High On Weed

It's July, 2013 and my wife Cora and I are taking a driving trip through Northern California and into Oregon.  Weed, California was our stopover on the way to Oregon. 

We pulled into Weed, California a little after 10 at night.  It was a five hour drive from the Bay Area in scorching heat and we’d decided that getting to our destination held more appeal than food.  Motel 6 never looked so good.  I was perfectly happy to shower and call it a night but Cora wanted dinner.  The desk clerk told us that the choices were the fast food joints a couple exits down the interstate or a place a few blocks down the road called the Hi Lo Café.

A Recollection of Fishing

I got up that Sunday morning a little after 5 o'clock.  During these long summer days it’s more or less my usual time.  Has to be early.  It’s the only time I can take my dog Rainey for a run.  Rainey is day blind; can’t see the paw in front of her nose once the sun starts to peek out so we have to hit it while it’s still dark.  And so when I staggered out of bed Rainey jumped out of her's, did her happy laps around the bedroom while I shushed her lest she wake the little woman and then she rumbled down the stairs. 

“Sorry Rainey, I’ll let you out to do your business but then it’s back to bed."  She wasn't getting it yet.  While she was outside I crawled into my clothes and threw the camp chairs into the truck.  Rainey came back inside, wagging her hind quarters expecting me to grab the leash until I sent her up the stairs.  “Back to bed girl,” as she sulked up the stairs

The 300 Pound Cavalryman and Other Oddities; Secrets of a Reenactor

Our Civil War reenactment group had a cavalry trooper who weighed at least 300 pounds if he weighed an ounce.  (When he signed on he signed on as a “non-combatant).  In reality there were no plus sized troopers (Save overfed officers I suppose).   It shouldn't come as a shock that the main ingredient in the cavalry was not the man; it was the horse (The origin of cavalry is from the Italian word cavallo meaning horse).  Haven’t I often said in this blog that it’s always about money and not people?  Wasn't any different in 1863 when the horse was the valuable piece of equipment that the War Department wouldn't have wanted burdened by a rider with an out sized boiler. At 6'1" and 185 pounds I myself would have been a mid-19th century oddity.  People were just smaller then. 

Joining Mr. Lincoln's Army

What was it, the early 90’s when I saw my first Civil War reenactment?  Must have been the very early 90’s; maybe the late 80’s.  That's it; 1989.  When I heard that such things existed I thought, my God, where have they been all my life.  I’d gone through nearly 40 years and missed these things?

The National Civil War Association held the event on Memorial Day weekend near Felton in the Santa Cruz Mountains.  Revisiting 1863 in the hills that look down on the Silicon Valley.  There was some irony.  As we approached the site we were met by a sentry in the woolen blue of a Union infantryman.  Oh my, I thought, what a wonderful place!  I'd found a history buff's nirvana.

A Day in Virginia; Circa 1863

The American Civil War is arguably the most important event in the nation's history.  It's been written that "everything in American history leading up to 1860 was a cause of the Civil War and everything that has happened since was caused by the Civil War."  An overstatement? Perhaps, but not by much.  And so on these days surrounding Memorial Day, which began in response to The Civil War and as the nation commemorates the sesquicentennial of that conflict I'm devoting a series of blogs to some observations of The American Civil War; then and now.  

There’s a chinkle of spurs and the crunch of boot heels on the dry, rocky sun bleached path.  The creaking of leather is slightly audible beneath the jangling of sabers that hang from their belts and the Sharps carbines slung over their backs.  Some stray civilians wander into the area and stop to point at the three as they stride with purpose along the uneven lane.  The trio is clad in blue wool jackets trimmed in yellow and fastened with a row of dull brass buttons.  Their trousers, also of wool are light blue, tucked into knee high black boots that wear a layer of gray dust.  Each man wears on his left hip a large .44 caliber revolver, the brown handle peeking out from a black flapped holster.  Two of the men have full beards, the third wears the rough stubble of a few days growth.  Their faces are splotched with dirt and their eyes, heavy and weary from lack of sleep are barely shaded from the morning sun by the leather brims of their caps. Woolen, worn, and grimy, each cap bears the crossed saber insignia that designate them as cavalrymen.  One of the three sips coffee from a beaten old tin cup while another takes an occasional pull from a blue, fabric covered canteen.  The three talk among themselves and occasionally one acknowledges a greeting from a curious onlooker. 

The Civil War Turns 150

As we prepare to commemorate another Memorial Day it occurs to me that we are in the process of marking the 150^th anniversary of the events that led to the creation of Memorial Day; The American Civil War. Many Americans are likely not aware that it was 150 years ago that their nation was sundered; torn apart by the politics of slavery and the clashing of two cultures which could no long coexist in this young, growing and developing nation.

Defining Mom

Under her pillow she keeps rosary beads and a life guard’s tank top.  In the darkness before drifting off  I can sometimes hear the clicking of the beads.  Her prayers include petitions for her children and grandchildren.  Not because they're wayward lambs.  She simply asks for God to guide and protect them.  For her, channeling God's love to her children and grandchildren is the best way that she can care for them.  The tank top is her daughter’s.  It found its way under the pillow when our daughter left home for college in San Diego.  Jessica long ago graduated and is now living a short 15 minute drive away with two children of her own, but the shirt remains.  I suppose it’s her way of staying close to her daughter and a reminder of the days when Jessica lived here and filled the home with the ever alternating joys and maddening drama of a teenaged girl.