Ray on the Beam

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Today's Heading: Homestead Valley and the Nez Perce War of 1877
Sub Heading: Huh?

Near four o'clock on a gloomy, slate gray afternoon in 1930 about ten
miles from the Snake River in southern Idaho, the first snow of the season
had begun its softly fall from a low-hanging slate-gray sky. A singular
adventure continued unfolding in a tidy but not very well illuminated
little bungalow on 4th Street South. The doctor had just given my mother a
mild dose of chloroform to still the pain somewhat when my auntie
Elizabeth, a Registered Nurse, handed him the obstetric forceps and he
began the tug that brought me and my squashed little head into the world,
fretting, even then. And in that instant the flag of the United States of
America claimed me as its own.
All catch a breath now, because here we go.
I was born in Idaho because my ancestors had migrated into the American
West and prospered, (more or less – that is, they eked out a living) on
land that had been taken from the original inhabitants by means and
methods that I as an adult have come to disapprove of, but which are
glorified in the American Flag and much admired by others.
I don't know much about, nor do I care much about, my ancestors beyond
several generations back. But I was personally acquainted with all four of
my grandparents and I still believe each of them loved me in their own
special way. Of particular significance to me now were two ancestors. One
was my paternal grandfather, C.A. Powell, who died in 1937 near the eve of
his 80th birthday, while I was still six years old. I remember him well,
his bald head and walrus mustache, his kind voice and oh so warm hands
that held mine in our walks around town. He had been born in Missouri in
1857. I was well into adult years when the realization stormed over me
that he was 19 years old when George Armstrong Custer went into history at
the Battle of the Little Big Horn in 1876. (Hey, Man, that ain't ancient
history!)
On my father's side of the family the most important figure in my
adulthood orientation is his grandmother, one of my paternal
great-grandmothers, and as far as I am concerned the matriarch of the
Western Branch of this particular family named Cook: Elizabeth Adeline
Cook, 1832-1916. Now (I believe the expression is) "we cut to the chase."
She died in 1916 – IN OREGON – though she had been born somewhere in the
MIDWEST. She and her brood had migrated into OREGON seeking a better life,
on land that had been "taken from the original inhabitants by means and
methods that I as an adult have come to disapprove of, but which are
glorified in the American Flag and much admired by others." She died in
1916 in Wallowa, then a small town in the divinely beautiful northeast
corner of Oregon, and still a small town in the divinely beautiful
northeast corner of Oregon. In the county of Wallowa. The homeland of the
Nez Perce Indians, who were sanitized by the United States Army in what
our history books record as "The Nez Perce War of 1877." (Check it out on
the internet. It's important to this blog.) In 1989 I finally located her
unmarked grave and eventually had a small monument placed on it:
"Elizabeth Adeline Cook; March 30 1832 – July 7 1916; Age 84 yrs 3 mo
7 days; Placed By Her Descendants July 1998."
So What?? So this: Her grave is in a bucolic cemetery situated across
the road from the Nez Perce Cultural Center that was established a few
years ago on the outskirts of Wallowa. The Indians have come home. My
great-grandmother and the Spirit of Chief Joseph share the Primal Dust
within shouting distance of each other. (I'm too old to know anything
about Google Earth, but if you can get it to work and you're interested in
northeast Oregon, check out Wallowa County, particularly the towns of
Wallow, Joseph and Enterprise. This was the Nez Perce heartland. To the
Chamber of Commerce it has become "the Switzerland of North America.")
Here the impatient reader should be heartened to learn that I'm about to
turn the corner and "head for HOMESTESAD" with this story. But first this
brief, and very important digression:
The "Big Hole National Battlefield" is a site is in an astonishingly
serene valley in the Bitterroot Mountains of western Montana that is
administered by the National Park Service, which commemorates certain
events of August 9 and 10, 1877, when elements of the 7th U.S. Cavalry
under the command of Col. John Gibbon ambushed nearly 800 Nez Perce
Indians who had refused to be interned at a small reservation and were
resting in their flight to Canada, where they hoped once and for all to
find their freedom from reservations. (Some historians would probably
argue that they really were terrorists who really wanted to hook up with
Sitting Bull who had fled to Canada after wiping out Custer the year
before at the Battle of the Little Big Horn and that together they would
plot to overthrow the government, or something like that.) Col. Gibbons
and his men had found them during the night and attacked just before dawn
as the Indians Slept. The quotation that follows is from a booklet I
purchased at the Big Hole National Battlefield a few years ago, entitled,
'Guide to the Trails at Big Hole National Battlefield' : "In their
initial charge, the soldiers under the command of Captain Sanno stopped
about 180 feet from the edge of the camp. The men fired two volleys into
the Camp before rushing among the teepees. One of the first teepees they
encountered was a maternity lodge occupied by a woman, her newly born
baby, and her midwife. Yellow Wolf later returned to the Big Hole valley
and recalled: "This teepee here was standing and silent. Inside we found
the two women lying in their blankets dead. Both had been shot. The mother
had her newborn baby in her arms. Its head had been smashed, as by a gun
breech or a boot heel."
The "Nez Perce War of 1877" is summarized thus by the National Park
Service, Department of the Interior, in the "Big Hole National
Battlefield" brochure: "The Nez Perce War was a result of cultural
conflicts. As the United States expanded westward the settlers felt it was
their MANIFEST DESTINY to take the land. (emphasis added. ed.) The Nez
Perce hoped only to preserve theirs. The war seemed unavoidable. It is a
dramatic example of the price paid in human lives for the westward
expansion of our nation….Sixty to ninety members of the tribe had been
killed, only about thirty of whom were warriors; the rest were women,
children and old people. Seven enlisted men were awarded the Congressional
Medal Honor. The officers received promotions. Colonel John Gibbon retired
in 1891 as a Brigadier General."

Now. Finally – Home – to HOMESTEAD VALLEY !! And to Manifest Destiny
revisited. The play goes on. Only with a different cast, and this time
we're the Indians.

Holiday blessings,

Ray Cook

Growing Old in Homestead

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Today's title: Battered and Bloody, but Unbowed.
Subtitle: Growing Old in Homestead

I'm swallowing hard right now so as not to sound ungrateful, because I
suppose that compared with fellow inhabitants in most of the world I
should not be ungrateful. And I'm not. BUT- when I perceive inequities
growing around me like a cancer I become concerned and cannot restrain the
urge to suggest that those who admire and encourage them should have a
chit-chat with my oncologist.

Yesterday I signed and mailed to the contractor a contract to replace my
sewer lateral. And by a most unlikely coincidence, today an article by
Millicent Skiles in the Patch caught my eye, big time, and drew me to it.
It's title? "How Does SASM Work?" Ms. Skiles then introduces us to the
Sewerage Agency of Southern Marin and its General Manager, Stephen Danehy.

Hey, I know about SASM! It's right across from the Middle School on
Sycamore Street. I pass by it often on my walks to the Post Office. And I
know Stephen Danehy. In his official capacity, he signed the letter the on
the table beside me as I write this, on SASM letterhead, dated November
15, 2010. "Mr. and Mrs. Raymond B. Cook. Thank you for your application to
participate in the Private Lateral Replacement Program…Please inform your
contractor that you are approved for the Grant Program." The GRANT
Program? ME??

Yup. me. That old guy with the white beard that you see walking around;
that used up, shriveled up and worn out Civil Servant, the guy who built
your freeways, tossed on the scrap heap of humanity who are cluttering up
the landscape waiting for their next retirement check and resisting the
efforts of honest folk to undo Prop 13.

I'm so far below the median income in Marin County that the rest of my
family would send me CARE packages if they knew about it.

Yup. me.

There was a time though when I could – and DID – afford to buy (and PAY
FOR) a house here.

But that was long ago, when that house I bought on Homestead Blvd was
sandwiched between two PUBLIC elementary schools that EVERYONE could
afford to send their children to.

Not too many hours ago in a personal email to someone in the hierarchy of
those who have bumped me down the demographic scale, I made a similar
lamentation about those two (now private) schools, and received back a
cordial reply and explanation of the other side of the story. But not an
apology for it of course, which was no surprise really, for the same
reason that the lion does not apologize to the gnu. One does what one is,
and that's that.

Chivalry alone does not restrain me from revealing the identity of this
person, but a good measure of fear, too, because even though this person
promised not to sic the dog on me the next time we meet, there was no
mention of not poisoning my coffee. However, I will include verbatim most
of the letter and its remarks, which seemed perfectly reasonable to their
maker:
(The limitations of Simple Text require me to explain that in the
following excerpt, with one exception which was in the original, the
parentheses and dots (…) … indicate editorial prerogative, which I have
tried to apply most judiciously)

Dear Mr, Cook,

We have met and I do remember you. I am sorry to hear that the presence
of two independent schools in your neighborhood has been such a negative
for you. I very honestly do believe that if these schools were still
public schools the traffic would be even worse than it is today because
public schools are not held to any traffic standard at all. You only have
to go and witness drop-off at any of the local public elementary schools
in Mill Valley to see that this is true.

When the Mt. Tamalpais and Marin Horizon sites were public schools, most
children walked or biked to their neighborhood school. That is no longer
the case in part because parents are much more worried about the safety of
their children (from stranger danger and traffic). In contrast, both of
the independent schools in your neighborhood are held to very strict
traffic management standards. (like) busing in almost all (…) elementary
school children and off-siting many (…) events in order to reduce cars
dropping off and in order to minimize event traffic in the neighborhood.

That said, I respect your right to your point of view about the traffic. I
have no clue as to why there are more coyote sightings in the area,(…)
:-)

If I owned a dog I would never sic it on anyone! I hope the next time we
meet, we can greet each other cordially, even if we do have differences of
opinion!!

(And the letter concluded with this very decent salutation, "Have a nice
holiday season!")

By that example then, I too, sign off for now with kindest regards to all.

Ray Cook

Life today in Homestead Valley

Here in Homestead Valley the Marin Horizon School/Marin County DPW joyride
seems to have hit a couple ruts in the road, if my inbox is any sort of
tranquility meter between the "status quolies" and the "let's move the
community furniture around to suit ourselves" bunch. This is the sort of
confrontation I could give lessons on. My wife of 56 years has taught me a
lot more about it than I ever wanted to know, that's for dang sure. I even
wrote a piece about it some years ago in one of Tom Centolella's writing
classes at the Redwoods. One of my fellow students, I think it was Bob
Levy, was sharp enough to perceive it for what it is and tell us all,
"It's a love song!" I transcribe it here as a testimmony that opposites
needn't necessarily cut each others' throats to coexist in the same space.
I beg the reader's indulgence that the transciption is in simple, Plain
Text:

Some Blossoms of Jottings From a Driftwood Stool At Tennessee Beach One
Morning (asterisk, footnote: "Tennessee Beach - A secluded spot at trail's
end in a steep Pacifc headland, within hiking distance of a small town.")

When the theme of Wilderness arises in our living room in one of its
occasional incarnations, my Viennese wife automatically arises with it
fully armed and passionately defending cosmopolitan life – culture, as she
calls it – its theaters, its broad boulevards, apartment houses, tramways,
clangor; its delicatessens, cathedrals, chic boutiques; its operas, its
crowds, its universities; its symphonies, museums, hospitals, libraries.

And in the warm summer shade of tranquil old chestnut trees, its park
benches and tulip gardens.

Granted, she has a point. But then, too, she believes the reward for
walking up a mountain should be a coffee house on top of it !!

She may shun wilderness, but strolling along a path in the marsh near
home, the sight of a great blue heron standing there nearly as tall as
herself disengages her breath for a moment, an instant that reveals a
curiously concealed and clever paradox of human nature: the heart knows
it's connection to wild things, even if the mind does not.

But she's a wonderful cook, and wonderfully wise about Asian greengrocers.
And
Mozart
and
Shakespeare,
and
Yves
St.
Laurent.

And not least among her many distinguishing qualities is an estimable
tolerance for a capricious husband.

Time to go, I'm afraid. The sea is restless this morning. I love to sit
and watch it, mindlessly and forever. But if I get hung up waiting for the
next perfect wave to crash over the rock in its final, suicidal assault on
the face of the cliff, its snowy soul exploding brilliantly upward, upward
still, until exhausted and spent, …

. . . . . . . . . . . . I'll be late for lunch!

Recap the water bottle, stuff it in, retie the daypack's thong; one arm
through the shoulder straps, then the other. About face, into the sun;
give the old Donegal hat a fond ritual crush, and follow the beacon –
- - home.

That was twelve years ago, and we and our marriage are still intact. But
not without significant compromises by both of us. My wife is from a
European capital city and I'm an Idaho hillbilly. We were born into
different worlds and grew to adulthood with differently formatted hard
drives which, it seems to me is the fundamental difficulty made manifest
here in Homestead.

For the 40 years I've lived on Homestead Blvd I've been sandwiched between
two elementary schools within walking distance, which in the vicissitudes
of time were privatized: Mount Tamalpais School at 100 Harvard (old Marin
Terrace School) and Marin Horizon School at 305 Montford (old Homestead
School.) There isn't a person living or dead who can point to benefits
that have accrued to my quality of life on account of that privatization.
As a matter of fact, traffic has become an abomination and the number of
coyote sightings has skyrocketed.

I don't count myself among those who admire that situation, and when I
think that there is actually a stratum of humanity that does, and who
measure their quality of life by the hours per week they wait for
stoplights, I just reach for the antacids and carry on the best I can.

Ray Cook

Rays first post on Rays first blog

Hello!

Welcome to Ray's First entry on Ray's first Blog!

First and foremost I would like to thank Mari Tamburo and the restless
spirit within her for this public opportunity to say, "Thank you, Mari – I
am proud to be your neighbor!"

Then, I would like to commence recalling certain events and writing them
here from time to time for reasons that escape me at the moment but which
seemed worthwhile a few moments ago.

My professional career - that is, the employment period with the savings
plan which provides a modest income in my retirement - lasted thirty one
years with the California Department of Transportation, commencing
December 1, 1960, when I believed that population growth and economic
development were good and should be encouraged, and that freeways were the
lubricant to a prosperous and happy future. I was foundering at the time
in an interlude of insanity.

My duties were in the Right of Way Department, which had the
responsibility to appraise, acquire and manage rights of way for roads,
freeways and bridges, and occasionally other public works - canals,
schools, and such. The manual plotted every inch of our course according
to good business practices. It was unassailably an All American
enterprise and institution.

In addition to the fundamentals of deeds and property descriptions, I
learned about (or at least I was taught about) land economics, income
streams, return rates, recapture rates, capitalization rates, discount
rates, physical depreciation (and that baffling phenomenon, economic
depreciation, where you lose money in order to keep it), economic
obsolescence, functional obsolescence, lump sums, the nine functions of
the dollar, contracts, orders for possession, severance damages,
consequential damages, non-compensable damages and tables and charts of
every ilk that will prove you right no matter what you say. There were
leases, credit checks, rents, delinquencies, forms to pay or quit and the
fun part, evictions, and your expense account must always agree with your
time sheet if you want to stay out of trouble.

I was already an honorably discharged veteran of the Korean War but my
real battle scars came in civil service. Not only had I been I marching to
the beat of a different drummer somewhere, I was reading my music from a
different score. But I blew my notes loud, and I was conspicuously, and
hopelessly, out of step.

Stay tuned.

RBC - December, 12, 2010
Homestead Valley
Mill Valley, California

My Life (In Four Sentences)

1. Puny, clumsy and inept, I was thrust terrified into the swift traffic of life’s main drag.

2. I mumbled, stumbled and fumbled my way through the rigors of my generation, avoiding most challenges and failing nearly all the rest.

3. Alcohol and Phenobarbital became my refuge and my sanctuary – and, my Judas.

4. Now, commencing my ninth decade upon this little ball of mud, with gratitude to Prayer and Providence I cultivate my thoughts and survey my convictions with some measure of satisfaction, bask in the doting attention of my life’s companion, conceal rather poorly the joy of entertaining my two young grandchildren, and raise as much Cain as I can with shifty-eyed politicians.

RBC 12/11/10

On the Beam

The opinions expressed On the Beam are those of Ray Cook, who has lived on this Earth for more than 80 years. He lives in Homestead Valley, CA

More bio info to follow.

Who Ray Haiku : CSA #14

December 10, 2010
Marin County Board of Supervisors
3501 Civic Center Drive Room #329
San Rafael, CA 94903

Honorable Supervisors:

RE: CSA#14

Yesterday I read two email accounts of a meeting between the Homestead
Valley Community Association (through CSA#14, a lessee of County property)
and Marin Horizon School (an elementary school abutting the HVCA lease,
once a public school but now private). Then I went to bed and slept.

This morning the Muse awakened me with instructions to send the Honorable
Supervisors this haiku:

Public to Private
Manifest Destiny sucks
I weep for Homestead

Most respectfully,

Ray Cook
Certified Octogenarian