Rain day
5 days ago
Friday, October 19, 2007
A Victor Wooten Bass Solo
When I got home after my last hitch, Rhonda and Dylan surprised me with a ticket to see Bela Fleck and the Flecktones at the Cascade Theater in Redding. It was a school night, so Dylan didn't go, and since we don't do babysitters, Rhonda stayed home too. I'd been wanting to see those guys live for some time now, so it was a real treat. I was going to post a video by the band, but while searching for one that conveyed their essence on YouTube, I came upon this solo performance of the Beatles' "Norwegian Wood," played by the Flecktones' Victor Wooten on bass. I hope you enjoy it.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Truth, Justice, and the State of Jefferson
When I was growing up in southern California, most of my elementary school teachers mentioned that there had once been a movement in northern California to create a separate state. Not many particulars were mentioned, other than that there was a prevailing feeling that politicians in Sacramento weren't fairly representing the interests of folks living in the region. In high school, as I recall, the northern California statehood movement was never mentioned. I more or less forgot about the whole thing.
When Rhonda and I got back together about fourteen years ago, we had a big decision to make. Y'see, she lived in northern California, while I lived down in Ventura County. She loved living in Shasta County, and the housing prices there were much more reasonable than down south. I'd always liked it up there too--my dad had a high school buddy who lived there--so, I moved up north.
Rhonda would often have the stereo tuned to the local National Public Radio station, Jefferson Public Radio. T
he station's studios were in Ashland, Oregon, just a bit north of the California/Oregon border. (If you've heard of Ashland, it's likely because of the internationally touted Oregon Shakespeare Festival.) It was during that time that I learned, thanks to JPR, that northern Californians weren't alone in their desire to create a separate state. No, it was actually an effort made up of mostly rural northern California and southern Oregon counties. During station breaks, a recorded announcement would often air explaining the station's mission, and it mentioned the "State of Jefferson," said to be "the home of some serious, and not-so-serious, efforts to create a new state."
As I settled in to the northern California life, the "not-so-serious" side of the State of Jefferson movement seemed to hold sway. Indeed, Jefferson seemed a whimsical state of mind, sort of a collective outlook that might be labeled "Northern Exposure Lite."
The State of Jefferson movement wasn't always so whimsical. In the fall of 1941, a guy by the name of Gilbert Gable got the ball rolling in a big way. Gable was the mayor of Port Orford, Oregon. His speeches urging the establishment of a new state--formed by southern Oregon and northern California counties--were at first meant only as publicity stunts to draw attention to the poor roads of the region. Many citizens of the region, however, wanted more than just publicity: they actually wanted a new state. The feeling was that if the area was to grow economically, the poor infrastructure would need vast improvement. The legislatures in Salem and Sacramento, as the thinking went, cared little about making things better in their region.
The movement grew quickly, and in November 1941 the provisional capital of Jefferson was set up in Yreka, California. Later that month, a bunch of guys carrying hunting rifles began stopping traffic south of Yreka. They handed motorists copies of a Proclamation of Independence. The handbills stated that the state of Jefferson was engaged in "patriotic rebellion against the states of California and Oregon."
The guys with hunting rifles were probably the reason that the State of Jefferson was catapulted in
to the national news scene. People began to take the succession effort seriously; the movement had gone way beyond a mere publicity stunt. The rebellion soon competed on front pages with Germany's aggressions in Europe. Jefferson was big news. In fact, a reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle, Stanton Deleplane, wrote a series of articles on the "rebellion" that won him the Pulitzer Prize in 1942.
Hollywood newsreel companies showed up for the swearing in of the governor of Jefferson, Judge John Childs of Crescent City, California. It was a big event indeed, with parades and marching bands preceding the inauguration ceremony on the courthouse lawn. The newsreels were scheduled to show nationally during the week of December 8th.
Alas, the movement to create the new state of Jefferson got knocked on its ass, however indirectly, by the Japanese. The bombing of Pearl Harbor happened on December 7th, and overnight, the state of Jefferson vanished from the headlines, and the Jefferson inauguration newsreels were shelved. New roads were hastily built in the area to access the natural resources harbored there, which created many new jobs in the region. Many more residents joined the war effort by enlisting in the armed services, or going to work in factories. In the space of just two or three months, the Jefferson rebellion had mushroomed from a mere publicity stunt to a serious movement. With the outbreak of World War II, however, the movement, seemingly overnight, lost all the wind in its sails. There were bigger fish to fry.
And yet, the idea of Jefferson as a "state" has never died. Jefferson, today, has its own radio stations, a
rt scene, and music scene. The people of northern California and southern Oregon have not forgotten that they have more in common with each other than their supposed brethren in Sacramento and Salem. Megan Shaw, a fifth generation Oregonian, wrote this regarding Jefferson on the website Bad Subjects: All cynicism aside, I do not believe that the United States is yet prepared to interpret a political movement that is a synthesis of rural anti-federalism and labor activism, one that in some ways is classically conservative and in other ways classically progressive (yet at the same time is not quite either). If the State of Jefferson had not removed itself to the cultural sphere, it would have risked following the route of such separatist movements as the Montana Freemen and the Republic of Texas. Those movements relied on fairly narrow bands of support that were not deeply entrenched in the culture. I support the State of Jefferson continuing to work in the long term toward greater self-definition, and towards legal separation from Oregon and California if that is the population's wish. I believe that they are entrenching their movement in the region's culture in a way that can make such a transition possible. One jazz band at a time.
Jefferson lives on in the hearts and minds of the folks living there. It may be, for the most part, merel
y a whimsical "state of mind." Somehow, though, I suspect that the legislatures in Sacramento and Salem are mindful that, if they screw up too much, they could awake one morning to find that it's 1941 all over again.
When Rhonda and I got back together about fourteen years ago, we had a big decision to make. Y'see, she lived in northern California, while I lived down in Ventura County. She loved living in Shasta County, and the housing prices there were much more reasonable than down south. I'd always liked it up there too--my dad had a high school buddy who lived there--so, I moved up north.
Rhonda would often have the stereo tuned to the local National Public Radio station, Jefferson Public Radio. T
he station's studios were in Ashland, Oregon, just a bit north of the California/Oregon border. (If you've heard of Ashland, it's likely because of the internationally touted Oregon Shakespeare Festival.) It was during that time that I learned, thanks to JPR, that northern Californians weren't alone in their desire to create a separate state. No, it was actually an effort made up of mostly rural northern California and southern Oregon counties. During station breaks, a recorded announcement would often air explaining the station's mission, and it mentioned the "State of Jefferson," said to be "the home of some serious, and not-so-serious, efforts to create a new state."
As I settled in to the northern California life, the "not-so-serious" side of the State of Jefferson movement seemed to hold sway. Indeed, Jefferson seemed a whimsical state of mind, sort of a collective outlook that might be labeled "Northern Exposure Lite."
The State of Jefferson movement wasn't always so whimsical. In the fall of 1941, a guy by the name of Gilbert Gable got the ball rolling in a big way. Gable was the mayor of Port Orford, Oregon. His speeches urging the establishment of a new state--formed by southern Oregon and northern California counties--were at first meant only as publicity stunts to draw attention to the poor roads of the region. Many citizens of the region, however, wanted more than just publicity: they actually wanted a new state. The feeling was that if the area was to grow economically, the poor infrastructure would need vast improvement. The legislatures in Salem and Sacramento, as the thinking went, cared little about making things better in their region.
The movement grew quickly, and in November 1941 the provisional capital of Jefferson was set up in Yreka, California. Later that month, a bunch of guys carrying hunting rifles began stopping traffic south of Yreka. They handed motorists copies of a Proclamation of Independence. The handbills stated that the state of Jefferson was engaged in "patriotic rebellion against the states of California and Oregon."
The guys with hunting rifles were probably the reason that the State of Jefferson was catapulted in
to the national news scene. People began to take the succession effort seriously; the movement had gone way beyond a mere publicity stunt. The rebellion soon competed on front pages with Germany's aggressions in Europe. Jefferson was big news. In fact, a reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle, Stanton Deleplane, wrote a series of articles on the "rebellion" that won him the Pulitzer Prize in 1942.Hollywood newsreel companies showed up for the swearing in of the governor of Jefferson, Judge John Childs of Crescent City, California. It was a big event indeed, with parades and marching bands preceding the inauguration ceremony on the courthouse lawn. The newsreels were scheduled to show nationally during the week of December 8th.
Alas, the movement to create the new state of Jefferson got knocked on its ass, however indirectly, by the Japanese. The bombing of Pearl Harbor happened on December 7th, and overnight, the state of Jefferson vanished from the headlines, and the Jefferson inauguration newsreels were shelved. New roads were hastily built in the area to access the natural resources harbored there, which created many new jobs in the region. Many more residents joined the war effort by enlisting in the armed services, or going to work in factories. In the space of just two or three months, the Jefferson rebellion had mushroomed from a mere publicity stunt to a serious movement. With the outbreak of World War II, however, the movement, seemingly overnight, lost all the wind in its sails. There were bigger fish to fry.
And yet, the idea of Jefferson as a "state" has never died. Jefferson, today, has its own radio stations, a
rt scene, and music scene. The people of northern California and southern Oregon have not forgotten that they have more in common with each other than their supposed brethren in Sacramento and Salem. Megan Shaw, a fifth generation Oregonian, wrote this regarding Jefferson on the website Bad Subjects: All cynicism aside, I do not believe that the United States is yet prepared to interpret a political movement that is a synthesis of rural anti-federalism and labor activism, one that in some ways is classically conservative and in other ways classically progressive (yet at the same time is not quite either). If the State of Jefferson had not removed itself to the cultural sphere, it would have risked following the route of such separatist movements as the Montana Freemen and the Republic of Texas. Those movements relied on fairly narrow bands of support that were not deeply entrenched in the culture. I support the State of Jefferson continuing to work in the long term toward greater self-definition, and towards legal separation from Oregon and California if that is the population's wish. I believe that they are entrenching their movement in the region's culture in a way that can make such a transition possible. One jazz band at a time.Jefferson lives on in the hearts and minds of the folks living there. It may be, for the most part, merel
y a whimsical "state of mind." Somehow, though, I suspect that the legislatures in Sacramento and Salem are mindful that, if they screw up too much, they could awake one morning to find that it's 1941 all over again.Monday, September 24, 2007
Seven Things You Probably Don't Know About Me
Michael tagged me for this some time ago, and I'm just now getting around to it. (See number 2.)
Okay Bob B, I'm tagging you.
1. I started dating my wife in 1973. We broke up when I went into the military following high school. We reunited and got married in 1994. Our son was born in 2000, twenty-six and a half years after our first date.
2. I'm not one to rush into things.
3. I enjoy trading emails with folks, but I'd rather take a beating than chat online.
4. I'm apparently known by friends and coworkers as an easy-going, affable guy, but I have a decided mean streak. I control it, but it's there.
5. When I was fourteen, I signed up for roller derby training school. I did it because I had a crush on one of the skaters in L.A. Her name was Peggy Fowler. I had to drop out before I even started when my parents found out I'd forged my dad's signature on the release form. Life was not pleasant for me for a while after that.
6. I took my first flying lesson in a Cessna 150 when I was thirteen. I ended up getting about fourteen hours of flight time before the money ran out. My instructor back then, a gentleman by the name of Bob Gililand, had been a nineteen year-old civilian instructor for the Army Air Corps during World War II, flying Stearmans. For years, I was the youngest student he'd ever had. During the eighties, he had a couple of eleven year-old students, so my "record" with him fell. I still hold another record with him, though. At the age of thirty, I started flying with Bob again, and seventeen years after my first lesson, I got my Private fixed-wing add-on rating. Thus, of the thousands of students he's had since World War II, I hold the record of the one who took the longest to get a rating.
7. I'm eligible to join the Sons of the American Revolution, but since I'm not planning to look for a job in D.C., I haven't.
Okay Bob B, I'm tagging you.
1. I started dating my wife in 1973. We broke up when I went into the military following high school. We reunited and got married in 1994. Our son was born in 2000, twenty-six and a half years after our first date.
2. I'm not one to rush into things.
3. I enjoy trading emails with folks, but I'd rather take a beating than chat online.
4. I'm apparently known by friends and coworkers as an easy-going, affable guy, but I have a decided mean streak. I control it, but it's there.
5. When I was fourteen, I signed up for roller derby training school. I did it because I had a crush on one of the skaters in L.A. Her name was Peggy Fowler. I had to drop out before I even started when my parents found out I'd forged my dad's signature on the release form. Life was not pleasant for me for a while after that.
6. I took my first flying lesson in a Cessna 150 when I was thirteen. I ended up getting about fourteen hours of flight time before the money ran out. My instructor back then, a gentleman by the name of Bob Gililand, had been a nineteen year-old civilian instructor for the Army Air Corps during World War II, flying Stearmans. For years, I was the youngest student he'd ever had. During the eighties, he had a couple of eleven year-old students, so my "record" with him fell. I still hold another record with him, though. At the age of thirty, I started flying with Bob again, and seventeen years after my first lesson, I got my Private fixed-wing add-on rating. Thus, of the thousands of students he's had since World War II, I hold the record of the one who took the longest to get a rating.
7. I'm eligible to join the Sons of the American Revolution, but since I'm not planning to look for a job in D.C., I haven't.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Dreams About No Smiles
I've had some funny dreams this week. One was about the guy who always worked the meat counter at Ken's Market, the place nearby our home in Oxnard where my parents would occasionally send me to pick up meat for a barbecue. The guy would never say anything more than necessary; he'd hand me the package of meat and go back to what he was doing. He never smiled. I never had a conversation with him.
I flashed from age twelve to age twenty. I was stationed at Fort Ord, and visiting my favorite place to pick up lunch, a German deli near the airfield in the town of Marina. It was run by a German couple and the wife's sister. The women were friendly and outgoing, but the husband just carved the meat and made the sandwiches. He never smiled. I never had a conversation with him either.
I was puzzled as to why I'd see those two guys again in my dreams, but then it came to me: there was magic in those places. Ken's Market had the old fashioned type of meat counter, where you'd give your order to the guy and he'd prepare it and wrap it just for you. The German Deli in Marina had the magic, as evidenced by the number of guys in military flight suits waiting in line at lunchtime. Maybe that's why those two taciturn men were featured in those dreams: it was my week to revisit magicians.
Soon after Rhonda and I got married in '94, we spent some time in Monterey, and I took her to look for the German deli. Although Fort Ord had closed down, the deli was still there. The German couple and the sister were still running the place. I told them that I hadn't set foot in their place in fifteen years, but that I'd been a regular in the late seventies. The wife smiled. "We get a lot of people coming by who were customers when stationed at the base," she said. I wasn't surprised. I took my first bite of the Reuben, and I knew the magic was still there.
The husband? He still didn't smile, but I did get a nod from him. I would never ask more of a guy who works magic.
It takes a lot of hard work and dedication to make an eating establishment a long-running success, to be sure. But the most important ingredient, I'm convinced, is magic.
Damn, now I'm hungry. I wish it wasn't a five-hour drive to Monterey.
I flashed from age twelve to age twenty. I was stationed at Fort Ord, and visiting my favorite place to pick up lunch, a German deli near the airfield in the town of Marina. It was run by a German couple and the wife's sister. The women were friendly and outgoing, but the husband just carved the meat and made the sandwiches. He never smiled. I never had a conversation with him either.
I was puzzled as to why I'd see those two guys again in my dreams, but then it came to me: there was magic in those places. Ken's Market had the old fashioned type of meat counter, where you'd give your order to the guy and he'd prepare it and wrap it just for you. The German Deli in Marina had the magic, as evidenced by the number of guys in military flight suits waiting in line at lunchtime. Maybe that's why those two taciturn men were featured in those dreams: it was my week to revisit magicians.
Soon after Rhonda and I got married in '94, we spent some time in Monterey, and I took her to look for the German deli. Although Fort Ord had closed down, the deli was still there. The German couple and the sister were still running the place. I told them that I hadn't set foot in their place in fifteen years, but that I'd been a regular in the late seventies. The wife smiled. "We get a lot of people coming by who were customers when stationed at the base," she said. I wasn't surprised. I took my first bite of the Reuben, and I knew the magic was still there.
The husband? He still didn't smile, but I did get a nod from him. I would never ask more of a guy who works magic.
It takes a lot of hard work and dedication to make an eating establishment a long-running success, to be sure. But the most important ingredient, I'm convinced, is magic.
Damn, now I'm hungry. I wish it wasn't a five-hour drive to Monterey.
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