Finding Northern California

What makes Northern California an identity, beyond simple geography? What are the common ideas that forge such a diverse area together? What are the unique local traditions and events that are part of the tapestry of the region?
Northern California is large region, by itself larger than many states. Three of the boundaries of the area are easily discernible: The Pacific Ocean in the west, and the state lines in the north and east. But south, the end of Northern California is less clear. For a lot of people, it is a general line that connects the San Francisco Bay Area to Sacramento and on to Lake Tahoe. This may be simply the general area of influence these significant centers (San Francisco, Oakland, Sacramento, etc.) have on the less urban areas. However, there are certainly other people I have known from south of that arbitrary line who would argue. Certainly, the argument can be made that the southern line of Northern California aligns with the the southern borders of Monterey, Kings, Tulare and Inyo counties.
These are just lines on a map, however, I would like to take a few weeks and go find out how people view Northern California and how they define it, either as residents or visitors. I want to visit the community events, talk to the people and learn some of the history that makes Northern California an identity. Along with the interviews and narrative, I will include contemporary and historic photographs of this diverse region, from the coast to the Sierras.
Ultimately, the project is about the search for the meaning of community. Practically, it will allow visitors from out of the area to better understand the differences in regional identity in California (I'm looking at you, Germany, Russia and Greece). It will also be for the residents who live here and may see a different aspect of this fascinating place we call home.
"Finding Northern California" will result in a series of articles and a book for travelers and residents alike. I hope you will help. Use this link to donate or send me your thoughts on what it means to be from Northern California. Let me know where I should go and who I should talk to.
Writing is often a collaborative effort between two or more people. Collaborate with me in "Finding Northern California." Make a donation to my GoFundMe campaign through the button on the right or drop me a line here with suggestions or comments about Northern California.
Thanks for reading! ~MR

FICTION: Bully

“Hey, Donald!”

The boy stomped his foot. “My name’s Peter!”

“You look like Donald Duck!” The other boy howled with laughter. The boy sitting next to him chimed in with his own devious cackle.

It was a daily ritual for Peter, running the gauntlet past Kevin. All he wanted to do was sit down in a seat and get to school, but first he had to endure the Kevin’s reliable volley of verbal barbs.

“Hey, Donald! Who are you today? Bumblebee or Optimus Prime?”

“I’m not playing!” Peter tried to hurry down the narrow aisle, past Kevin, but the voice of the bus driver stopped him.

“There’s an empty spot right there, Peter.”

“But it’s in front of Kevin and he’s teasing me.”

“Don’t worry about Kevin. You need to sit down so that we can go pick up the other kids.”

Peter’s face flushed as he sat down, listening to the daunting laughter of the two boys behind him, his prized Transformers backpack on his lap. The girl next to him wasn’t looking at him; she was staring out the window at the trees on the far side of the road.

Peter couldn’t see his mother from where he sat, but it didn’t matter. She was at the end of the driveway to see his sister onto the bus. She was always grumpy and probably wouldn’t have bothered to walk down to the road with Peter and Lisa if it wasn’t a school rule.

Peter watched her walk back up the driveway, which was overhung with Bishop pine from both neighbors’ properties. It seemed like all his mother wanted to do was be somewhere other than the room he was in and whenever he wanted her to sit with him, she seemed to be too busy or too tired. 

He wished she got along with his dad.

“Hey, Donald. You run like a girl to first base.”

“No, he runs like Donald Duck,” said Kevin’s friend. They laughed.

“I do not!” Peter felt his throat close. “I don’t like what you’re saying to me. You’re hurting my feelings. Please, stop.”

“What? I’m not doing anything.” Kevin seemed to fade away into conversation with his compatriot.

Peter listened to the rumble of the bus’s engine and felt the rocking and jolting of the bus on the pothole-riddled road. The morning was crisp, but it would warm with the October sun, what his dad called an “Indian summer.” The sky was a brilliant blue in the early hour after dawn, but Peter knew that a couple of miles closer to the coast and it would likely be overcast. His dad said it had to do with the marine layer. Maybe they would be allowed to sit outside to eat at lunch.

Lisa sat in a nearby seat, quietly. She was the shy one. It wasn’t that she was antisocial, but she was very reserved. Peter knew that in class or on the playground, his sister only opened up to a select few other children. Yet, she never complained about being harassed by other kids. Peter, who liked to play with and meet other kids, had been forced to deal with one or two mean kids since the first day of kindergarten.

At least in kindergarten, his dad had been helping in his classroom and was available to also help Peter with problems. Now, his dad never came into class and Peter was alone.

The cacophony of dozens of children and noises of the bus swept around Peter as he sat, waiting to arrive at his destination, his purgatory: school. The work his teacher offered was not difficult, in fact, Peter found it rather boring. He knew he read better than anyone else in his class and he also knew his math skills were superior to his classmates. Peter never held that against his peers, however.

He looked forward to recess and social play in class; there were plenty of kids he liked.

For some reason, though, they didn’t like to play with him as much as he liked to play with them.

They never seemed to want to play the games he wanted to play nor did they seem to play games that Peter understood very well.

Tag, particularly, was a grueling game for Peter. He liked being chased and enjoyed the chase, but he was slow. He was quickly tagged by the other players, and could rarely catch up to the other children when he was “it.” Kevin took particular delight in jeering and mocking the slower boy, always staying just out of reach during the game.

Then there were the times when Kevin led the complete expulsion of Peter from the game, leaving Peter dejected and hurt. On those days, he would try to chase off after other kids he knew, but they never seemed to pay attention to him when he wanted to join their games, even telling him that they were already playing a game and there was no room for him.

When Peter’s dad frequented the school and was able to watch him on the playground, Peter could take solace in his father’s company, sitting close with the man’s arm around him. Now his dad had a job that kept him from coming to school. Peter still got to see him on the weekends, but it wasn’t the same as when his dad was in the classroom every day.

His dad read a lot about presidents. One of his favorites was a guy named Teddy. Peter’s dad told him once that Teddy had a word for really neat things or events. When he was excited about something, he would say “bully.” Peter liked to listen to his dad talk about things or read to him and his sister.

His dad never read to them enough when they visited on the weekends, as far as Peter was concerned.

It was almost lunch time. He dreaded navigating the awkward situation, trying to find a way to not sit next to the other kids who taunted him. And then there was recess, yet another gauntlet he had to run daily.

The teachers and the yard duties didn’t understand what it meant when he tried to duck off to one side of the playground. They didn’t understand what it felt like when he was called names. They didn’t know what it meant to him when other children said they were his friends one day and not his friends the next.

Was there something wrong with him? Was that why the kids made fun of him? Was that why his daddy left?

In his crowded classroom he felt alone. On sunny coastal days, he felt sad. So isolated.

And when he failed to do his work in class, Peter’s teacher would call him out. She didn’t understand what it was he was thinking and why he didn’t do his work. He was such a brilliant child!

Peter didn’t care much for his teacher and had no way to confide in her that he still thought about the screaming match his mom and dad had just before his dad left.

He missed his dad. He felt a hole inside of him, like a chunk of flesh was missing. He wished his dad didn’t live in another house. He wanted to live with his dad, but his mom wouldn’t allow it. She said that his dad couldn’t take care of him and was too busy.

From across the classroom table where Peter was working, a skinny kid with a perpetual smirk stared at him.

“That’s a stupid shirt, Peter. Minecraft? That’s a stupid game. I play Halo.”

“It’s not stupid. My dad got it for me. And I don’t like it when you say that. Please, stop.”

“It’s a stupid shirt and a stupid game. Your dad’s probably stupid.”

Peter’s face flushed. “He is not,” he shouted, beginning to cry.

The smirking boy began to laugh. “What’d I say?”

The teacher’s aide came over.

“What’s wrong, Peter?”

“He called my dad stupid. He said my shirt was stupid.” Peter had reached his breaking point again. He laid his head on his arms and sobbed.

The teacher’s aide turned her gaze to the smirking boy.

“Did you call his shirt stupid?”

“What’d I say? I was just kidding with him.”

“You need to apologize.”

“Why? I didn’t do anything.”

“You called his shirt stupid and called his dad stupid. That’s not nice.”

“So?”

The teacher’s aide exhaled in exasperation. She rose and pulled Peter with her.

“Come on, Peter. Let’s go talk to Mr. Matthews.”

As the teacher’s aide passed a box of tissues, she handed a couple to Peter. He wiped his eyes and stood disconsolately as the aide spoke with Mr. Matthews. He looked at Peter with compassion, but Peter knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t, fix anything.

“We’ll move Jadyn to another table. Do you want to work by yourself, Peter?”

Peter shook his head because he knew it would only add to his loneliness. It was bad enough to feel alone, but then he would actually be alone. As if he was the one who did something wrong.

Why couldn’t his dad be here?

Lunch was as miserable was Peter expected. There was no way he could avoid sitting hip to hip with the other kids at the tables. Even outside, the seating was designed to fit as many children as possible at each table. Generally, each classroom sat at one long table. That meant regardless of where he sat, Peter was destined to be the subject of laughter and derision from Jadyn and one or two of his henchmen.

Sometimes he could get through the day without the jokes. Sometimes, all he wanted to do was run away from the school, down the street, to his dad’s apartment. Of course, his dad probably wasn’t at home and Peter wasn’t sure exactly where his dad’s office was located relative to the school. It seemed pretty close, but there were a lot of streets to cross and his mom and dad had told him to never cross a street without an adult.

A trio of flying peas struck Peter in the hair, breaking into his reverie. Jadyn snickered. He gestured to his shirt to remind Peter of their earlier conversation and grinned. Peter stuffed the rest of his lunch back into his insulated cooler bag, along with the trash, and got up.

“Hey, Peter. You need to wait to be excused.” Derek, a tall, lanky man, sauntered over. Peter wanted to obey the man, but he still couldn’t sit.

“I don’t want to sit there anymore. Jadyn’s throwing food at me.”

Derek’s face turned serious. He didn’t tolerate friction between the kids and he really disliked any possible hint of bullying. He saw Peter’s tense face and the tears forming and pulled the boy in to a hug.

“Hey, it’s okay, buddy. Sit down and finish your lunch. I won’t let anybody else mess with you while you eat.”

Derek led Peter back to his seat. Then he crooked a finger at Jadyn. The boy smirked.

“What? What’d I do?”

“You threw food at Peter. You can move to a table and sit by yourself.”

Jadyn sighed and got up, taking his tray to another table.

“I was just joking.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s not funny. How would you feel if somebody threw food at you?”

“I’d think it was funny.”

“Well, not everybody thinks that way. It’s not cool.”

“Fine.” Jadyn drew out the word in an exasperated sigh.

Peter listened to the two. He knew moving Jadyn to another seat in class or in the cafeteria would change nothing. The boy would continue to smirk at him and make fun of him. Just like the kids on the bus. Going home would be a reverse of the morning ritual. It seemed that the other kids would never learn his name, would keep calling him “Donald,” and would keep making jokes at his expense. The adults tried to help him, but they didn’t understand.

They may say they understood, but they didn’t.

They had never been called names like he got called. They never felt his hurt.

They didn’t miss their dads like he missed his dad.

When he got off the bus, his mom was waiting.

“Hey, kiddo. Wanna go to your dad’s on Thursday night?”

Peter jumped at the chance.

“Yes! I do! I wanna go to Dad’s house.”

His sister chimed in. “Daddy! I wanna go to Daddy’s, too!”

“Okay. I’ll let him know and he’ll pick you up after school, okay? But on Thursday.”

“So we got two more days?” Peter felt crestfallen.

“It’s only two more days. It’ll get here quick. Don’t worry.”

“Bully.”

FICTION: Trees and Mushrooms

The two-lane ribbon of highway ran the length of the coast. On one side, the land rose up abruptly as the foothills of the coastal range. On the other, the earth dropped away to end in precipitous bluffs on the edge of the North American continent. A hundred years before, massive redwoods trees had crowded to the very cliffs. Now, grasslands were interspersed with chaparral interrupted briefly by the remaining protected groves of trees that were still being cut, but slowly, with more regulation now.

The scenic highway was one of the best to drive. People from all over the world traveled to see the sights and visit the towns here and there along the road. The main artery for the locals in the area, it was also a source of contention. It brought tourist dollars into town, but thousands of people drove the road, which was still narrow and in some places had no shoulder. Cyclists were often part of the traffic flow, slowing down vehicles that would otherwise have moved faster.

The corpses of skunks, raccoons, and deer were frequent testament to the speedy nature of the visitors. Some locals wanted the road widened to increase safety and visibility; other wanted it left the way it was, a rural landmark, characteristic of the area. Rancorous debate filled the letters to the editor of the local newspapers.

Two figures walked along the edge of the road, the man pushing a battered bicycle, the boy carrying a white bucket. The sun was hot today and the man could feel his skin burning. He cursed himself for not bringing sunscreen. Usually, the temperature on the coast never wandered far above seventy degrees. Today, the forecast had called for a high of eighty-one, but the man had disregarded the radio newscasters because the forecast was often wrong. The bicycle baskets were filled with trowels, sweatshirts, bottles of water, and a first-aid kit. In the white bucket were a trowel and a pair of gardening gloves for the boy, but, of course, no sunscreen. Who needed sunscreen on the coast?

A large truck laden with logs roared by, taking the turn wide. In a panic, the man grabbed his son, dragging the boy behind him and off the road. He could feel his heart race and he took a deep steadying breath. He heard his son protest his rough treatment and complain of getting hurt. The man inspected the boy. Blackberry brambles and nettles had scratched his arms and neck – a small price to pay for survival. The man lifted the bike from the roadside where he had dropped it and the continued on.

"Hey, Pa? Why do they cut down trees all the time?”

The man could tell it was going to be one of those conversations. While his son was not retarded, the doctor had labeled the boy “developmentally delayed.” The man was not quite sure what that meant; his wife seemed to understand, but he knew that his son did not seem to catch on to basic ideas as other children his age did. A house was a house and a tree was a tree. In the boy’s world, trees did not have to be cut and houses could still be built of wood. The man often wondered if the boy thought houses were like mushrooms and simply appeared after a hard rainfall.

"To build houses. Gotta build houses if you want people to have someplace to live, ya know?”

"But they cut down my favorite tree.” Wandering the hillside behind their home, the boy had found a redwood so large that even the man had not been able to get his arms around its trunk. The boy went often to sit at the base of the tree. One day it was gone, along with many others, and a new dirt road had been carved into the face of the hill to allow logging crews and their trucks better access. The devastation crushed the boy, who had cried for hours afterward.

“I know, son, but that’s their job. And it is their land. Remember, you were only visiting.”

“But it was a nice tree. And really big, too.”

“It sure was. Kind of a shame it was cut like that.”

“How come we gotta use trees to build houses? Is it cheaper?” The boy knew that money was often a source of contention between his mother and father. Cheaper was always better. Nobody ever yelled about buying cheap stuff.

“Sometimes. Sometimes it can be more expensive. I guess it depends on where you live in the world. Like here. Lumber is really expensive here.”

“But this is where the trees come from,” the boy said.

“They have to cut up the logs somewhere else and ship the wood back here. That’s a lot of driving. Makes the price of wood more.”

“What other kinda stuff do they build houses with?”

The man pulled out a cigarette, then paused, chewing on his lower lip as he thought about his son’s question.

“I dunno. Different parts of the world use different things. Some places they use mud and other places they use skins and stuff." He lit the cigarette and sighed as he felt the smoke bite his lungs.

“Do we use that kinda stuff?” The boy thought a mud house would be the coolest ever.

“Nah. We use brick or concrete or steel. And wood, of course.”

“Oh.”

The boy pondered this for a moment. “So, if they can build a house with all that stuff for cheap, why don’t they?”

The man shrugged. “I dunno. I guess cuz it’s easier. People spent a bunch of years learning to build houses with wood. Maybe we got too good at it. Or may we’re just lazy.”

“Oh.”

The boy picked up a stick and poked the ground. “Is our house wood?”

“Uh, no.” The boy’s father flicked his cigarette butt into the bushes.

He could tell that one of the tires on the bike was getting flat. He’d already patched it twice. Maybe it was time to get a new one. Damn, tires weren’t cheap.

“Pa?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are we going?”

“Gonna pick mushrooms, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” The boy paused. “How come?”

“Gotta make money. Need to eat and pay for stuff, ya know? Can’t steal it, and nobody’s gonna give it to us.” Amen, brother, he thought to himself. Wasn’t that the truth? In the man’s life, nobody, including his folks, had given him anything.

“Do the people who cut down trees make money?”

The man snorted. “Hell, yes! They make a lot of money.”

“Can you cut down trees?”

The man shrugged.

“I don’t know how. That’s a hard job and it’s dangerous and scary. People get hurt a lot cuttin’ trees. Especially if they don’t know what they’re doing.”

“They do?”

“Yep. You wouldn’t want your dad to get hurt, would you?”

The boy shook his head. “Uh, uh. No way.”

The man smiled. Sweat dripped from his brow. His hair was damp. He felt his shirt sticking to his back. What was this kind of weather doing on the coast? It was almost eighty.

Another truck sped by, this time on the far side of the road. Again, the man snatched at the boy’s arm, pulling further off the highway, his heart in his throat and his stomach clenching, testicles rising. The man felt sure he could touch the dusty steel of the logging truck, it was so large and road felt so small. All he could do was try to keep his distracted child out of their speeding path and hold up the rusty bicycle. They were like two deer waiting to become road-kill.

This was insane. Even when the trucks were in the other lane they felt dangerously close. The boy deserved to be in school, but the reality of children is that they are cruel without thinking and the words of the children who were not slow hurt the boy deeply. The man and his wife had seemed to go around in circles with the boy’s teachers and principal, but nothing seemed to change the special kind of hell that was school for the boy. So they had taken the boy out of school.

But the man and his son needed the money and there wasn’t any other way for them to get to where they wanted to hunt for mushrooms. It had rained the previous morning, hard enough to convince the man to look for the little nuggets of fungal gold. With luck, he’d be able to pay the rent all at one time. Maybe afford a tire for the bike.

“Pa?”

“Yeah.”

“Can we go home? I’m hot.”

“I know, but we have to find some mushrooms.”

“How come we pick mushrooms to make money?”

“Well, they’re worth a lot. People pay if we have good mushrooms.”

“Joe, at school, his dad builds houses. And they don’t live in a bus.”

The man had no answer for that.

“Pa? What do you do?”

“I guess you could say I’m a farmer.”

“But we don’t have a farm. How can you be a farmer if we don’t have a farm?”

“Well, we have all those planters and stuff. Not all farmers have farms like on TV, ya know?”

“Oh. I hate farmers. We’re poor.” The boy kicked the ground.

The man turned.

“Listen. Your mother and I do what we can. We both work hard to try to give all of us a place to live."

If it weren’t for the boy, the man and his wife would be splitsville. They lived for their son.

“I love you very much and I would give us everything if I could, but I can’t. I don’t know how to build houses or cut down trees. I do know how to find mushrooms and that makes us some money. And I grow what I can at home and sell that.”

"Like your plants that are way out in the woods?”

“How…?”

The man thought about those particular plants. Right around September those girls would earn them enough money to move into a real place. Thank God for medical marijuana laws. Unfortunately, the landlord was less tolerant. If he got wind of those plants, literally, they would be evicted quick. They started walking again.

“You know about those, huh?”

“Mom says I’m not supposed to talk about them.”

“She’s right. You’re not.”

“Why?”

"Well, it’s kinda like why people don’t talk about what moms and dads do after bedtime. Or going potty. We just don’t.”

"Oh.”

The boy thought about that for a moment.

“We’re not supposed to talk about a lot of stuff, huh?”

“Sometimes, it feels like that.” And sometimes, my son, we’re supposed to talk about things we don’t. Just wait until you’re married, the man thought.

The man looked up at the sound of a truck’s engine brake. Another log truck, taking the road too fast and too wide. The air brakes hissed. The man saw the truck swerve.

Turning, he saw his son standing on the hot black surface of the road, head down, swinging his white bucket back and forth in front of him, the toes of his shoes dragging with each step. The man had time to do nothing more than reach out his hand toward the boy.

Later that week, the local paper carried a letter to the editor. The reader suggested that the boy should never have been walking on that particular stretch of road, and his father should be sent to jail for neglect. Why wasn’t the boy in school? Why did the father thing that a child should be required to help earn money instead of playing with fireflies? The reader suggested the man think about finding a better way of making money and maybe find a better way of getting from one place to another. The reader never thought to suggest widening the road.

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