The Journey Part 13

A BEAUTIFUL DAY, THANK YOU VERY MUCH

It began this morning, after the dog-walks, and after I had satisfied my requirements for customers, two gentlemen from Israel stopped by, asked if they could leave their backpacks with us while they took a shower.

Two gentlemen from Israel.

First time for me, meeting someone who lives in Israel, and I met two of them, almost awestruck I was, but that would come later, during the conversation, when we learned one of the two is hiking 2,650 miles while having Cerebral Palsy.

Let that simmer on your back burner for a while.

They were both engaging. They were both inspiring.  They were both further proof that I made the right decision in chucking it all and taking this path.

Add two women from Germany.

Add three more twenty-somethings, two hiking the first twenty miles in support of their friend, who wants to go the distance, thoroughly enjoyable to talk to, all three, our newest best friends after we gave them bananas and told them our stories.

And then, to cap it all off, as if the day wasn’t perfect enough, while we were walking past this property which has had us guessing and wondering for a week now, the owner of that property invited us in for a private touring.

Allow me to backtrack just a bit. Bev and I walk past this particular property each day on the way to the Malt Shop.  The property in question has, roughly, over twenty small buildings on it, each on beautifully designed and constructed, a barber shop, a jail, a treehouse, and on, and each one is adorned with what are obviously antiques. I thought at first passing that it was a tourist site, but the signs were very clear that it was private property and no trespassing would be tolerated.

So, today, we passed by again, Bev leaned over the fence to get a better view, the owner was just stepping out of one of the small buildings, and he invited us in to see his work.

It turns out the owner is an artist, and what we saw on that property was thirty years in the making, one man’s truly astounding artistic achievement, built lovingly by this unassuming man who has a passion and will not allow that passion to die.

Why does he not make it a tourist site? He told me because it was art, not a business venture, and to make it a business venture would be to sully the artistic expression.  He said he didn’t mind taking people on private tours; in fact, he enjoyed it. But he couldn’t possibly take money for art. It just didn’t seem right.

I am telling you right now, and you’ll have to trust me on this, but his creations would earn him, easy, a couple hundred thousand dollars in revenue if he opened it to the public and charged admission.

But, to him, that didn’t seem right!

I didn’t think it was possible for me, in my seventh decade of life, to be flabbergasted, but I was today.  His attitude towards wealth and the Arts blew me away, and I am still in awe of his talent and his nonchalant view of riches.

We are in an unincorporated area of Lake Morena, in San Diego County, and I would venture to guess most of you have never heard of this township before reading this, but in this black dot on the maps, barely noticed by those looking for San Diego or Palm Springs, I was treated to a one-man art show which almost brought me to tears. The attention to detail was stunning. The craftsmanship first-rate.  And he shuns attention.  You could go online and not find the name of his property. The entire World Wide Web has no trace of his artwork.  And yet it was magnificent, a lasting treasure available to anyone who happens to be walking down Lake Morena Drive.

I have no words.

Anyway, it was a beautiful day, thank you very much!

RURAL AMERICA FOR ALL TO SEE . . . BUT THEY WON’T

I’m the only Holland not born in rural America.  One side of the family was from Charles City, Iowa, the other from a small town in Minnesota, farmers, millworkers, churchgoers, hard-workers.

I am constantly reminded of my roots during this time spent in Campo, California.

The pickup trucks are loud, either souped up or no muffler loud, caked with dust, jacked up for better sight lines, or jacked up for the same reason a male peacock struts its plumage.  Tired women in ten-year-old SUVs or twenty year old station wagons, drag four youngins into the Dollar General, looking for the best cut of meat for the least amount of cash.

The community center is the hub of the town, rising above the church in most eyes, though they would never admit it.  Homes look tired, weather-beaten, badly in need of repairs which will never happen. Almost all of them have a rusted vehicle in the yard, almost all of them have a rusting RV in the yard, and almost all of them have a dog chained in the yard, rarely a pure bred, ever vigilant lest someone want to rob them or inflict harm upon them.

I have no idea how many vehicles I pass have guns in them, but I would bet my savings that a large majority do. This is Republican Country, and if you need proof of that, the main street in Campo is called Jeb Stuart Lane.  Read your history and you’ll understand the reference.

Men, and some women, are intimately familiar with Skol, and the most popular litter item on the side of the road is whatever canned beer was on sale last week at the same Dollar General.  The American flag flies free in these parts, blowing in the ever-present wind, attached to the rear bumper of vehicles, hanging above the front door of homes, and streamed between oak tree limbs when no other support is handy.

Your guess is as good as mine how these people make a living. There are no industries, no major employers, but hard work is nothing new to them, proof found in the gnarled knuckles, bent backs, and sundry scars adorning bodies which look twenty years older than they actually are.

They will look you straight in the eye when they meet you, their handshakes are firm, and I have found politeness to be the norm rather than the exception.  Push your preconceptions aside, don’t let politics or religion come into play, and these are easy people to like and respect. They take care of their own. They help when needed. They ask for nothing, and even when they have nothing they will give what they can.  Are there exceptions? Of course, as there are in any segment of society, but I believe my generalization to be quite accurate.

You won’t find these people on the evening news. Their opinions are rarely, if ever, heard, and if heard they are drowned out by the big money to the west.  But they are Americans, and I’m damned glad I had the chance to spend some time with them.

DRIFTING CLOUDS AND A HAUNTING SONG

Bev was in San Diego overnight, taking care of some dental procedure before starting the trail, so me and the dogs hunkered down for some bachelor time.  The sun was out today, high fifties, ever-present wind, and I decided there was nothing better to do with my time than lay flat on the picnic table and watch puffs of white float by overhead.

I turned on Spotify, found my favorite song, possibly my all-time favorite song, hit the arrow, and listened as Sara Bareilles sang “She Used To Be Mine,” just loud enough for the dogs, and I, to hear.

Haunting lyrics, the kind of lyrics which hit you so hard they leave a scar, the kind of lyrics which inevitably bring tears to my eyes, and today was no exception to that blubbering rule. It is genius, a song which is both heart-piercing sad and yet speaks of the indominable spirit of mankind, the I’ve been knocked down more times than I can remember but I’m going to keep on getting up because, well, I can kind of spirit.  And who among us can’t relate to the sad reminiscing of lost opportunities and youthful mistakes, compounded by more mistakes and more lost opportunities, until Life has chiseled out your status without you even knowing it.

The clouds in distorted shapes continued to float by as I thought back on seventy-four years, a newsreel of sorts which was not terribly enjoyable to watch, the star of that movie a tragic sadsack if there ever was one, and yet I didn’t feel sorrow for him, did not feel regret for his life, and was not overcome with hopelessness at his status.

It has turned out all right for this writer/sadsack.  I make no statements about a grand plan orchestrated by the Great Puppet Master. I have no idea if my life was pre-ordained. I hope not, because I’m a big fan of free-will. I can see it all play out, as the clouds continue to form a backdrop for Sara’s melody, I can see the decisions, the consequences of those decisions, I nod my head, a tear drops to my cheek, careful, self-pity pokes out from a grey cloud, and then I silently, inwardly applaud, because despite it all, despite the countless wrong turns, and the refusal to take the easy path, and somehow, with more character defects than seems possible for one man to have, and a tendency, at times, which appears to be a self-destruct gene, I have continued to get up, put one step forward, say screw it to the Fates, and arrived at this place, on a sunny day at Lake Morena, California, without one damned care in the world.

Thank you, Sara!  You really did write a gem there, young lady.