February in Cave Junction

Here in the rain forest, today is a good day to have a 30 year roof . Cozy in my perch, food in the refrigerator, dry firewood stockpiled, eight dollars cash and the bills paid, I remember not long ago how hard life was in the pursuit of the little comfort I enjoy today. Today the wind picks up every so often and the skies darken, a hard rain follows until the wind again picks up and the skies lighten, The rain then becomes a sprinkle until the next dark minute\hour\day of hard rain.
I'm rooting for the dark clouds. Even though the water is turning my lower driveway into a river and the upper switch-back into an obstacle course of muddy ruts, I love the coziness of the shack when its raining. The hell with the driveway, I don't have to go anywhere. When I do I'll waddle down the road with muddy, unbalanced tires until I can get to the car wash. Mud is still part of the deal here. Maybe this year I can get some rock and road done. Maybe.
Ain't that the way it is: Used to be I didn't mind running around with muddy tires and rims, I was mountain man-in' it, but enjoy a little success over and above warm, dry and fed, and like all fools I want some bling,.....can't be running around town with muddy rims on my new jeep ( with only 154,000 thousand miles on it). I can hardly stand to let the dog go everywhere with me now; Leather interior.
Speaking of living high on the hog, a good friend of mine switched shirt sizes and gave me upwards of twenty something of his old shirts. Most better than all but my best, so now I look better everywhere I go. His shirts never looked so good either. I hope he has to switch slack sizes soon . Is that gratitude or what? Thanks Gman. Every time I go off the property and look half way presentable I'm truly grateful. I wish I could bring myself to spend the money on some new shoes.
Oh well, it's February in C.J. and it's wet. In town the Chevron is slow. Tourism is light this time of year and at twenty five cents a gallon more than the Chevron in Grants Pass, smart travelers drive by with full tanks. Still the station is doing some business, and as always the attendants have biscuits for the dog. Here in Oregon it's illegal to pump your own gas, so there are always attendants and they most of the time have biscuits. Tells you something about how many people in southern Oregon drive around with their dogs.
Watching the news today, I see they want to add a suicide prevention net on the Golden Gate at a mere cost of fifty million dollars. What I want to know, besides whether or not these people are nuts, is this; After a suicidal person jumps and hits the net (really a chain link barrier as it is described) what keeps them from crawling to the edge and jumping again?????????? So they throw themselves in front of BART instead. It's no wonder the place is bankrupt.
More and more, Obama looks like a one term disaster. It was fun while it lasted but the bill for this president is becoming horrendous . The scary part is: Creditors want to get paid for the balloon even though the air is gone and the collapse is on. The ugly truth: The race downhill is picking up steam. Throwing false economy in front of the ball in the form of "stimulus money" is like adding fuel to a fire to stop it. Get ready to bite the bullet; In my uneducated , occasionally newsclip informed, save yourself the world don't wanna be saved world, it still looks like America needs to severely rein herself in.
And our elected officials need to be voted out. Every one of them. All that money for war while the country falls apart. C'mon man.

"You cannot multiply wealth by dividing it." Adrian Rogers

When Grey Consumes All

.............and leaves paint their seasonal masterpiece daily until Winter when grey consumes all. ( Shorter days 30AUG09)

The leaves have all hit the ground. In the end their bright colors desert them and they fall in the rain brown like the earth from which they grew. The grey of winter takes over Happy Camp road this time of year. No longer passable through the mountains and into California, traffic consists of visitors to the snow park eleven miles up the road whom return in grey cars covered with road spray, and my few neighbors.
Grey clouds cover the sky. The Sun don't shine, the birds don't fly. Blue is not a color now but an emotion.
Fog obliterates the view until only the closest trees stand distinct in their grey outlines. The surrounding ridges, furthest first, nearest last, have been swallowed .
On the north side of the ridge, at Bradland, direct sunlight will only reach the cabin for three hours a day, from Mid-November to Mid-February. The Grey of the shade.
Soon, grey snow will creep down from the higher altitudes to make it's seasonal two week appearance , and then retreat with the winter solstice and longer days. Winter's grey will be most dominant then; Colorless, Cabin fevered, lonely, secluded, Greeeeeey. Soon, but not now , Now it's Thanksgiving and time to be grateful for another year and rewards reaped with it.
I'm grateful the truck still runs, the house is built, the toilet is working, I'm healthy and maybe fit, my new teeth fit, that the world is still spinning, that the money goes to the bank, that the Chinese are still underwriting us, and I can still speak Chinese. I'm grateful for a whole bunch of other shit that I don't need to publicly acknowledge. AND... I'm most grateful that the miracle of life is still being enjoyed by all of you. HAPPY THANKSGIVING

Disclaimer: The Oregonian and Encyclical Letters‏

As a matter of clarification:
I am not an Oregonian.

True Oregonians, those born in Oregon, are a proud group and very exclusive and they could hardly suffer having a Smokey Mountain hillbilly from California like myself calling himself an Oregonian.
My mother (born in Pennsylvania and raised on my Grandfathers homesteaded property in Southern Oregon) was not an Oregonian to the Oregonians, she was a newcomer. I'm worse; I'm a Californian. The son of a Pennsylvanian, who was the daughter of a Smokey Mountain Hillbilly who came from a long line of North Carolinians raised in the Smokey Mountains. You can't divorce that kind of heritage in one generation, and I only try to make all this clear in effort to say that I only speak for myself, and that my blog, titled 'The Oregonian', is a misnomer in regard to myself.
It should not be confused for someone actually born in the state of Oregon, or a rural, backwoods thinking, unemployed lumberjack clinging to his guns and his religion in bitterness. Oregon is the most atheist state in the union. Halleleujah.

As a matter of further clarification:
I did not assume the title of 'The Oregonian'.

It was a gift from a man in Italy. The son of an American, he was raised in California to be a Smokey Mountain Hillbilly, who instead fled to Europe to live a life of culture and became a British citizen. Who am I to question a well rounded man of the world with heritage like that?
If he wants to call me 'The Oregonian' simply because my property borders on Oregon on all sides, so be it; I've been called worse by him.
However, I don't fancy myself to be an Oregonian because I own property in Oregon. Every landowner on the Oregon side of Happy Camp Road is a former Californian. Owning property in Oregon has nothing to do with being an Oregonian, really. The distinguishable qualification in determining a true Oregonian is that of having been born in Oregon. Otherwise, most of the Oregon residents I know are, well, like people in London, from somewhere else.
As a final clarification, should I need a 'true Oregonian's' opinion, I need go no further than to call my older brother and sister, both of whom were born here in The Beaver State. However, since they were both raised in California, disqualifying them in the eyes of people who were not only born here, but had to grow up here too, I could use one of a hundred other relatives that qualify for both prerequisites, should I be pressed to refine my research.
That said, I think it should now be perfectly clear that these letters carry no authority in regards to what other people in the state of Oregon might be thinking, and further from that still, what may or may not be the opinions of real Oregonians.
Quite honestly these letters do not even originate from Oregon state, but rather from 'the Shack'.

The Old Man

My sister called me today. She had received a call from a potential buyer who she described as an old man with an accent. He was to be driving by my property and getting back to her. My sister was alerting me to watch for him and, if I wanted, I could invite him in and show him around.
I meet the nicest people trying to sell this shack. A lot of nice people would like to buy the shack. The nice people don't have any money.
About 40 minutes later, interrupting my attempt to blank my mind and find another plane, a Toyota Corolla pulled in front of the gate, blocking it, and parked. I watched as an older gentleman with white hair under a tan golf cap exited the car and, sure enough, walked right around the gate and up the driveway. I could see he was old. I tell the story like he moved quickly, but actually the whole procedure was a controlled, careful combination of rather jerky movements that had little fluidity and much determination, and moved him forward at a slow pace while barely bending his knees. Nevertheless, he was halfway up the driveway by the time I went out and introduced myself.
I stuck out my hand and said, "I'm Bradley Austin."
He took my hand and said something that sounded like, "Bran Ray."
I noticed he had an accent, and I said again, "Yes, I'm Bradley Austin." But this time more slowly, so he could pick it up .
Again he mispronounced my name, so a third time I stated it. Maybe he didn't hear well, too.
Then he slowly said in his accented voice so I could hear, "Yes, Mr. Austin, I'm Van Ray."
I think I blushed a little and asked him in. We toured the cabin.
I demonstrated all the amenities, and then I asked, "It's all a man needs, but don't you think it might be a little rough for your wife?"
"Oh, we'll just use it for camping," he said.
"Let me show you the upstairs," I responded.
Upstairs, I invited him to sit in my chair. He sat at my desk and faced to the north.
"Oh yes," he said. "I like the view."
Then he faced me and said, "I have an unusual proposition for you. I'm 90 years old and my wife is 88 years old. We're not going to be around very long and so we thought we'd offer you $10k and then will the property back to you when we die." He continued, "Look, we can't live too much longer. I'm already 90. In these hard economic times we thought you might take the deal."
I smiled at him and said, "You look like you have another 20 years in you at least. I wouldn't want to bet against you."
He answered, "That would make me the oldest man in America, don't be ridiculous."
More than willing to reassure me he would die quickly and I would soon have my property back. Seeing he was earnest and ready to negotiate, I then explained to him why I could not accept his offer. He was disappointed and offered me an additional $100 a month while he was alive. I further explained my business and finally, not wanting to be harsh, I told him I would consider all offers presented in written form. He was encouraged and I saw him out and down the driveway.
Later, relating the story back to my sister, adding that if he was a moll he got all my information, she said, "Maybe... Although he said he lives on Highway 199 by the community college. There is an old folks home there. Maybe he hates it so much he wanted your cabin to escape senior living."
Which made more sense than his story of buying the shack to use for camping. The senior home is only 40 minutes away, he could use it as a base for 'camping'. I have to hand it to the old man, whatever plan he had in his mind, whether it was imagined, unrealistic or not, he still had the gumption to come up here and make a pitch.

Grandchildren

It's all good.
Soon my property will be SOLD. Or not. The idea stirs so many emotions in me I can hardly begin to enumerate them; rootless with a profit; terrified of homelessness; free to simply be a boy and his dog; agile enough to hang with the young; once again unencumbered, and solvent with capability to ______ with the rest of my life. What's the next 5 year plan?
When I left Sacramento I proclaimed to another idiot that "a man can do anything in 5 years if he's capable and smart." The other idiot looked at me like 5 years was a century. He was unaccomplished and younger than I. Looking back 5 years is a blur, but looking ahead it's practically limitless. When I think of the last 27 months and how my world has changed, I wonder how many more lives I have in me? And where will I find the worlds on which to live them?
Of course I could never return to the city or California, because I have passionately declared them either flooded or a desert in the future, so for investment purposes they would be out. I would only return for love, because love overwhelms reason and is always a good investment. See? So point made.
In 5 years I could have a doctorate and be teaching university classes. At the very least earn a masters and be totally immersed in the world of academia. I could do a thesis on comparable similarities between the Han Chinese and the Native Americans tribes along the Pacific Northwest. I could ______. Fueling my desire, that is the question: what still burns hot enough to fire the engines? Nothing, really.
It's sad.
My youth is gone and I realize it could have been better spent. My children are grown and I realize I could have been a better father. My looks are gone and I realize I was flattering myself anyway. I have squandered a small fortune, and would have lost more, but for luck and economic circumstances. And I have a world of choices from which to choose and no passion for anything. Sad.
Grandchildren are the answer. Grandchildren are a second chance. Grandchildren are a great investment. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren are all the future I need, all the love I desire.
Until then, it might be time to learn to sail. I know where there is a dry-docked trimaran as big as the one in Waterworld. Time to ask a price and assimilate a crew. Sail to Italy. Right after I build a new compound in the city in the valley where the two rivers meet.

Days of Rain

Cabin fever season. I haven't left the house for two days. The dog and I had dinner about 13:45 today and I'll probably be in bed about 16:00. The dog only gets up to eat or 'go'. After days of rain, the creek behind the house is a bubbling torrent, polishing the rocks at it's bottom where it has eaten the soft topsoil away and now races downhill. Opening the door to the shack one is greeted with the sound of water gurgling by, and it is both pleasant and reassuring. I like the sound of the rain on the roof too! Cozy! Until the water torture affect comes into play.
The shack is completely closed up inside now, meaning the inside walls are built too, and the insulation is no longer showing. Where the rough edges of the boards meet I've used expanding foam insulation for the chinking. Not only is it attractive, but everyday the place has gotten one step closer to being as 'tight as an egg'. I have to be careful not to overfill the wood burning stove or the house gets too hot.
The rain continues to fall steadily. The creek widens and narrows with the fluctuations in the rainfall, and today the waterfalls have been at their full 12 inches. I need a life. I tried to have one, but the Kings are the worst team in the NBA.
It's a shame we can't know that when we agree to buy "NBA Pass". The hated Lakers are winners again. Life is so unfair. Of course, after the referee went to jail and (beforehand) admitted the 2001 playoffs were rigged (you know the hated Lakers were 'supposed' to win), thus robbing the Kings of their championship, I can't believe in the NBA anymore. It might as well be big time wrestling. Commissioner Stern should be tarred and feathered. Really!
The rain has stopped for a moment. The storm, or this storm, must need to take a breath. The Weather Channel says rain for another five days. I am afraid that life in the mountains is too slow for this urbanite. Is the redwood tree, stationary with nothing to worry about save sun and rain and nutrients in the soil, content to observe the world from its platform for thousands of years? It would be a thousand year torture to me. Thus, not having a thousand years, I no longer feel I have time to hermit in the mountains.
I looked at a large trimaran for the second time last week. I'm not getting any younger, it may be time to see the world. I'm not kidding. Every day I wake up and think, "life is so wonderful ...and so finite." There could never be enough time to share with my sons. There isn't now, and it decreases everyday. I need more freedom to be able to spend more time with you both.

I Could Return

Craig's List has a small house on a third of an acre on 67th street, two blocks from my old compound.

FOR SALE for $125k. That is a $150k difference from my California property selling price 2 and a 1/2 years ago. All the money that was needed to finance all the good and bad choices, extravagance and excess, substance abuse and self abuse that I packed into 20 years. Well, almost enough. Twenty years is a long time.
Now being of moderate income and having sold my residence in the city to retire in the mountains of southern Oregon, I never thought affording a house again in that city in the valley where the two rivers meet (especially one at least as good as the last) would be possible. It would appear, however, that returning to purchase equal or better housing at this point is entirely feasible.
That wouldn't look good to all the people who have read my various posts predicting flood and future deserts for the Valley (not that what others think carries great influence for me; I have watched others "think" while I have lived my entire life). Somewhere between locking yourself in a safe room and running headlong into the train, there is a style for everyone's life.
The winner shares the most love, has the most fun, and lives the fullest life (in my opinion). Since I am still enjoying life and living fully, there in itself is the argument for me. Though it would be better if I was most loved.
Part of me would love to own a home in California again. I love southern Oregon too though. Croco-dog likes the Shack and property.
Anyway, as luck would have it (only luck and the Housing Market moved me at the right time; enabling me to both catch the wave and return with the swell gone), I could return to California and buy a residence. The perk is bills paid, debt resolved, mortgage owed, systems cleaned, and adventure lived; I would be way ahead. Think of what I could have done if I had been on top of the game.
Choices.

The Third Year

Saturday. The Shack in southern Oregon is 2 days away from it's second birthday and the start of year 3. It's raining outside, just as it was two years ago. Unlike two years ago there now is an insulated house with plumbing and hot water, a toilet, a kitchen, and a shower. Life is good, time to sell. Fall is most beautiful here. Deciduous trees mixed in with the Evergreens combine to make a spectacular array of Autumn colors. The waterfalls in back and on both sides of the house are starting to drip, and soon the pond will be full. The firewood is stocked for the first half of winter, and a plan is had for the second half of winter. If I had an oven I'd bake something and Life would be full. I love listening to the rain hit the roof while the house is cozy. Inside the Shack it is a different world than out in the raw wilderness that surrounds it; like a Hobbit hole, with the security and warmth of the fire. I have a Pipe too. In the beginning it's tranquil and serene, after thirty days it's cabin fever. Now though, it's serene.

Sunday. Football. Two years on the Hill complete. It's been raining for four days now. The five day forecast is rain for five more days. The raindrops are softly tapping on the roof, lulling the less wary into forgetting the waters true nature, and force; Erosion. Even the soft tapping becomes monotonous, then aggravating; gently taunting the "cabin fevered" with it's wet reminder that it's raining. I check the Pacific Satellite map at the weather channel website. It will be time for some 'doom and gloom for the valley' predictions soon. Is it sunny and warm today in California?

Monday. Happy Birthday Bradland. It's raining. The weather channel talks about this storm and that storm, in the rain forest the only way to tell is the different temperatures of the rain. Today's has turned cold. This is the fifth day of rain, and the five day forecast calls for five more. Great concealed weapon, weather. I see that Mammoth Mountain in southern California is going to open it's slopes today; no need to ask if it's snowing in the Sierras. The Shack seems to be holding the heat this year. Halleleujah for insulated floors. I'm looking forward to snow on the ground for six weeks this year. It's soundless. Sometimes it all seems worth it. You really have to define 'all' and 'it', and what choices that you have.

2 out of 5

The beginning of November will be the start of my third year here in Oregon. If the progression of the improvements on the property continue at the rate they have the previous two years, by this time next year the shack should be complete. In three more years the place should be paid off, or paid down to less than what you paid for your last car.
Life is good. I'm adapting to the new world and the lifestyle changes. I need a few goats and some chickens, a 'Sea-Land container' filled with MRE's and a ton of rice and beans. A little more ammo and fishing lessons and I'll be ready for the Apocalypse.
The last thirty days I've had caretakers at the house to feed the dog and watch the property: Randy and Jacob. The three of us Insulated underneath the shack, water-sealed the exterior, dug trenches and helped the Plumber plumb the place. It's a whole house now, or at least a whole shack. When we weren't working, or they weren't fishing, I was riding the motorcycle back and forth to California. It was good to have someone watch the dog and guard the property while I rolled a little. But alas, all good things come to an end; last week Randy went to his mother's in Portland. Today Jacob returned to Sacramento. It's back to me and the dog.
It'll be nice to have the shack to myself again for a while, but it will be lonely far too quick.
I look at pictures of my sons and kick myself in the ass for not video recording our every moment together. I try to talk them into coming and living my life with me, but they want their own lives. They are exactly whom I thought they should be in many ways...what the hell did I know? They're Worldly, Educated, the Beneficiaries of learning from my mistakes, I feel like the ultimate loser on Jeopardy around them.
It was a good year. Three more to go, this base will be paid for, and I'll be able to start the next Five year plan: buy a 36 foot sail boat and become a Asia coastal trader for five years while I pay for the Boat. But I won't think about that for the moment...
Don't live for the future, Live for the NOW, you get more done that way. Yours must be a busy, enjoyable world.

Only the Bear does now

There's a Shower, Dishwasher, Sink, and Washer hookup too. The Shack was also water-sealed and insulated underneath this month, which should make Winter MUCH more comfortable than last year.

Say Good bye to the bucket.

The Earth

The first thing I gotta know is why are all the planets round? The Moon is round.The Sun is round.
Why aren't there any square planets? Even rectangular? I mean MASS seems to take every other shape; why are the planets, moons, suns all round? Galileo, Columbus, they questioned the earths squareness and proved themselves right; making history in the proces. So I say, "The secret to the universe is the secret of why is everything round." Firstly, I was thinking about the Earth though. I was thinking about how the Earth and the other planets go around the Sun (SEE, there it is again). I was thinking that as the Sun burns, it must lose weight so, inevitably, it's suction would decrease and the planets, one by one, starting with planet #9 (Pluto, Uranus?) would drift off and be lost in space. This is nothing to be alarmed about; the Earth has no idea where it is in relation to 'outer-space' anyway. Lost from where? As long as Earth kept spinning, (keeping the atmosphere around it, right?) the Earth could be like the biggest cruise ship ever! Never mind the heating problems. Spaceball. Stellar road trip. Why does the Earth spin? The spinning is necessary, but who thought of making the place spin to retain it's excretions and create atmosphere?
I was thinking about the Black hole thing too. I don't understand how we could be sucked into a hole though. I mean we revolve around the Sun because of its mass. When the mass is burned until consumed won't we be free of the pull? There shouldn't be any vacuum created when the Sun collapses, right? So... what's up? I think it's Pinball Earth. And then what? It's all such a delicate balance of things. Maybe we'll end up somewhere where there are square planets. But, today's burning questions are, 'Why are the planets and moons and suns ALL round?' And spinning. Are they all spinning? Are the answers to these questions known?
Forget the Black hole stuff. I don't understand it so it can't be real. I know people who solves life's questions like that so I thought I'd try it. Doesn't work for me though. Still thinking...

American Terror

Have you seen…

Zeitgeist?
9/11 revisited?
The God delusion?
The Sun of God?

The Shack is twenty months old now. In that twenty months I have had the time, and in some aspects was forced, to examine myself, life, death, etc. It has not all been pleasant.
In admitting my own mistakes to myself, and reconciling to the idea you can never go back, that the first fifty years are gone, I was forced to shed old lies and accept new truths. Partially due to this process of growing up (something I had neglected to do in my first fifty years of living, and still have trouble with), I came to the realization that instead of becoming more conservative in my thought as I grow older, holding on to what I know, I am becoming more open minded. More willing to consider ideas that don't mirror my own. Instead of just calling bullshit, I'll look, read, consider before I call bullshit now.
I was more rigid in my parameters of tolerance in thought at twenty-five then I am at fifty-two, I was more ignorant at twenty-five.
Easier for me to change than others, I imagine. I was raised without religion, had no real expectations to live up to, lived day to day, hand to mouth most of my life, and believe strongly in nothing. I witnessed life in the drug culture for twenty years too, so obviously I had some mental adjustments to make. My convictions are few, but my patriotism is strong.
My family has been in this country since the late 1600's. I spent six years in the Army. So, we’ve established that the USA is my country, and I am a charter member patriot.
In the last eight years this country has been hijacked for the private interests of the ultra rich. It is a great country and my home. Unfortunately, it’s being driven not by the will of the people, but by the greed of a few. Elitists who think, despite what the masses want, that they know best. And what is best usually includes a large profit for them. That is not Democracy, but a facade of oligarchy.
Watch 9/11 re-visited.
Watch Zeitgeist.
I'm convinced The US government are the terrorists.
Take the war in Iraq. The American people were willing to stop Saddam Hussein from having WMD. But occupation? Here it is years later and our leaders are giving us every reason in the world to continue their policies, i.e.: Al Qaeda in Iraq, Iraqi Independence, The War on Terror… it's like a Star Trek series where in the Universe’s infinity the dangers are never ending.
Now that Iraq has it's new puppet Government, the problem is now in Afghanistan, coincidently along the pipeline route. And the War on Terror continues. Except, IT'S ALL BULLSHIT.
We are the terrorists.
We have taken Russia's place in Afghanistan, the same place we denounced them for taking from 1979-1989. The Taliban are the same as they were then, except now they're the bad guys fighting the good foreign invader? I'll say it again, we don't need permanent fortresses along that pipeline to search and destroy Al Qaeda (The news 08DEC07).
Watch Zeitgeist, America is being fed a line. The American Army is fighting so Profits can be made on a pipeline to supply INDIA. I don't give a fuck about Indian Markets. Do you?
And the elitists don't give a rat’s ass about a country, or people, or the average man. Money lives where life is best, so money doesn't care if a few hundred thousand people die, if countries are ravaged, if the poor starve, etc. Money won't be in the neighbourhood, just profits. The fact that it is a country other than America doesn't make it right (The Aliens 12JUL08). Even if they are American companies, or the American Army, exploitation is exploitation and imperialism is imperialism.
Enter my neighbor, a local schoolteacher and resident of Southern Oregon since the 70's. An intellectual. I think he can't resist opening minds and eyes, but he has successfully changed my outlook on some things by simply saying, “Hey, watch this.”
Those four titles above are great food for thought. Especially Zeitgeist and 9/11 Revisited. You can Google all four.... Zeitgeist has no picture the first two minutes, just words from the Dahli monk.
Now, most American’s live comfortably, myself included, but what am I willing to allow my country to do in order to make this the best place in the world to live? At the very least I want to know the truth.
I honestly cannot look at people who think those planes brought the WTC down without feelings of disgust for their ignorance.
I always felt these religious fanatics (Jihadists, Christian warriors etc) were brainwashed fools, but after Zeitgeist and the God Delusion I realize that I was a fool too. I am ashamed of my own ignorance and lack of education (part of the remorse for having screwed around for twenty years in the drug culture).
People here in the State of Jefferson question everything. Oregon is the most atheist state in the union. Fewest Catholics and Baptists. Independent Voters. This is Ron Paul country (probably due to his platform to repeal the income tax (there is a lot of non-taxable income in this area)). It is fertile soil for alternative lifestyles and ways of thinking, good and bad. Who knows what my mental makeup will be after a few more months?

The Takilma Tree House Party

I got up on the 5 July and my face hurt from smiling so much the night before. Next year you should come to the Treehouse Independence day Party here in Takilma, State of Jefferson, on the south base of Hope Mountain, opposite the north base of my home.

It all started innocent enough on the 3 July. Jeff asked me, "What ya doin' on the Fourth?”
I started to give him a brief itinerary for my weekend when he interrupted me and said, "You should go out to the treehouses in Takilma." Jeff knows I live opposite the infamous hippie settlement of the seventies.
"The treehouses?"
"Oh yeah, Man, you'll dig it, the whole community goes out there. There's live music, fireworks, food… it's a party, man. You should go." Jeff isn't exactly a party animal; a health nut with two teenage sons and a pre-teenage daughter, owner of the prominent Chevron station for the last twenty five years, he's a pillar of the community, so I naturally figured the ‘treehouse party’ would be a respectable family affair, for the most part.
I ran into another buddy of mine, Dave, that afternoon too. Dave carves bears and wizards and such, from cedar logs with a chain saw. He lives in a camp trailer on part of his sister's lot at the four corners (where my road and Takilma Road intersect). Toothless, wild and rambling, Dave’s a party animal. As I passed his place on the way home he hailed me over and asked me, "Hey, whatta you doin' on the Fourth?” Before I could answer he continued, "You should go to the treehouses. Man, you'll have a good time!
“Everybody will be there, man, you gotta go."
My phone rang on the morning of the Fourth. It was Devon, another buddy of mine. He owns a caravan park in Cave Junction. Devon is a businessman and a party animal. He loves women, being too loud, having too much fun, and drinking too much. At six foot seven and two hundred and seventy pounds, he’s a giant of a man. His best friend Jessie is two inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier.
So, Devon calls me on the morning of the Fourth and said, "We're going to the Treehouses for a party tonight, we'll be by to get you at six".
I said, " Have you been there before?"
Devon replied, " No, but everybody says it's a party, so you should go too."
Devon's only been in town about six months longer than I have and at thirty years old and single he's always on the hunt for love and a thrill. Twenty years older than he and Jessie, I didn't have their enthusiasm for a party, but after the third 'you should go’ I was beginning to feel like the community was waiting to meet me and I should go. Especially intriguing was the vast difference in the people who recommended my going.
Takilma has a reputation for being an ex-hippie haven/refuge, pot farming community on the Oregon/California border where the only way into the mountains and the California part of the valley, is through Oregon. Local law enforcement avoids the place. One road in, one road out. No radio, no cell service, no strangers. If there is a ‘State of Jefferson’, Takilma and the southern side of the mountain is the rebel base. The helicopter spends a lot more time over there...
The boys arrived about an hour late. Prelude to the party, and we were on the way. We were Happy.
The treehouses are just a few miles in on Takilma road. You can google 'Out 'n About', or 'Takilma Treehouses', and take a virtual tour.
Before the sun went down ‘the party” was a picnic, barbecue, and family affair. A cross between Golden Gate Park circa 1969, and The Renaissance fair at Black Oak Forest in Novato. Games, food, vendors, treehouses, and ropewalks. Ale, beer. wine, women and song. Mushroom tea... pungent smells in the air. Open laughter and pipe sharing. There was a country band and a few dancers. At least a couple of thousand people. It was Woodstock 2008 on a smaller scale. Everybody was friendly and COOL. The Party was an excellent representation of the community. I felt good to be part of the microcosm.
While were standing around drinking, eating and admiring other people's wives and girlfriends, a young lady suddenly dropped to the ground not ten feet away and started flopping like a fish on dry ground. Everybody was shocked. Her friends were frozen. She was about twenty-five and everyone just stood and watched as she wriggled in the brown dirt.
Moments into the drama, as the girl's color started to change I moved over to her. Holding her head still, I could she was biting her tongue. It was already bleeding. I yelled for a stick to put between her teeth. I forced enough of my thumbs between her teeth to release her tongue, and at that moment a young man with dreadlocks shoved an index finger size stick between her teeth.
I calmly told her to relax, she'd be okay. She was incoherent. I still kept repeating, "You'll be ok, just relax, you'll be ok."
Suddenly, her eyes met mine and she was back. I could see she was confused and scared. I told her, "You're gonna be fine." A security person arrived. They had called an ambulance for the girl and asked everyone to back up and for the young lady to remain still. I walked back over to the boys.
Scott handed me a beer. "You saved her life, man."
"Yeaaahhhhhhhh, kinda changed the mood for a minute though, didn't it?'"
I looked in the ice chest for the rest of the mushroom tea. Motherf*****s drank it while I was being a hero! Oh well... Devon had bought two red cups of 'tea’ and him, Jessie and Scott had split one. Then Devon handed me the second for myself. I decided I'd watch the boys for a while and stick to ale until I could see how they fared. I was about half way through the juice when the girl had started to flop. I never did find out what went wrong.
As the sun set the fireworks started. There was a water truck and the display was done over a large meadow. No fire danger here I guess. The party was lit up for about an hour. I was impressed. While the fireworks display went on, the bands changed. As the display ended the bass player started to rumble. A young man with dreadlocks started a rhythmic chant; suddenly the singer yelled, “Are you listening Takilma?" The saxophonist let loose with a long drawn out note, and the party started moving toward the stage. There were a lot of those red cups around. The reggae was top notch.
During the second song the saxophonist started throwing finger size joints out into the crowd. It got smoky. The crowd found some rhythm and got their hands above their heads. The band was hot. The singer yelled something about the State of Jefferson tonight. The crowd got cooler, younger, and happier. The whole place was moving with the groove. I couldn't stop smiling. It was a Freedom thing. The band played for three hours without a break. They did it again the next night, too. It was all good. Next year...............
Are you one of us, or one of them?

Bring Money

The last six months I was in the Military, the Army allowed me to wear civilian clothes and attend Methodist College in Fayetteville, North Carolina. The military was pushing College degrees, and if you (the individual soldier) were within one semester of obtaining one, Fort Bragg would release you from all duties to attend school at Methodist to obtain it. The College was all for the program; Uncle Sugar was paying all the fees and the College was growing like the troops were feeding it Miracle-grow.
While attending this fine institute of learning, I was assigned to read a story about a poor women living with three lazy sons, a slovenly husband, and a pack of dogs the men kept, which, along with the men, the woman was responsible for feeding. The woman had married the man, bore him sons, and then spent her life laboring for them. The men were demanding, ungrateful, and thoughtless. Even the dogs would howl and whine if they weren't fed on time. One cold evening, tired, old, and worn out, the old women began to trudge the mile and a half through the soft snow home from the grocer. The wind had picked up a little, and she was having trouble keeping her top coat button buttoned, a bag of groceries in each arm. Halfway home the dogs, hungry and impatient for dinner, came searching to hurry her. At home the men grumbled about a late dinner. And there in the snow, as the old women stopped to rest for a moment, she closed her eyes, and never opened them again. The dogs, sniffing the food, tore the bags open and feasted, afterward returning home. The old women spent her life, and last moments, for dogs.
I tell this story because BooBoo, my nephew's dog (Dogs 03Apr08), is soon to arrive from the city and I'm feeling a lot like the old lady in the story (my oldest son dropped a dog on me himself and then skipped off to Europe for life, seemingly).
Bring money nephew. Lots of it because I'm eight days from payday, and I got twelve dollars, four days worth of food, no gas, no grass, no ass, and I ain't looking forward to another dog I can't afford to feed.

Terracing the Property

My neighbor deopped by today with just the thing you need to turn 10 acres of Shack land in the southern Oregon mountains into something refined and a great deal more 'Europeanesque'. Anyway, he worked on my driveway for a while.

Notice my partner in the foreground? Croco-dog.

The Result of Being Lazy

That's what these literary outburst of ignorance are; the result of my being too lazy to work around the property laboriously, and maybe also no money for materials. That means no money to eat out, drink in bars, ride my motorcycle, cruise aimlessly around being bored or travel… none of the good shit. So I write to occupy my time. But even that isn't easy.
Another result of being lazy is I lack the vocabulary it takes to fully express my deep, complicated, often emotional perspectives on the world around me. As I said before (I Can Write Too 12Nov07), although my vocabulary is not in the league of a senior classman at Berkeley. It dooooonnn't matter, I should practice ‘PLEASE’ and ‘THANK YOU’ more (and place less emphasis on ‘aahhhh fuuuuuuuck it’ and ‘it don't matter’).
But it does matter. You could put my vocabulary inside my sons two or three times now. They taught themselves everything they know, academically speaking, over the last twenty years while I was lazy. Now, grown, intellectual, educated, possessing reflections on the world capable to those with great minds, I can only hope to understand them and converse on their level.

What is the African Proverb?
When the sun rises in Africa the fastest lion knows that he has to be faster than the slowest gazelle otherwise he ain’t going to eat.
When the sun rises in Africa the slowest gazelle knows that he has to be faster than the fastest Lion otherwise he ain’t going to live.
In other words, it doesn't matter, Lion or Gazelle, when that sun comes up, your ass better be running.

In the human world though, with enough food and without the fear of being eaten, one's conscious becomes the a slow old lion. And that sun still comes up every day and, academically and intellectually, I've been lazy for twenty years. I don’t rest easy to my sons eating me alive, now. But its the consequence of being lazy.
Another result of being lazy is not being well read enough to expertly and authoritatively expound on my ideas. Like this morning I was drinking coffee and thinking about St. Peter at the Golden Gate, then I realized is all I could remember is he stands guard at the Golden Gate (not in the Bay Area (don't be silly)).
So... I googled ‘St. Peter at the Golden Gate’, and sure enough there it was; every website mentioned guarding the Golden Gate. And that's the part that got me to thinking...
It would seem to me that if there wasn't any way to sneak into Heaven, they wouldn't need a guard. Therefore, since there is a guard, you must be able to sneak into heaven. And that opens up all kinds of avenues of thought.
Remember the saying, ‘May you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you're dead’? Well, maybe the Irishman that made it up knew something we don't. Like there's a little lag time between this world and that gate where a guy could get ‘lost’. Or, maybe if you can beat your files there, you can slip past ol' St Peter before he finds out you don't have a clean slate.
It sounds good to me, but logistically there is still that initial problem of how to get to the Gate. It reminds me of a few years back when those people rented that house on the Oceanside so they could have a party with Wine and Sleeping pills, then they suffocated themselves in order to catch Haley's comet and go to Heaven. I could never figure out why, if they could jump to Haley’s comet, couldn't they leap all the way to Heaven? Why screw around with a layover? If I want to beat the Devil by a half hour, I better leap direct!
Anyway, all of this bullshit is a result of being lazy. Not forcing myself to do anything other then look out the window and wave to the people stopping to look. When I'm not waving, the keyboard is right in front of my hands and so I write.
I should appreciate the last of this time in the shack. If the number of cars slow rolling by, and those that stop to take flyers from the container are any indicator, I will be moving soon. Even writing it saddens me. I could be lazy here forever, if only it wasn't Hell Explained.
Work, work, work; makes you feel good, good, good (Grandpa Bud).

The Buyers

Sons,
I woke up this morning with a stomach ache. The same stomach ache I have every morning. It's worse lately. I went back to bed, slept in till almost eleven o'clock, maybe later. I don't know what time it was, really, when I got up to make coffee and start a fire. I stepped outside to grab a little kindling; it was then I thought I heard someone call "hellooooo".
I even called "hellooooooo" back, but hearing no reply, and having collected the kindling, I went back inside to start the morning routine.
I even chuckled at myself; hearing voices.
I do have visitors. This month alone there were the Canadian Honkers, The wild Turkey, Grey Mule deer daily, and everybody whom drives by for the first time will take pictures, or stop to admire the shack. I might start taking pictures of the people taking pictures. And I've been to the city in the valley where the two rivers meet twice in May, and up to Oregon city (by Portland) visiting this month. I'm not lonely enough to be hearing voices.
But there it was again..."helloooooooo".
This time when I looked up, there they were; two women standing in the driveway, looking at the glass shack, cooing "helloooooooo", and probably wondering if there was life behind the mirrors.
COMPANY!
I could hardly get my shoes on fast enough. I recognized them. Potential BUYERS.
(Who the hell else could they be? I'm not exactly in the right area for a neighborhood stroll, unless you're a bear, and I can't remember the last time a damsel in distress didn't smell of liquor or worse. On the fringe of the wilderness, here, it's worse. No, they were looking for property; they had the mannerisms of not wanting to intrude, but being curious. The younger hung back a little as they approached, uncertain if they would be welcome (WELCOME? They were invited to breakfast!).
After exchanging introductions, we talked about southern Oregon, and myself, and the weather here, etc (of course, as you are aware, I can talk). One of the ladies asked me why I was selling. I replied, only half honestly, because I don't have any idea where the next adventure takes me. "I was thinking of going to China to teach English."
And then the MAGIC started. One has to be careful with MAGIC. The main ingredient is Illusion. The younger women replied, "Oh, I just graduated from the University of Southern California. My major was Chinese-Mandarin. My mom taught English in Taiwan.
Speaking Chinese, I asked if she spoke Mandarin, when she replied in Mandarin it was like the lightening bolt. I invited them in.
(It is often noted by those who have studied a foreign language, the difference it makes breaking down barriers, when you speak another’s language. I.e. entering a shop in Chinatown San Francisco, or a Chinese owned shop in London, The moment I speak Chinese everything changes; I'm a friend, we have something in common. I'm looked at, spoken to, treated entirely different then a common 'ugly American'. When the young woman spoke to me in Chinese, everything changed. We all seemed to relax; it was no longer ‘business’. It was business with someone you like.
I showed them the inside of the house. I told them stories. We talked about what they were looking for in land and purpose. I talked too much, listened too little. I enjoyed their company immensely. After seeing the house, and politely keeping me company, the ladies asked to see the springs. We hiked the hill and saw the springs. I never shut up, and they never seemed bored. I had fun.
When I looked at my watch after walking them out the gate, it was 4:30. By my estimate those ladies had spent 4 hours visiting with me. It was no wonder their ears were turning blue when they left. I hope they enjoyed themselves as mush as I did.
But now, the analysis.
Being who I am, I had to consider: what are the chances of two Mandarin speaking, American born, round eyed women, showing up at my property as potential buyers? Just being potential buyers weans the numbers way down, and drives the odds conversely up. And speaking Chinese as a second language too? Lastly, how did four hours go by? Maybe they found the circumstances as compelling as I did. That's doubtful, and I love to talk.
The whole thing was MAGICAL. Unexplainable. Illusion: I should be so interesting, they should be so interested. Like the THUNDERBOLT. I had fun, but never forget, "the male ego can make anything reality" and so I have to wonder, and considering the odds, I must ask, who were they really? Is the world really that small? Oh well, another day in southern Oregon, but this one escaped much too quickly.

Dogs

My nephew called me today. He said it was about time to bring his dog up here to live, that BooBoo (the dog) had shit on the floor for the third day in a row and he was done with her. I considered whether or not living with two dogs rather than one would make me less lonely. I decided not, so I made my nephew a better offer: I told him the dog could come and live with me if he came too!

On the surface it looks like a selfish offer, I know: I want company. Actually it is a very generous offer when you consider THE TURMOIL OF YOUTH, and that he has to find a new "place" in thirty days

See, I'd have company (probably be tired of his ass in three days, he's always tired of me after 72 hours), but he'd get to keep his dog, and he'd get free rent, and he'd get a stable home for him and his dog, and all without a deposit, first and last, and references. He wouldn't have to falsify income either. He would have to get a job. Remember all those hassles?

I got up today lonely. I'm tired of having nothing to do but work and no one to share my misery with. I've been home two days from Sacramento. I miss many things. Friends. Family. Wife. The weather: Sacramento is a paradise weather-wise. I think one has to live elsewhere from the valley to realize how comfortable it is. I discussed Sacramento with my mother. Her leaving Sacramento after fifty years and moving to Grants Pass was really a return to her home: She grew up on a farm outside of Myrtle Creek, Oregon. She's very happy with her move. I grew up in Sacramento. I'm lonely.

Mom will be eighty years old this July. She's joined the Grants Pass garden club, a church, a widows group. She wants to make friends and have a full life. I am invited to meet people. I decline. I have no interest. I languish in my loneliness and make little effort to resolve the problem. It is not people I miss.

It has been below freezing every night here. I still build a fire every day to take the chill out of the air. There is a lot of work involved when one lives in the mountains. Especially in a cabin that still needs the plumbing and is heated by a wood burning stove. Spring is so wonderful.Summer will be better.

I think about my next move: Should I look for property in the mountains I can pay cash for, then rent a place in Sacramento? or re-invest in the valley and return to the city? or go to China and teach for a while? I'll have to SELL first, and China is out because I have a dog. I can't give Shep up, we're partners!

My nephew's call reminds me of why I moved to the Mountains in the first place: I could no longer afford my home in the city but I absolutely needed a base , a home, stability, a sanctuary with a yard for the dog. It terrified me to think of being a renter while I watched the rest of my assets disappear ( fools and money, I knew I needed to re-invest, quickly). I remember being homeless, money in the bank didn't negate the fears, Those six weeks before I found Happy Camp road were horrid!

Happy Camp road is still all it was before: I realize it's Hell Explained that is making life not worth living...............Google will take you there if you don't understand : It's really a question of here or her. And if it's not her then China may be the answer, in which case this will be a great place to return to. Maybe I should take BooBoo for Shep?

The Day Before Payday

It's the day before payday. I had left over meatloaf for breakfast. My first cup of coffee had milk and sugar in it; all the creamer is gone, now the milk is too. I'm out of bread and eggs, Pepsi, bagels, cheese, and chocolate milk also. From this point the list becomes infinite, suffice to say, payday will arrive none too soon.
Life is so wonderful. Living in thirty day cycles within five year goals isn't so great, but every day an inch. I feel like the goal-less worm. It will happen and I will get there. Don't ask where, if you think about our ultimate destination, inching towards it is much too fast. Just another five years, ten or fifteen times will do, maybe. I was looking for one hundred and five but the closer I get, the better one hundred and fifty looks. I need more time to get things right. If 'only the good die young', isn't that like a war-cry for misbehaving? Do only the wicked get old, or only after avoiding dying young do they repent and become good old people?
Is John McBush really a war-monger? Does Hillary Clinton realize that her idea and description of dodging bullets in Bosnia is an insult to service people who have served under-fire? Does Hillary Clinton know? Hillary will never know what it is like to be a black man in a society and culture controlled by rich white people. Hillary will never know what it is to be a poor, bald man without a Harvard education, living in a shack, in a society and culture controlled by rich white people. Barack Obama will never know what it's like to be from Arkansas either, or a woman; or married to Bill. Hell, I can never know a lot of things that being me inherently prohibits. I can only imagine what being married to me would be like.
Sounds to me like black churches lay a double whammy on their followers; the only way to heaven is through the Son (inclusive/exclusive), and you better stay strong with God to fight white supremacy. That means coming to Church to get your lessons in divisiveness. What we really need is a 9/11 in space with an alien Al Qaeda that is bright-green and has three arms. That would give everybody a common enemy. Earthling or not! I'm glad I got this out today, cos tomorrow I'll have money and no time for this bullshit.

A Note to My Oldest Son

What's up Son,
Have you no opinion on American politics? Perfectly fine really, I know nothing about Britain except everybody in London is from somewhere else, and you can meet women from everywhere in the world and never leave the city limits. Oh, and look right or die, 'cause that's the direction from which traffic approaches! Find a good bakery for coffee and a foreign girl, (since I'm a foreigner in London) and it's a hook.
Woke up to snow flakes this morning. Cold. Winter doesn't want to release the mountains from it's grip. When the sun comes out Spring warmth is in it's light though. Meanwhile I'm forced to cut firewood daily to keep warm. Exercise. Next year I'll stock 10 cord of wood, not 2. I can deal with the solitude as long as there is food and firewood in the house. The basics; food, shelter, warmth. Love, laughter, music.
Perverted perceptions of the basics are wrong; green bud and easy money were not part of the original formula. Sugar babies weren't either. I slept with several last night in the pocket of my pajamas. During the night they slipped out of my pocket and proceeded to glue me to the bed. They were still good eating after being removed with a pocketknife. Like honey. The perfect food.
Your cousin got a 60 day notice to move out of the trailer. His dad agreed, and he's got 30 days left and not a clue. It's bite the bullet and grow up for your cousin. I might bring him to southern Oregon as an indentured laborer.
I figure your cousin, Carlos, you and me and it'll be THE PONDEROSA! BonannnnnnnZaaaaaaa!