Well folks, the news all around is so bad you will forgive me if I engage in some reverie about a time in America when it seemed the distinction between good and evil was more clearly delineated, a time when our cowboy heroes did the right thing; they kissed their horse rather than the girl.

Just kidding ladies, it didn’t take me all that long to discover there was something to be said for kissing girls. Certainly as some have been kind enough to say mine was not the “usual” childhood. Between life in Little Oklahoma and here on the mining claim I learned the lessons of life that could only be learned in such environments and among the kinds of folks like my maternal grandparents and the Okies and Arkies Steinbeck immortalized. Here are a few examples.

One of the things I miss here in the twilight of life is playing and singing Cool Water with Oscar and Jerry at Arlie’s Club. There are some memories well worth the keeping. Between sets Oscar and I would share memories about some of those already gone on before us that made so much music throughout Kern County in the “old days.” Oscar was one of the few of my acquaintance who remembered the tune “Dusty Skies” and could recall grandad being a bouncer for the dances at Pumpkin Center where he met O’Dell Johnson, the picker and singer from whom my grandparents acquired the mining claim here in the Kern River Valley, named the Big George, in Boulder Gulch.

The only song I could actually recall by O’Dell from the past was Kernville California, U. S. A.; and the only line from the song I could recall from childhood was: “Snowcapped mountains, ripplin’ streams, it’s not heaven though it seems, in Kernville California U. S. A.” Though I cannot remember any more of the lyrics, after all these years I can recall the melody that accompanied the song. My grandparents had a record of the song; too bad it, along with my grandparents, is long gone.

I do have an old photograph of O’Dell hugging my grandmother strictly in fun as they are both laughing for the photo, though with that beer bottle in hand I suspect O’Dell had a snoot full at the time.

If you know the film Some Came Running, you know of Dean Martin refusing to remove his hat. This calls to mind the only time I remember O’Dell having dinner with us after the move to the claim and it was the only occasion of my grandmother offending God.

Grandad being a preacher, among other things, it was only expected that grace would be said before each meal. As grandad bowed to ask the blessing, O’Dell removed his hat. It was the first time any of us had seen him without his hat on his head, and with good reason: O’Dell was bald as a billiard ball! This took my grandmother by such surprise all she could do as grandad asked the Lord’s blessing on our meal was to stare at the bald shining pate of O’Dell with her mouth hanging wide open.

While living on the mining claim we kept a .410 shotgun loaded and at the ready. It was handy for many purposes, though not against mountain lions or bears; there were the .270 and .30-30 for those. However, being full choke the small-bore shotgun was difficult to use wing-shooting quail, but with its light recoil a lot of fun.

There were always various varmints around our place with which to contend, including wild donkeys. In the old days on the claim we often had to confront a small herd of these, about half a dozen that were particularly attracted to the alfalfa we kept for the rabbits. The donkeys would sometimes come in at night and kick the rabbit hutches over to get at the feed; most unpleasant for the resident bunnies. When we would hear the donkeys, out came the .410 to scatter and frighten them away.

One night grandad hearing noise outside grabbed the .410, and easing himself outside in the darkness he saw the shape of something squatting on one of the hutches. Thinking it might be an owl or bobcat, he let fly. The shape disappeared in the hail of shot and grandad got the flashlight to examine his handiwork, only to discover he had “killed” a gallon jug of coal oil. It took a while to clean off the rabbits that had been unexpectedly drenched in the middle of the night, and grandma had a few opinions on grandad’s inability to distinguish between bobcats and jugs.

Well, living in such an environment where you often had to be quick on the trigger one can easily understand such an error. From such pioneer living came the expression: “Shoot first and ask questions later.” It doesn’t fit well in the present age, but despite “killing” the occasional jug of coal oil by accident it worked well enough in many instances to protect a past American way of life. Come to think of it… well, the knowledgeable reader can fill this in.

We had a hand dug well on the mining claim in Boulder Gulch. The stratum was decomposed granite and the site of the claim had a shallow water table. Consequently, the well was only about 12 feet deep. This certainly helped as we had to use a hand pump to draw the water, and those old iron hand pumps don’t work at any great depth.

But have any of you ever heard of keeping catfish in your well to help keep it clean? Grandad swore by this and it was my happy task to supply the fish. While I didn’t mind the catfish, toads would often get in also and had to be cleaned out periodically. This led to my drinking a lot of milk and coffee.

One summer we experienced a drought and using the old Ford pickup had to resort to hauling water from the river about a mile away. Grandad and I soon tired of this task and he decided to deepen our well using dynamite as the quickest and easiest expedient for the job. Having the stuff on hand for the mining claim, we soon had our holes drilled, packed in the charge and proceeded to blow it out. We did manage to hit water again only another five feet down and were back in business.

Things have changed dramatically around the Kern River Valley since those far-off days before the lake went in, a time when there were so few of us living here everybody knew everybody and who did what to or for someone, and no one thought anything of using dynamite for various purposes.

Now from what I understand you can’t legally just haul out the family supply of dynamite and use it in Los Angeles. Not that dynamite is in short supply in L. A., but it seems the city is not only opposed to digging your own well in your backyard, they are fussy about who has and uses dynamite locally.

I personally know some that believe dynamite ought to be available to anyone that wants it. But don’t count me among them. I’m a lifetime supporter of the NRA, an adamant believer and defender of our right to bear arms, but we need a system of government that actually works and not only keeps dynamite out of the hands of those that should not have it, but also keeps guns out of the hands of those that should not have them, most of all children, rather than continued attacks to disarm responsible, law-abiding American citizens. But like our immigration laws, gun laws are only as good as their enforcement against criminals not law abiding citizens.

Folks, when I speak out against those attempting to destroy America I don’t always do so from the perspective of my qualifications as an academic with a Ph. D. There is too much of Norman Rockwell’s America with which I am familiar to be so limited by mere academic qualifications. And the problems we face now are not going to be solved by those who never got dirt or grease under their fingernails; they can only be solved by those who know what it is like to punch a clock for a paycheck, those who understand what real personal responsibility and personal accountability consist of, who have learned the lessons of life that only earning a living honestly can teach.