Tomas in the late Sixties, with the Mustang & Sylvia's belt
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iii
Views About Life
God was a statement made by man to describe the world
to which he does not understand.
God was a statement made by man to describe the world
to which he does understand.
Religion teaches one values, morals and laws.
Freedom, you are free to do as we wish, but mind values,
morals and laws.
All the great religions and philosophies take you
on one path, one enlightenment, one salvation. Each is the only path.
There are many paths. Take yours.
Man is vain to be clean and to multiply.
Man is the dominant species.
These statements are all true and false.
When we open our mouth to speak, we have something
to say.
These statements are man-made materials.
Your truth is your own.
Man is horny for a purpose.
Have a good time, have fun and respect mankind.
Quote "Love the one you're with" Unquote.
Sow to speak.
***
Some people are faithfully, religious anarchists.
Do you believe that I am wrong?
"Heah, ya gotta worship something!"
***
The great experience of having dropped out -- or flowed
out as in my case -- is that you have the luxury of finding inner peace,
the community of sharing. The great joy of knowing that the ground under
us will feed us. Nobody will starve in America with a little knowledge.
Your community is under you wherever you go. If you are a freebird, your
community is with you and under you. If you work during the week and go
to a commune on weekends, your community is under you. If you work full
time (9 to 5), your community is under you. Do the right thing, be good,
and remember when a man opens his mouth, he has something to say.
I often ran into Wheeler's and Morning Star folks when I was living on Berkeley streets, a seventeen-year-old runaway from West-By-God-Virginia, surviving by a wing and a prayer and little more. It was a very rough existence. I would be panhandling on Telegraph and M* folks would give me food or cash or a kind word, they would tell me of their home in the woods," I was welcome to come live in their teepee, they were concerned about my well-being on the streets." I always turned down their offers, thought they were a bit odd, could not imagine how to survive in the woods without relying on survival- sex, dumpster diving, pan-handling, petty-theft, and just plain living by my wits. One day, 2 guys, African- American John Thomas from New Jersey and strawberry-blonde, very light-blue eyes, Lloyd, said they would stand for it no more, I was going to die on the streets, they literally snatched me up, kidnapped me with my dog, Magpie, an angel dog from the hills. I only had the clothes on my back, a red flannel shirt I got from the Peoples Park free-box, and blue overalls with intricate embroidery and patches, my own handy-work, and no shoes, of course. We hitchhiked away, my rescuers taking me to Wheelers, me scrawny, half-starved and having no idea what lay ahead, and worried about the street-kid family I was leaving behind, many of whom depended on my street smarts and resourcefulness. To be continued, and sent with pure love. PEACE,
Lloyd and J.T. were truly my guardian angels. With
pure unconditional love and concern they snatched me off the Berkeley streets
and brought me home to Wheeler's.
Many people may have experienced a darker side of
Wheeler's, but for me men never forced sex upon me or expected payback,
they acted like brothers, aware of my vulnerability and prior exploitation
on the streets, they were extremely protective and caring. Wheeler's was
a place to heal and to grow, a retreat, to be nurtured in nature. I'd actually
known Lloyd for a couple of years on the streets. He had a dog named Greystone,
named after prison walls, I believe. He had strawberry blonde hair and
almost opaque light blue eyes, and very smooth skin. Being only about 18
or 19 himself, he wasn't yet shaving. I knew little else about him. Back
in those days, nobody spoke of their past, and nobody asked. You were who
you were at the moment.
Lloyd had once mentioned something about some warrants
and possible drug bust in the Newark area -- he couldn't go home again.
He always had a plentiful supply of very pure windowpane, his distributor
being a 13-yr-old girl on UC Berkeley campus whose father manufactured
his own goods. Once on feast day he handed stuff out freely on the end
of his pocketknife. You just stuck out your tongue and accepted the sacrament.
It was a lovely spring day and we all floated off into the cosmos.
J.T. was a very mellow man who once mentioned he had
attended Rutgers University. He told me there was a cow there with a windowpane
(different kind) in its stomach so you could see all its innards and digestive
processes. I was very impressed by this tidbit of information, from John,
a college man. I had spent almost two years as a homeless teen roaming
UCB campus, sleeping in bushes and sponge-bathing in restroom sinks, drying
off with rough brown paper towels. I watched girl students my own age chattering
away in the restrooms while they applied mascara in the mirrors. I felt
invisible, painfully aware of social, economic and educational stratification.
Sometimes I would walk around campus carrying a notebook trying to pretend
I too was a student, but doors were locked. So I was impressed with J.T.
I had never been north of the SF Bay area before.
When we reached the rainbow tunnel that crosses into Marin, I felt like
I was crossing into another realm and entering into a magic kingdom. I
was like Alice through the looking glass, that rainbow an epiphany. Walking
away from life as I knew it and witnessing those soft, green rolling hills
for the first time.
I was a peripheral person at Wheelers compared to most
of you, but I have quite a story to tell. I hope you read and enjoy it!
Responses of any type are 'Most' welcome. I kept detailed journals, mostly
of my thoughts, while living on the streets and at the Ranch.
Up until recently they were too painful for me to
look back upon, but I recently decided to send them on to Ramon to do with
as he pleases. I was 17 and 18 years old, a runaway from West Virginia,
when they were lived and recorded. I do not own a computer, nor do I know
how to use them or type very well. When I get one of my own I will figure
out how to set up a page so it will be more legible for you all to read!
Anyway, sit back and enjoy the journey as Maggie and I travel on...
Maggie, my beloved, loyal and faithful dog... liberated
from a West Virginia dog pound, she was probably the only West Virginia
Birddog that walked across America! We hitchhiked back and forth across
the US together numerous times, including once smack dab in the middle
of a howling winter blizzard, crossing northern- most Interstate 80 of
course!
I wore a threadbare Goodwill coat, no socks, and a
pair of too large, boys converse tennies. In a bland small Midwest town,
standing roadside, my heart sunk as a cop passed, stopped and circled round
back my way. It was dusk and below freezing, Maggie was wrapped in a sweater,
I was holding her in my arms for warmth. The cop thought she was a baby,
and was not too pleased to find out otherwise. He ordered us to get into
the cruiser, and proceeded to insult 'us immoral, filthy hippie types'
and lecture me about safety, as well as grill me about my lifestyle so
foreign from his own, he was truly curious and perplexed. His plan was
to drive me across town and deposit me outside the city limits and his
jurisdiction! I chose to be totally honest with him, explaining my side
of the coin in a patient and kindly manner.
As darkness fell, he turned off the highway and pulled
into the towns only motel. He left me in the car, and went in to talk to
the proprietor. When he returned along with a key to a room, he handed
me his lunch neatly packed by his wife in a brown paper bag, a tuna sandwich
and packaged cupcakes for his night shift.
"You'll be hungry." I protested. He refused to take
the lunch back.
"Just be out of town by daylight," he said as he pulled
out of the gravelled lot. Maggie and I shared the sandwich, and enjoyed
a warm bed for the night. We had another guardian angel.
"What type of dog is she??" folks would always ask
me.
"Birddog," I'd proudly reply. They'd scratch their
heads and look perplexed, no one ever got my little joke of naming a bird
dog, "Magpie." My Maggie was loyal beyond belief, she helped soften the
many harsh blows along the way.
She and I were very well known on the streets of Berkeley.
We'd crawl out from whatever hole or crash pad we were sleeping in, and
head up to upper Telegraph Avenue, near Sproul Plaza at the first light
of day. This may seem hard to believe, but it is true, Maggie and I would
discuss our plans for the day, kiss goodbye, and head our separate ways!
Maggie off to do her doggie thing, and me off running down my little trip!
The Hare Krishnas were after me for years to become
a devotee. They called me, Doggirl. "You're a dog running the streets and
living just like her," they would admonish, pointing at Maggie. "You'll
come back as a dog in your next life if you don't accept Lord Krishna into
your life."
The Berkeley cops also found me to be a constant source
for their harassment and sadistic pleasures. "Apache," they called me in
a very racist and derogatory manner. Because of my jet-black hair and tan
complexion they assumed I was Native American! I am not. AIM had taken
over Alcatraz for the first time, and the police were hot under the collar.
Free Huey P. had been going on, Vietnam rioting, and scores of runaways
kept them occupied I now realize, but their cruelty to me was extreme and
uncalled for. They provided absolutely no protection for me, in fact, thought
it was their duty to protect the local citizens from the likes of me!
So, they would shout out as I walked by, "Hey, Apache,
when are you gonna cook and eat that dog?"
They'd make war-whoop sounds and yuck it up. I'd say
something sassy back as I walked by with my head held high, but it always
hurt my feelings terribly that they cared so little, if at all, whether
I lived or died. Anyway, I better not get too far off course here with
my Maggie tale. Maybe I'll do a cop story another time.
Anyway, every day about dusk Maggie and I would reunite
with each other on the steps of Sproul Plaza. How she knew to do this,
I'll never fathom, but she was always loyally there waiting for me to return
at approximately 5:00 every evening. Amidst throngs of people we would
locate each other to go about our nightly business of rounding up dinner
and a crash pad.
Every night at this time there'd be the little ol'
Jewish man waiting in front of the tree planter for us, with a can of dog
food for Maggie, and 2 dollars for me. He wore a button on his lapel that
read "Jewish Power." He had a thick Yiddish or German accent and was actually
quite handsome with very nut brown skin and silver curly hair. He always
said the same thing to me, "Call your mother," he'd say, "call your mother."
My benevolent street grandpa and another guardian angel, may he rest in
peace. I would feed Maggie 1/2 the can of dog food, and proceed down the
street with the rest.
In front of Cody's Books, Frankie and Jeremy would
be waiting. Frankie was a young and strung-out girl in far worse shape
than myself. She was dazed and covered in filth and practically mute with
terror. Jeremy was a magnificently beautiful striped dog many of us called
"Marble Cake." I would give him the other half of the dog food, and to
Frankie I'd give whatever change (I was a pro at panhandling) I could spare
and food if I had any. Maggie and I would then walk back up Telegraph to
the open-air grocery where the blind man waited with his tin cup and white
cane. He would take my elbow, and we would stroll off of Telegraph, past
People's Park and head to the church soup kitchen. A long line of assorted
runaways, flower children, drug addicts and dealers, escaped cons, AWOLS
and various schizophrenics, all of my friends in fact, already stretched
down the block in a long line.
I'd lead the old blind man to the front of the line,
always to the protest of one loud and obnoxious individual, "Get the bitch
out of there, she's just using the blind guy so she can cut in front of
the line!" I would make sure the man was deposited safely, then walk way
back to the end of the line to take my place, passing my heckler who would
usually be embarrassed and humbled into submission by now, knowing that
my distant place in line meant less food, if any. After our meal, Maggie
and I would head back to Telegraph and wait until 11 PM or so when the
restaurants closed. We each had our favorites, so we would split up to
go to them. The owners, managers and workers knew us well, and bagged leftover
food was always waiting for our nightly arrival.
We would then either go to a crashpad if they seemed
relatively safe -- I almost always had to provide sex for a place to sleep
in these arrangements -- or we'd get together with other street kids and
sleep in abandoned buildings, on rooftops, or in somebody's backyard.
More often then not we would all go down to the International
House Of Pancakes, the only place open 24 hours. We were welcome there,
the waitresses were incredibly kind, and we had endless pots of coffee
to stay awake all night, all the pancakes we could eat, and Maggie tied
up outside in the bushes, enjoyed lots of leftover sausage.
One day while walking the long walk back to Berkeley
from a crash pad in North Oakland, Maggie walked out in front of a speeding
car. I watched helplessly in horror as it hit her and she flew up into
the air. As the car sped away, I ran to her screaming. Her leg was totally
mangled and thrown back over her shoulder, but she was still breathing.
A red Volkswagon circled back and stopped.
"I saw everything," a woman said. "Get in and I'll
take you to my vet."
She had short brown hair and a very masculine appearance.
I wasn't accustomed to women who looked like that and was a bit mistrustful,
but for Maggie's sake I got in. I was inconsolable and very, very frightened.
Maggie clung to life as she stared very deeply into my eyes with her large
brown, soulful doggie eyes.
"Don't worry girl, you're gonna make it, I won't let
you die! You can't die and leave me here all alone." I spoke to her softly
as we sped to the vet.
Once there, they anesthetized Maggie for the night
and handed me a card with their office's phone number. I was told to call
them the following afternoon. I thanked the woman who brought me and sadly
went away to wait out the long night. I called the clinic the next day.
Maggie was fine, pins had been put in her leg, she would have to wear a
cast for some time, but she would eventually be good as new. I was so happy,
but had no idea how to pay such an exorbitant bill.
"Don't worry about that," they said, "The woman who
brought you in paid for everything!"
I never even knew her name or saw her again -- another
guardian angel.
Maggie spent months happily hobbling around Berkeley
in a full cast, but her leg eventually healed to good as new. And that
folks brings us up to my current story, hitchhiking to Wheelers, a motley
crew consisting of a runaway flower child, a muscular African-American
male from New Jersey, a blonde, spacey male transporting God-knows-what
in his sock and a West Virginia Birddog.
Of course, we got rides all the way there! We mostly
rode in silence gazing out at the landscape which was strange and new to
my eyes. As we got closer to Occidental, Lloyd said he had something he
had to tell me. He had left his dog, Greystone, behind in Berkeley for
a reason.
"Wheeler's is a very free place," he said. "There
are no rules there really, no rules except one."
He proceeded to tell me about the Coleman Valley sheep
farmers, how even the best of dogs form packs and kill sheep, and how Bill
was desperately trying to keep the peace with his already antagonistic
neighbors. "You'll have to hide out way down on the Knoll until you figure
out what to do with Maggie. The knoll is way back on the land, and Bill
doesn't go there."
So, this was my first impression of Bill, an omnipotent
Paul Bunyanish sort, yet who was generous beyond belief and provided a
free home to the likes of me. I was in awe and terrified of him from the
start, so I planned to keep my distance. With a hopeful but heavy heart
I looked forward to my arrival shortly at Wheeler's Ranch.
I will jump ahead now just so I can finish the Maggie
part of my story. I did end up hiding out way down on the knoll. It turned
out that Bill himself had a dog, a rather large dog at that, in fact, a
Newfoundland named Lala! This fact caused much consternation among folks.
They would harass poor Bill by dognapping Lala and taking her to the dog
pound. He would have to go into town and bail her out. These same folks
somehow eventually caught wind of Maggie for she soon too began being 'disappeared.'
I would have to send some guy into town, and sure enough she'd be sitting
in the pound, waiting to make bail.