Weedpatch and Little Oklahoma are not the same places of my childhood where I would sometimes catch lizards. I still like the little fellows but a surprising thing has happened; here in the Kern River Valley over the past years I have witnessed an evolutionary change in the critters- they run faster than they used to! I know this is true because I can't catch them as well as I could when I was a kid; probably something to do with climate change, a hole in the ozone layer or air pollution.

My mother and maternal grandparents provided a broad and varied background that enabled me to make do and appreciate the value of most things; could find pleasure in such circumstances as living in Las Vegas or Little Oklahoma. In my imagination I can enjoy such magic as to be the envy of the most skilled sorcerer or conjuror, but also able to appreciate the practical skills of shaping and forming of metal by lathe and mill, to turn walnut and ash into something of both beauty and practical value, to wire or plumb a house, to get an engine humming sweetly and teach these things to others. These are things that help to fulfill a man; that tells him life has meaning and is worthwhile, these together with things like family and friends are some of the whispered promises of immortality that among many other things causes me to believe in a hereafter.

As to family, a mother teaching the little one to do dishes, sweep the floor or do laundry might not speak as loudly for the present, but when that little one learns she is contributing something of value to the family it has eternal potential. When that boy is taught to take on the obligation for disposing of the trash, cutting the lawn or washing the car, he is learning lessons for living a productive life.

But in defense of our children listening to the noise they call music today, I know the music we were listening to in the fifties, much of it from the thirties and forties as well, was based on a culture and society that still lived in hope that things would only get better and better; jobs were plentiful, America was the preeminent world power, we were a nation on the go and a phone call or cup of coffee was a nickel.

In contrast to the songs of love, hope and a better future of my time, our children turn to the mind-numbing noise they call “music” glorifying suicide, violence, sex and drugs as an escape from having to hope in the face of hopelessness. Such noise is a mechanism for tuning out the mind and giving in to the animalistic senses that have no responsibility or accountability; an anti-establishment protest against being robbed and cheated of hope. A generation that has lost hope in eternal verities of love and goodness, the triumph of good over evil often opts for the glorification of evil as it gains the ascendance. At least it promises change and excitement and, therefore, some believe it must be better than the status quo, which they believe dooms them in any event.

However, even in Camelot there are inescapable realities. Dragons need slaying and damsels need rescue. The young knight must know his enemy and keep his sword sharp. A betraying Guinevere or Lancelot should never cause the loss of a crown and the Grail must be sought no matter the cost. Arthur must be true though all others play him false.

It would seem to be obvious that a man must be able to have hope of providing for a wife and children in order for love and romance to survive, to enable that girl to commit herself to a husband and children. The basis of this is a home of their own no matter how humble; remove this hope and you have the generation and the society we presently have; a generation that knows it has been betrayed and is ripe for rebellion and revolution, anarchy, or as seems the present path total enslavement to a government without conscience hypocritically portraying itself as “caring for the poor” and “working class Americans.”

Even though Jacob's Staff has been traded for books, it is still the responsibility of the poet-historian to keep the legends alive and grave his marks. Truth will always sort through the myth of legends and make what is vital real. In the most clouded of memories, sharp spikes of light much as with Thoreau’s flakes of light dart here and there, illuminating what is of real value in the keeping and the sharing with others, and we can never guess what is taking root in the minds of our children that will become their own epics.

In the twilight of life, we begin to sort through, even unconsciously, the things that make it all worthwhile, the faces and places, even demons that come often unbidden to mind. I would make more of fiction were that needed. But reality has been more than enough to pauperize any attempt to clothe it with more than an occasional lapse of memory, which in its kindness, covers many hurts.

We are all builders and makers regardless of the type of architecture. Even tents in the wilderness had to have their ribbons of color. The nomad needs something to draw his eye and tell him he is a man. Few things attract a man, as Thoreau made so plain, as his honest toil resulting in a structure, no matter how humble, which evidences his ability to do with his mind, back and hands. And, if the effort is directed toward the welfare of his family what a worker he is, putting even Thoreau to shame. We are inveterate builders, but even the cave will show signs of something more than utilitarian shelter. We will hang our pictures and bric-a-brac to declare our personness. The most humble of abodes will show some indication that building is more than providing a roof over our heads. This is the reason for my making so much of removing the onerous bureaucracy that precludes a man doing for himself. You must turn from the seemingly, meaningless disarray of twisted threads and knots of the back of the carpet and look at the grand design of its true face. In far too many cases government would have us leave off any attempt to make our own carpets by insisting there be no disarray of twisted threads and knots whatsoever, which would not be so onerous to me if government itself were not only a disarray of twisted threads and knots without the redeeming quality of any grand design when you turn its carpet over.

In one of my wilderness forays, I came across an old mining shack of rough lumber. The bare wood walls of the interior were covered over with the comics (funny papers to us oldsters) of a long defunct newspaper. Now any part of the newspapers would have served as well against drafts, but the comics? They were the needed color.

We are suffering the noisome pangs of politicians, once more, telling us what they are going to do for (more properly to) us. They will talk of building for the future. My grandad built a better privy than what these scoundrels are likely to produce and it smelled better than the stench of these charlatans.

Somewhere along the way, we got too busy for the things that really count. The work, books and beauty, the people are there but they want for attendance. As rich as the endowment may be, it profits nothing to those that will not take heed and invest it properly in those things of lasting value like family and friends.

“You have forsaken your first love... I would that you were either hot or cold but because you are lukewarm, I will spew you out of my mouth!” What a word of warning that should be to all! However, it falls on deaf ears of those who are more concerned for the cares and riches of the false than a reality where love conquers all. God's love goes begging as the professionals either prostitute it as religion or mysticize it to some ethereal realm out of existence.

There are few companions in my life like Thoreau despite his ego. Like he, I would fain have planted ... sincerity, truth, simplicity, faith, innocence, and the like rather than beans. There is time for planting beans and making pencils and they should not be in competition with those heart's longings for that which encourages the spirit and gives hope of better than meeting only physical needs or gaining the riches of this world.

Like Thoreau claimed to do, I sow in hope. While much of what I write has been called inflammatory I do not write in order to promote anarchy. I am not an incendiary but do hope to ignite hearts to a better calling than the evil system that does promote lawlessness and greed. And if, as Henry suggested doing, I provide some of the friction to an evil machine so much the better. In some cases, the system is of such a complexity that the simplest solution may well be to take an ax to such a Gordian Knot. Unhappily the Knot has its guardians who, unless they be subdued first, will inveigh with all their might against all who oppose them. It will take a good many ax-men to win such a battle.

The very complexity of the evil system of government leads directly to the attempt at simple solutions. This is an historical imperative and most often leads to slavery or revolution. It is an historical imperative for the very reason that too many men's hearts seldom seek the welfare of others but are motivated by the desire to live without honest toil; by the desire to steal, lie, cheat and engage in every form of immorality freely and without restraint. The worst of such men become politicians.

It was early recognized that Law was an absolute necessity to restrain evil and punish the evildoer. Though this would seem to be self-evident, it is still required for each generation to teach the next. Our failure to educate our young people to the facts of our national history and the great men and women who sacrificed so much to give us the greatest and freest nation the world has ever seen has led to a generation that neither knows Joseph nor the God of Joseph and appears to be headed in the direction of lawlessness, especially as they witness the politicians, the rich and powerful ignore the laws with impunity.

One of my favorite things to do in this area is visiting the folks out at the old mining claim. I just returned from such a visit to get away from the dreariness of so much bad news abounding all about. I sit with my cup of coffee and a cigarette and let my mind wander and wonder amid the familiar rocks, trees and hills. Grandma and Great-grandma died in their sleep in one of the old cabins, long gone to make way for the present campground. They died peacefully in bed without the antiseptic paraphernalia of exotic machines, tubes and hoses with which we now prolong life in the dubious notion that bankrupting, heroic measures are needed simply because they are available.

I wonder once more at the thought of Hallowed Ground. Perhaps it is the Choctaw Cherokee blood that courses through my veins, but if there is such a thing as Hallowed Ground, this is it for me; the site of many cherished, childhood memories and where such precious, loved and loving dear ones lived and departed. I wonder, also, about David and his longing for the water of Bethlehem. He must have felt the same way I feel when I'm at this so very special place. The bittersweet melancholy and loneliness that often envelopes me in these surroundings is ameliorated and assuaged somewhat by reminding myself that few have such memories to sustain them.

Also, the very freedom to come and go as I choose is something for which I am most grateful and something with which very few people are blessed. And while far from rich in material things I will opt for such freedom in lieu of the unnecessary and cumbersome riches and baggage of those that think mere things are what will make them happy and secure. It is people, not things, which make for happiness, and, tragically, grief and misery as well unfortunately. But the soul of a nation and that of the individual is in the joy and suffering that is God within us, is the express image of Him, and opens our hearts to both.

As I sit on a granite boulder beneath an old pine where, as a child, I once had placed boards in the branches for a aerie from which to think, read and survey my wilderness playground in the solitude and imagination of that best part within any child, I'm sensible of the fact that we are too seldom conscious of the things and people, the circumstances which will manufacture memories. How much kinder would we be to others if we only knew how forcefully such things will come, later, in our night visions as haunting, tormenting specters or beloved friends. Tragically, the choice is not always with us, but too often with those whose self-love has betrayed the trust of the friend.

The day is getting late and I must leave- Too bad. It seems something is out of joint when I am a visitor to what was once home. Somehow, there is something wrong with this. Hearing the noise overhead, I watch a Stealth Bomber and its chase plane making a low level pass, about 1,500 feet AGL I judge, the fascinating form of the bat-like bomber seeming alien and threatening and, strangely out of place. Oh well, back to where I presently hang my hat; it isn't home but I remind myself as I do so often that this world is not my home, I’m only passing through.