hand – Holshouser & Son (Family Farm), Hughson
SKILLS, HOBBIES, INTERESTS
Writing, problem solving, organizing, systems analysis, marketing, sales, human resource development, training, special events, bookkeeping, computer software, coding, copy machines, automatic teller machines, inventory control, form design, photography, drafting, housesitting, caretaking, general mechanics, bus driving, forklift driving, and other agriculture-related equipment handling.
String figures, knot tying, origami, paper planes, calligraphy, drawing, perceptual activities, military history and technology, trap and target shooting, archery, chess and other board, card, and dice gaming.
Walking, bicycling, swimming, racquetball, gym time, cross-country skiing, backpacking, spelunking, car camping, campfire design, sailing, paintball, four-wheeling, horseback riding, traveling, massage, yoga, macrobiotics, dancing, plants, reading, philosophy, channel surfing, aimless wandering, and general puttering.
Personable, articulate, disciplined, meticulous, punctual, eclectic generalist.
ADDITIONAL STUDIES
Learn to Sail in Four Days – J World Sailing Courses, San Francisco Bay
First Aid/CPR Instructor – American Red Cross, Stanislaus County
Notary Public – California, Stanislaus County
InDesign, Entourage, iPhoto, PageMaker, Photoshop, QuarkXPress, Eudora,
Communicator, Palm Desktop, Graphic Converter, ScanWizard,
iView MediaPro, PageMill – Creative Alternatives, Turlock
Michael Meade Mythology Workshop – Mosaic Multicultural Foundation,
Community Church of Mill Valley
10-Day Vipassana Meditation Course – California Vipassana Center, North Fork
Microsoft Office (Word, Excel, Powerpoint), HTML Web Design –
Humboldt State University, Arcata
Windows 98, Netscape, Internet Explorer, Regular and Color Copiers,
and other related technologies – Kinko’s, Chico
Automated Teller Machines (ATM’s) – Wells Fargo Armored, Chico Area
Appleworks, Quicken – Chico Hedway Programs, Chico
Hunter Safety and Self-Defense Firearms Training – Safer Arms, Chico
Inventory Control – Sierra Stationers, Chico
Hand Drumming – California State University, Chico
Joel Kramer Yoga Workshop – Northern California
Macrobiotic Workshop – Macrobiotic Center, Harbin Hot Springs, Middletown
Tri-County Math Project – University of California, Santa Barbara
Bill Martin Language Workshop – California State University, San Jose
Right Side Brain Drawing – California State University, Long Beach
Great Books Leader Training – Junior Great Books, Santa Barbara
Direct Instruction – California State University, Stanislaus, Turlock
How Children Learn – Ottawa University Extension Class, Modesto
A List of Injuries and Strains
1960’s and 70’s – Tractor driving: lower back, left arm and shoulder; heavy lifting and moving.
1957-ish – Golf club backswing to forehead, and monkey bar fall causing classmate’s tooth to cut into top of head.
1967 through 1972 – Broke left eardrum three times, resulting in skin graft to ear drum. This, coupled with driving tractor, forklifts, vehicles with open windows, and sitting too close to a few concert and nightclub speakers, worked together to cause loss of high range sounds.
1969 through 1972 – High school physical education: running, jumping, throwing, wrestling, and other boy stuff. First hemorrhoids because of lack of fiber in diet and the resulting constipation.
1969 through 1975 – High school and Sunday afternoon football; some broken knuckles and a jammed finger joint; two major memories during frosh-soph years in football practice of a block that caused a snap in lower back, and a tackle that caused severe pain to (left or right?) shoulder/collarbone.
1972 to 1977 – Day packs full of college textbooks.
1972 to present – Backpacking, car camping, hitchhiking with a heavy backpack in Europe.
1972 to present – Coffee, alcohol, marijuana.
1972 through 1985 – Forklifting at Joan of Arc field station and Martella’s Walnut Huller.
1975 to present – Transient working life with many moves.
1978 – Heavy lifting and moving at Weinstock’s.
1975 through 1980 – Two or three solid hits to left jaw.
1980 – Peed blood after prepping on cold day for calf-tying event at La Grange Rodeo.
1980’s to present – Two or three bicycle crashes.
1980’s – Carrying photography equipment for Waterford News, weddings, special events.
1980 – La Grange Rodeo calf-tying practice strain.
1981 – Motorcycle slide on asphalt on left side in light clothing.
1985 to present – Graveyard shifts and sleep deprivation: Creative Alternatives, bread-baking, Kinko’s, taxi driving.
1886 – Bicycle strain on left knee.
1989 – Wave head first into sand.
1989 to present – Gun shooting recoils and archery pulls.
1989 – Falling onto feet while tying down rack on VW van.
1989 to present – Hallucinogens and other drugs.
1990’s – Heavy lifting and moving at Sierra Stationers and Kinko’s.
1998 – Carpal tunnel syndrome disability from Kinko’s.
1999 to present – Bad posture in computer use.
2000’s – Heavy lifting and moving at Creative Alternatives.
2000 to present – A couple mild concussions after passing out tightening upper back and neck.
2008-ish – Twice hit in left eye by racquetballs, the second time causing temporary blurriness for several days.
2013-ish – Sidewalk curb slip onto left knee.
2016 – Diving concussion at summer swim party.
2016 – Trigger finger, left middle finger, one cortisone shot in early 2017, operated on in June 2018.
2018 – Right eardrum perforated twice from excessive pressure from chewing too much gum resulted in mild tinnitus.
2020 – Failed carpal tunnel operation on right hand, thumb and two fingers totally numb. Carpal tunnel also getting more challenging in left hand.
2021 – Spinal stenosis in upper back and neck.
2022 – Swollen hands, arthritis and several trigger fingers.
2023 – Dislocated left shoulder doing leg lifts on stationary machine at gym.
2024 – Tweaked left knee doing a quick squat without warming up.
Life, it’ll kill ya.
My Back Pages
By Michael Holshouser
A personal preface to Mark Bava’s essay – My Back Pages – about growing up as farm boys in the small rural town of Hughson during the 50’s and 60’s written for the 2007 Centennial:
I was born and raised in the small rural community of Hughson, California, working my way from kindergarten through high school with a little over a hundred peers at all four school sites: Hughson Elementary, Lebright Middle School, Emily J. Ross Junior High, and Hughson Union High School. For the first seven years of my life, our family of four (Horace, Beverly, and a sister, Ann, a little less than two years younger) lived on what was then a cul-de-sac on the east end of Pine Street. When my widowed grandfather, Horace Senior, married Martha Sinclair in 1960 and moved to her place, we moved to the thirty-acre family peach ranch on Hatch Road.
Suddenly, I was a farm boy living in an old wooden ranch house a mile northwest of town, and life changed dramatically. Within a year I was driving an old gray and battered Ferguson TE20 tractor, spring-toothing and putting up and taking down levies; staying up all night irrigating opening and closing gates, listening the water trickle toward the ends of checks with my father; hoeing weeds and pulling suckers off walnut trees interplanted between the peach trees; grading peaches during harvest, and picking up props at day’s end; walking rain or shine with my sister to the Mountain View bus stop a quarter mile away; watching three channels of black and white television reruns in the front living room; digging underground tunnel hideaways covered with plywood; shooting birds in the bushes and fish in the canal with a BB gun; climbing trees and frolicking with dogs and cats; exploring an aluminum corrugated shed filled with tools and whatever; wandering the surrounding countryside planted with planted with peaches, walnuts, almonds, and grapes; converting the second floor of the tank house into a fully-stocked-with-dirt-clods fortress keep; driving a Willy’s post-World War II civilian jeep on a winding and dusty orchard-wide racetrack with my little dog, Jerry, sitting in the passenger seat; sobbing my eyes out on a hot day digging a shallow grave in the roadside orchard, burying Macho, who had finally chased one too many trucks on the busy Hatch Road; carrying out pitched dirt clod sorties with other farm boys, and playing rousing games of tag with them all summer in the canal just across the road at the Tully Road bridge and upstream falls. It was a Mississippi out the front door, and a jungle out the back one. A blend of Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn and Rudyard Kipling's Mowgli, without a Pap Finn or Shere Khan.
Breadcrumbs: Life Resume
http://michaelsbreadcrumbs.blogspot.com/2015/01/under-construction_68.html
Breadcrumbs: Photo Gallery
http://michaelsbreadcrumbs.blogspot.com/2015/01/under-construction_17.html
Ferguson Tractor, Old Commercial
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ELQgEa_JXJQ
Willys Jeep Commercial
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u7Sle8X4EZM
And the thing to realize about all the physicality of those younger years, is that all the pain and bother – all the hot and cold, all the choking dust driving the tractor, all the gnats and itchy peach fuzz grading peaches, all the splinters picking up props, all the cuts and scratches and tears and bruises and crunches and burns handling equipment, and all the tedious long hours of all of the above – is that the discipline to finish a task, the capacity to endure suffering, the ability to one-step-after-another abide a mundane pace, as well as the recognition of the intrinsic relationship with nature, have all played a huge underlying role in the life lived since. Gumption, grit, resilience, stamina, ingenuity, dependability, steadfastness, critical thinking, problem-solving, and can-do-it-will-do-it attitude, are concepts that ring true in this mind. And are significant factors in the evolution of the frame of reference that has sculpted the philosophical-mystical writings that have poured out since 1989.
* * * *
Fellow Class of ’72 alumni, Mark Bava, who also lived on Pine Street, and was also a son of a local farmer, caught Ray Bradbury’s “Dandelion Wine” flavor of it all in an essay he wrote for the Hughson Centennial in 2007.
My Back Pages
https://markbava.blogspot.com/2006/07/writings.html
Mark’s Blog
https://www.blogger.com/profile/04781808645805571682
Dandelion Wine
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dandelion_Wine
Hughson Union High School Class of '72
https://www.facebook.com/Hughson-Union-High-School-Class-of-72-301790023189950/
Hughson Historical Society
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Hughson-Historical-Society/169357353116469
Hughson Union High School
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hughson_Union_High_School
Hughson, California
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hughson,_California
Stanislaus County, California
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stanislaus_County,_California
California
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/California
My Back Pages
by Mark Bava
"The boys were chasing the city truck
spraying DDT
It kept the mosquitoes down ...
That stuff won't hurt 'em none
I heard the neighbor lady say …"
James McMurtry
from the song "12 O'clock Whistle"
In the central valley town of Hughson, California, canal swimming was a recognized talent. One could almost become hailed in comparable stature to surfing champions on the coast for their prowess in the water. And just as surfers wore nicknames such as Duke, Woody, or Steamboat, we had ace swimmers with names like Frog, who could stay underwater at length, and were rumored to have performed feats that made local legend such as diving from high bridges, or shooting the most gnarly and dangerous waterfalls. To keep the flow of the water controlled over the downhill grade of the terrain, these waterfalls, or "drops," were built at various stages along the large cement irrigation canals that crisscrossed their way through Central California from upland reservoirs, bringing precious water to the valley farm lands below. The most popular falls and bridges also had their nicknames, like Double Drop, The M, or Russell's, named after the family who lived nearby. These favorite spots would often be magically crowded with guys drinking beer and showing off as girls in bikinis watched on. And just as the surfers cruised the coast to check the waves and action in their favorite bays, we would cruise to see who and what was going on at our favorite swimming spots. Some of the waterfalls were larger than others, and most were forceful enough to drown an expert swimmer unless one knew the currents well. Despite the fact that a number of people who accidently fell in or drove their cars in were drowned every year, we grew up swimming in these canals and prided ourselves in our skill to navigate the rushing waters. But even for us, there were some falls with the fury of Niagara that remained unconquered.
Playing tag was the main pastime, with rules and boundaries conceived in some organic fashion within the unique parameters of a large cement canal, rushing waterfalls, canal banks, and catwalks. Aside from tag, another reckless sport was "shooting the falls,” which was daring to see who could go over the falls either head or feet first, or on inner tubes or some other random floating object.
Years later at a Hughson class reunion, a suggestion that some of us go swimming in the canal for nostalgia sake was met incredulously with the fact that no one swims in these canals any longer because it is now recognized that pollutants and pesticides infest these waters, not to mention the liability issues that come into play in today's lawsuit-happy world. It's another bygone era. We took chances then, and no one was sued when kids got seriously injured trying to water ski behind cars or dive off telephone poles into the canal. As far as the pesticides, in the town of Hughson, California, as in the Texas hometown of songwriter James McMurty, on blistering hot summer days we would peddle our bikes behind a cool mist of DDT coming from the back of the "Mosquito Man's" truck whenever he came to town spraying to keep the local mosquito population down. Back then, DDT was recognized as some kind of miracle chemical that was even sprayed on immigrants arriving at Ellis Island to insure that they didn't bring foreign germs with them into our shining new country. Which was equivalent to believing an advertising slogan at the time that smoking L&M cigarettes was "just what the doctor ordered.” And just as McMurty's song suggests, our parents sat outside oblivious, fanning themselves with their evening cocktails in hand gushing, "oh, looooook … awwww, how cuuuute ... kids ... Mosquito Man ..." and would laugh at how adorable we all looked smiling in ecstasy riding along in a cool, wet cloud of pure DDT. From those episodes, I have often stopped to wonder if that is why I have remained free of many viruses now feared. That by all odds, I should have contracted long ago with all my excessive bad habits through the years. Maybe DDT was a miracle drug of some kind.
Hughson was founded in 1907. It was named after Hiram Hughson, who owned much of the land at one time. The Indians had referred to it as "a place of sleep," and it wasn't really much more than a whistle stop along the Santa Fe railroad line. For no apparent reason, its main street is the remarkable width of a four lane freeway, which is absurdly wide for only being seven blocks long. The buildings that lined the street bore facades much like towns of the old west, but of concrete rather than wood. This was the style of architecture that was typical of California valley towns in the early 20th century, that is now being replaced by the latest architectural contribution to the modern Americana aesthetic: the strip mall.
In 2007 the town will celebrate its centennial. There will be a parade down Main Street, the unveiling of a life size bronze sculpture of a migrant peach picker, and a "bean feed" among other events. Somewhere deep in the nostalgia of this small town was this cherished annual event called The Bean Feed that is being resurrected from the annals of Hughson history that was little more than what its name implies: a town feed of beans and a slice of white bread with butter on a paper plate. But the Bean Feed was a festive occasion. It equaled some of the local harvest parties where a pig would be sacrificed and roasted underground by some distinguished Mexican cooks, pallets of Lucky Lager beer would arrive, mariachi bands would play, and everyone got drunk and danced while us kids tried to sneak off with six-packs of beer.
There was something unique about this small town and the people it produced that is hard to put your finger on. Not that anyone will point out anyone of national importance from there, or a celebrity like neighboring Modesto with its George Lucas who epitomized his town with the movie American Graffiti. But much like the Lucas movie, coming of age in Hughson around that era had a very similar flavor of that which was portrayed that infused its people with a rare down to earth quality that you rarely find in today's neurotic world.
The town on weekend nights was the scene of adolescent youth courting, flirting, getting drunk, and creating general mayhem ... cruising in cars back and forth on Main Street, making U-turn after U-turn at each end and cruising back again, eventually pulling up to others who were parked either along the street or in the dirt parking lot of M & M's Drive-In that took up the whole block at the top of the street. M & M's was our Mel's Drive-In, except occasionally some daring soul would fly into it's dirt lot with their car doing wild donuts and "rooster tails," satisfied at creating an enormous cloud of dust.
Across the street, standing side by side were the town's only two bars. One of these bars was frequented by Mexicans, and the other one by whites, and only a "bad ass" dared to go in either one. In valley towns like Hughson, you were either the toughest, had the fastest car, could drink the most, or risked some other dare devil craziness to prove your manhood ... that you were "bad.” Fights and town rivalries over sports and anything else were the fashion. There were always "rumbles" between town football teams in school parking lots after the games, and to even be caught cruising in a neighboring town could prove threatening.
On top of that, the town had a bit of its own racial tensions. Despite the demographic breakdown offered by consensus figures, in Hughson it seemed you were either Italian, Portuguese, Mexican, or “Okie.” The Italians had come there to be farmers, the Portuguese to be dairymen, and the Okies were those who had poured in from Oklahoma after the Dustbowl to work the fields in classic Woody Guthrie narrative, to be replaced by the Mexicans years later. There was friction between the latter that probably started over jobs. We knew little of the kind of prejudice that was prevalent towards blacks back then, or of the anti-Semitism discussed in WWII history for example. We had no "Afro Americans" in that town. We had mixtures of everything else. All we knew was that "Negros" produced most of the hit records on the charts, and thought to be Jewish was just another religion. But there was this racism between the Okies and the Mexicans and the two town bars frequently erupted in violence on the street outside.
The town was violent, but only to a point. I watched people get in fights, friends get killed racing cars, and saw a policeman lie dying on the street, shot in a thwarted bank robbery attempt of our little town bank that shocked the town to its core. It was still the Old West fifties style to be sure, but we never locked doors, and the only big robbery we had heard about until then, was when the owner of the Five and Dime was rumored to have previously tried to tunnel into the same bank that was next door. For the most part, the most we feared was getting caught smoking in the school bathroom. Guns were for hunting or shooting mailboxes and stop signs, and they were readily available on our farms but no one could even dream of using one for assault, and certainly not to bring to school or town. It was all fists and feet.
Farming was the industry and peaches were king. The town once held the title of Peach Capital of the World (in cling peaches as Georgia held the title for freestone peaches). The town came alive in the summers as the harvest approached. It was hot, tipping three-figures on the thermometer. We were out of school and working on family farms buzzing in the middle of the season with their smells of Mexican food and sounds of Mexican music filling the air from farmhand cabins. We eagerly waited for when we could sneak away and go swimming in the canals, race cars, or cruise town in the hopes of finding a party or joining the ranks of couples making out on canal banks. On Sundays, neighboring Italian farm families got together following mass for huge meals at long tables with homemade wine and piles of ravioli.
It was a Norman Rockwell portrait of the golden age of postwar bliss. A little ambition would buy the American Dream. Fathers worked and mothers stayed home raising the kids. We had rotary phones, party lines, and operators who knew family names. There were no answering machines to get a message if you weren't home. The latest news was commonly spread word of mouth or through town gossip, and much of that was from Hamilton's Cafe, the community nerve center where farmers convened every morning to discuss their crops over breakfast. Families watched the same TV shows like Bonanza, Leave it to Beaver, Have Gun Will Travel, Twilight Zone, Ed Sullivan, and Combat, a WW2 series showing the last just war our fathers had just won. Our mothers watched Jack La Lane, As the World Turns, and Queen for a Day, which had to be the most politically incorrect thing since Al Jolson wore blackface. We saw Mysterious Island for 10 cents at our local movie theater. Gas was 37 cents a gallon. We could burn piled leaves in our yards. Dry cleaning and milk were delivered to your door, and the town doctor, a man who seemed to know everything, made house calls. It was all the latest in the modern nuclear age with TV trays, kidney shaped tables, and the Space Race.
Teenagers watched American Bandstand and did the Twist. There was some hushed war in Korea that we knew little about. And then came something called the Cuban Missile Crisis, and our town doctor who knew everything proudly built a fully functioning concrete bomb shelter and began rotating stocks of canned goods.
Soon after came the British Invasion and Mod was the fashion. We started watching Laugh In and Walter Cronkite began to talk about another hushed war in a place called Vietnam. Eventually that war began to claim even the lives of children from this town not on any maps that few had even heard of. People started to wonder as we started hearing of protests.
I watched Woodstock at the local drive-in theater as the 1967 Summer of Love arrived in our town in 1969. Marijuana started to replace booze, and we piled in cars to cruise country roads with nicknames like The Crooked Mile to smoke joints safely away from authoritarian eyes with our 8 tracks blaring, listening to the Rolling Stones, Ten Years After, and Led Zeppelin. There were no local police, and we had driven trucks and tractors since the age of 10, and many of us could drive as early as Junior High School. Just as was portrayed in American Graffiti, we lived in our cars, but all of a sudden cruising became slower as we got more stoned.
I tried LSD, listening to Iron Butterfly's "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" over and over on my portable phonograph. I started wearing fringed jackets, paisley Nehru shirts, suede moccasins, or black Beatle boots, and I watched our town become less violent as people cruising in cars flipped peace signs instead of the finger. Rivalries and fighting stopped, replaced by brotherhood and our attempt at being flower children. As we neared graduation, we began to think about the draft and our options other than following the war blindly. We saw JFK assassinated, followed by Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. We saw civil rights movements and civil disobedience. It was the beginning of the end of the last innocent generation, and I was about to graduate.
Following graduation, our doctor who knew everything took his life, followed by my father, whose increasing bouts of depression from a little-known syndrome called Manic Depression become too chronic for him to bear. With little time to think, the family farm was sold to pay the inheritance taxes, and with what was left, I went off to art school and to see the world, eventually moving to the coast. I never lived here again.
I never grew up. I never had kids. The rare times I have returned were either for a class reunion, a funeral, or a quick sentimental journey down Main Street when passing within proximity on my way somewhere else, and when I did, I sometimes wondered why anyone settled here in the first place. I have been physically, mentally, and spiritually almost everywhere. I've had my picture taken with Jackie and Aristotle Onassis on the island of Capri. I've sunk a ship in the Caribbean, shot the rapids of the Pequari River, been thrown into a dungeon in Bangkok, and made the pilgrimages to Burning Man in the Nevada Desert. I think I've been a puppet, a pauper, a poet, a pawn, and maybe not quite a king, but to this day, no matter where I am, there is a maudlin feeling that comes over me with the end of a summer and the coming of fall. It's hard to shake. It's ingrained in me. It's the feeling of a time when the winds come, and the leaves fall off the peach trees, leaving nothing but bare branches as they go dormant for the cold season ahead. The Mexicans would leave town on their sojourns back home for the winter, and the farm would become a deserted wasteland. The canals would go dry. Everything seemed to go black and white. And with all of this, I would have to face going back to school and wait for spring ... when everything would blossom, the Mexicans would return, the music would begin, and we could go swimming in the canals.
Mark Bava is an event producer, musician and artist now residing in Carmel California.
* My Back Pages - song by Bob Dylan (1964)
"Ah, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now …"
Hughson Celebrates Its Centennial This Weekend
By Jeff Benziger
An article in the Ceres Courier announcing the Hughson Centennial:
Hughson Celebrates Its Centennial This Weekend
https://www.cerescourier.com/news/hughson-celebrates-its-centennial-this-weekend/
September 19, 2007
Hughson turns 100 years old this month and there will be a celebration worthy of a hundred-year wait on Saturday, Sept. 22.
A full day of celebration is being organized by the Hughson Historical Society, the Hughson Centennial Celebration Committee, and the city of Hughson. "A Small Community With A Big Heart" is the guiding theme for the free event, which includes an all-day Main Street fair, that is open to the general public.
Hughson's township was filed in 1907. It didn't become an incorporated city until 1971.
From 9:30 a.m. to 5 p.m. Hughson Avenue will be converted into a fair. Free entertainment will be offered as well as displays of vintage automobiles, tractors and motorcycles. A Dust Bowl Days display will be available as well as commercial booths for shoppers. Food booths will feed the crowd.
A parade at 11 a.m. will pay tribute to Hughson's past and will feature a wide range of antique vehicles including a Wells Fargo stagecoach.
Activities for the children will include a petting zoo, pumpkin maze, jumping bins, kiddie tractor pull, and Centennial Children's Area.
A larger-than-life statue of a peach picker, called "The Harvest" - commissioned by Oakdale artist Betty Saletta - will be unveiled at 4 p.m. on Saturday, Sept. 22 at the corner of Charles and Hughson Avenue. The intersection has recently been rehabilitated into a showcase intersection complete with brick, planters and street furniture. Donors who helped pay for the statue will be recognized on bronze plaques at its base.
Inscribed paving bricks honoring or memorializing family or friends were sold to help raise funds and will be a central part of the Centennial Plaza design.
Hughson was once known for the peaches grown in its fields; hence the harvester was seen as an appropriate tribute.
A time capsule with memorabilia from 2007 will be placed at Centennial Plaza.
"Years ago, Hughson used to have a Tractor Rodeo and free beans so we're going to have that again," said Jean Henley, a member of the Hughson Historical Society.
Free peaches will also be given away.
The Hughson Historical Museum, located in the old Gilette Hotel which was moved from downtown Ceres in 1907, will be open for the day. The museum is located on Hughson Avenue.
A wide range of other food will be available for purchase, as well as centennial DVD's, T-shirts, polo shirts and hats. Shirts and hats may be purchased in advance at Bank of the West in Hughson or at the event.
A limited number of bronze maquettes of "The Harvest" are still available. A portion of the purchase of these 18-inch versions of the finished sculpture goes to the Hughson Historical Society.
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Sketches of the Once Upon a Time
A Few Epiphanies and Other Hallmark Moments
http://www.thestillnessbeforetime.com/sketchesoftheonceuponatime.pdf
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