The MOST Newsletter Autumn 1999 Volume VI #3
A Project of The Peregrine Foundation
P.O. Box 460141 / San Francisco, CA 94146-0141 / telephone:
(415) 821-2090
/ fax (415) 282-2369
Staff: Ramon Sender, editor; Vivian Gotters, Pam Read
Hanna, Sandi Stein,
Contributing Editors; Tomas Diaz & David Hatch, HTML
wizards.
The MOST Newsletter is an open forum for fact and opinion,
and encourages
the expression of all views.
The opinions expressed in the letters published are those
of the
correspondents and do not necessarily reflects those
of MOST editors or
staff.
Autumn 1999 Volume VI #3 i - ii- iii
-------------- "What Go 'Round Come Around" --------------
Autumn, with amazing weather, but meanwhile we bid good-bye
to Brother
Tuck, who blasted off for the hyperdimensions with hardly
time to say
goodbye to his dear Suzi and the girls. Tuck had a heart
condition, but
still was a young man of 49 years. One moment he was
seated at his computer
laughing heartily at something he was reading, and the
next minute he was
gone. Much love and condelences to Suzi, Barbara, Julie,
& Lisa, and a BIG
BADABA to one of the most dedicated of Morningstar Brothers.
ALSO, Coyote
(Paul Otto) is back in the hospital with pneumonia. He
needs serious
wellbeams from all.
Your MOST Faithful Staff
-------------- "Meanwhile, Back Off The Ranch" --------------
Click here to see photo
of Lou, Pam and Don
Most Postees
Ramon Sender, 9/3/99: I've taken on the 40-hr-a-wk
job as Adminitrative Director of the Noe Valley Ministry, which is so close
to our house that our cordless phone dials out from my new office there.
The NVM functions as a community center for our neighborhood as well as
a More Light Presbyterian Church (More Light signifies that they do not
discriminate against anyone for the sexual orientation, etc.) The logo
for the church is an eight-sided Celtic-type knot that looks a lot like
the morning star symbol. Whaddiya know... I like the energy there... but
it's a challenge to get the office to where it runs itself. Judy makes
me lunch every day and walks it across the street.
Now, something important!
Due to a number of reasons -- my lack of time, The MOST
Newsletter's lack of funds, I am only going to send hard copy to those
of you who actually have subscribed. However the issue will be posted on
www.ic.org/morningstar and be available there for anyone who wants to read
it. I figure, what with most libraries connected to the Internet these
days, those who want to can always read it/download it there. If you want
a hard copy, you can send me the wherewithal. Obviously we'll continue
to scholarship a few who either are too far out (!) to get to a library
or who need the boost. Meanwhile, please get rich, win the Lotto or something,
and send me lots of money. Then I can quit my job and badaba what I badaba
best -- don't ask what that is. Badaba,
Corky, 7/19/99: Terry and John-John's oldest son, Areic, got married to lovely Jessica on Saturday afternoon at a beautiful ranch garden in the middle of a lemon orchard in Refugio canyon about a half mile from the ocean and 15 miles north of Santa Barbara. Terry and I left the beach at noon today and drove 8 hours back home to Napa where we met our new granddaughter, Gillian (Lily), who had arrived Wednesday at 12:54 am while we were driving down the coast. She's a sweetheart. Were glad to be home. Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, RAH! La-la-la-la life goes on.....
Tomas, 9/3/99: Speaking and thinking, writing and talking. Words are being placed online. People seeing and believing, understanding and thinking. We are part of the whole, foul language and all. As we speak and write, things become clear. Words have meaning, ideas are good, love is ideal, pain is understood. We are the barons of our thoughts. Thanks for writing! The life and times of the Morningstar/Wheeler are being understood. Whispers and Chants, badaba, love, peace,
Jodi Mitchell, 9/3/99: Just wanted to say "Hi!"
to Bishop... thank you for remembering me! I really enjoyed your story
and hope you continue on. I do plan to write more as time and brainpower
and creative impulse permits. Did you know my good friend, Pat, married
to Gypsy Paul and their child, Eden? They are a future story. She, Moonflower
and Nasu were my best female friends. You will hear about all of them soon.
I've been meaning to welcome you aboard, Winston... have not yet made it
to
Austin but will look you up when I do. My sister lives
in walking distance from David Pratt's gallery... we could meet there!
Saw Jimmie Dale Gilmore recently in a small local dive -- what a treat
that was! He reawakened my Austin bug!
Walked down to the Haw River yesterday. They closed off
the old bridge and made it a foot bridge -- you can follow a path down
to the river... Boy, was it pretty!.. I saw two blue herons flapping wings
and doing some sort of dance on the center island. Tomorrow I'm going to
an old-fashioned farmers day, a barn dance and bluegrass, country and gospel
music, antique tractor pull, homemade ice cream, pinto beans, lemonade,
local arts and crafts, etc... Saturday going to watch local master potter
fire up his
kiln. He has one of the largest kilns in the world and
only fires her up once a year. He makes unique giant pots and if he messes
up, he loses a year's worth of work and income. The handmade kiln is a
work of art in itself, like a giant serpent painted with designs, symbols
and glyphs. See all of you in three days, after the holiday... Have a good
one! Love,
Joanie Sutton, 9/2/99: Hi Ramon and everybody! The MOST Newsletter is getting better all the time. So in my incarnation as young hippy girl, I throw flower leis over all of your necks, and blow kisses as we run together through the virtual meadow! Jodi continues to amaze with her wonderful memoirs. I don't think I ever met you when you were at Wheelers. I may have been gone by that time, myself. Tomas is so steady and inspiring with his contributions! And now Bishop, whom I also don't remember is adding great memories too. Thanks for all the links. Love,
Alicia Bay Laurel, 9/5/99: My memories of my days
at Wheeler Ranch have come full circle this year as I spent three months
integrating information gathered over the last three years into the revised
edition of Living On The Earth. Naturally, the revision had to be done
entirely by hand, with a primitive light table, rubber cement, white-out,
pens, and scissors, since the original was, too. It was a long deep communion
with the self I was at 19 and 20; the dance was to maintain her spirit
rather than let the person I have become at 50 take over. I delivered the
finished artwork to the offices of Random House in New York on August 18.
The publication date is April 23, 2000, Earth Day. Many say it should be
released before Y2K, but the publishers seem unconcerned. Like them, I
am not planning on any large scale calamities. Coincidentally, this summer
I also sold the wedding coordinating business on Maui that I started eleven
years ago and am devoting myself entirely to freelance art, writing and
music. I am planning to go on the road in the summer of 2000, partly to
promote the book, partly to have the sort of freewheeling adventures I
used to have before I cornered myself into a service business for so long.
I am hoping to see
some of my old friends along the way. If there is a bookstore
or art gallery with a sort of alternative/ecological /spiritual focus in
your area, let me know. I'll contact them to see if they'd be interested
in hosting an evening event.
Gathering up the past is a process of adding value to
one's self. Bringing old friendships into new life is nourishing as well.
I applaud this forum and all who are offering here. Aloha...
David Hatch, 9/7/99: Dear MOST Digesters, Pam suggested
online in The Most Digest #75 that we put in $25 a month to keep Tuck's
website going. My opinion is that much of his site can migrate to the www.ic.org/morningstar
site where the newsletters are posted. The ic/morningstar site could be
THE
morningstar site, with a M* home page much like Tuck's
(except maybe with new content and [I hope] a new background). Important
pages, such as Pam's M* Chronicles could be placed there. Also, the ic/morningstar
the digest recently have much content that could be used, along with some
of his
philosophy and views as expressed on pages at his site.
Anyone have a good picture of him? Hope everyone here (in the USA) had
a good holiday! Badaba,
David.
Dick Fairfield, 9/8/99: (editor of "The
Modern Utopian" VRFMBEACH@aol.com writes in): Ramon, I just finished
reading the Autumn '96 (!!!!) MOST on the Lou Life celebration, reading
in one long uninterrupted session while on vacation, resisting the continuing
impulse to write my own eulogy to Lou.
As you may recall, I had started the first underground
press magazine, The Modern Utopian, in the mid-60s, and became completely
devoted to the emerging commune movement. Personally, I was never a full
participant; always an enthusiastic supporter. By the time I moved to Sebastapol
as the minister of the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Sonoma County,
I was fully aware of Lou's great gift as an orator. The kindly Fellowship
folk were delighted to have me as a minister on the fringe of that profession,
importing piles of sand to the Sunday morning services
for everyone to play in, while I recited from Kahlil Gibran "On Becoming
As Little Children". I could not speak or proclaim or even begin to wax
as eloquently as Lou; so, as frequently as I dared, Lou became my invited
guest to impart THE WORD to
the congregation.
What a joy it was to hear him speak. I hardly remember
what he said (something about taking a little opium on plane flight across
country made the trip much faster); but, how he said it with so much humor
will always be embedded in my soul and always remain an inspirational role
model. In those days, I'm sure, I sat in awe of him, not as a guru but
as someone larger than life, not just because of his size.
Those were my theological days, far removed from the
present? Another lifetime. Then, I could have imagined Lou as "the Father"
and you, Ramon, "the Son," playing the accordion, dispensing the word,
and I (along with many, many others) were each a piece of "the Holy Spirit"
spreading the word further about community, freedom, peace, and above all
else, the love of life. The one statement from Lou I have so often quoted
was his response to a question about people who came to Morningstar and
contributed absolutely nothing: "Ah, yes, 'basket cases', he replied, "They
are the ones who are put here to test your ability to love." To my knowledge,
Lou always passed that test.
I arrived in Berkeley about a year after you had moved
to Morningstar. By the time I moved to Sebastapol in 1969, Morningstar
was already under heavy litigation and "land clearing". It was on Bill
Wheeler's Ranch that you were building your new home. My companion and
fellow commune traveler, at
the time, was Consuelo Sandoval. She knew you in the
early 60s through the experimental dance and music scene in San Francisco.
When we came to visit you at Wheelers, we marveled at the home you had
built almost literally in the ground. As supportive as I was, I could not
see myself living there. In fact, after
a few more months in Sebastapol, we moved back to the
City -- definitely city types; even though I did grow up in a very small
rural town. My macrobiotic diet of vegetables and brown rice lasted less
than 6 months in Sebastapol; I preferred those decadent Italian restaurants
in Occidental! I must say, I felt less guilty about all that when I ran
into Lou and Rena at the local movie theater munching on bags of popcorn.
("Wow!", I thought, "Lou goes to the movies and eats popcorn too!")
Now, I'm caught up reading all of THE MOST: Jodi and
Tomas' accounts were fascinating as were many others. Reading about encounters
with the police brought back my own memories, of course: My old weather-worn
blue station wagon was a great target. On a midday, a cop stopped me for
a broken taillight. He sat me in his vehicle and wanted to discuss why
I had a "Don't Eat Grapes" bumper sticker. When I moved to LA, not only
the station wagon but also my long, long hair, beard, and hippy-style clothes
got attention. I got a ticket for "jaywalking" at midnight on a deserted
street (no joke). Another time a policeman stopped me and asked for my
driver's license. He read the address: "PO Box F". "Oh, so you live in
a box, huh", he inquired sarcastically. "No, not any more! I live down
that street," I pointed.
Your dog story in the latest issue (Summer ' reminded
me of the feisty little toy poodle I had at the time. He would have loved
participating in that fight. Because I was traveling so much, I left him
with San Francisco friends who fattened him up with table scraps and rich
doggy treats. He did not live to a ripe old age. Today I have another small
mellow dog, a Maltese, whose 3rd greatest love is chasing our two cats.
His "mommie", my wife of 17 years, is his second love. His 1st love, of
course is food, without which I would get none of his attention. As small
and mellow as he is, he'd be right in their fighting with the rest of 'em,
when food calls. (The moral of the story, if there is one, is: First and
foremost, feed all of us throughout the world well, and we'll avoid a lot
of bloodshed and pain.) Until later, the Most good vibes and loving wishes
to all, Richard.
PS: Ramon, I'm finally after several years going to contribute
my $25.00 again. It is about time. I give $5.00 - $10.00 a year to the
Disabled Vets and the Veterans of Foreign Wars; so, why not to the Vets
of Local Communes! You're the MOST -- keep publishing.
PPS: In the USA, communes may have faded; but, I believe,
they have left a very positive mark on the present: Where I live, for example,
in South West Florida, all the baby boomers from up North are buying condos.
Although living in separate apartments, they can and do mingle with each
other a lot, learning to get along, sharing the same common spaces and
common expenses... on a level far greater than most Americans ever thought
of doing in the 60s. Land trusts are also springing up all over. (One Florida
lawyer makes a good living selling books and tapes on how to go about setting
one up.) Given the "right intentions", land trusts can indeed be used to
"deed the land to God". Bravo to those Sonoma and Bodega Land trust participants!!
Vivian Gotters, 9/19/99: Hi to All!! I'm trying
to keep up with the reading of MOST. Lots of great material! I agree with
Bishop, please let's not have too much paranoia gumming up the works! Good
to hear from Denise. Tell us how you are. To Suzi, Lisa, Julie and Barbara,
I send my love. I remember
vividly the birthday party you had for me. What did I
do with the tape of that party. Did I give it to you and Tuck, Suzi? I
hope so. Actually, this is a test... I'm not sure I'm replying on the right
path. So, I'll send this and see what happens. Love to all of you, Vivian
Bea Phair, 7/27/99: One thing about the last newsletter,
Pam said one of the rooms in the adobe was Waymen's and then me and the
kids moved in....NOT... me and the kids with David Pratt's major help along
with Charley and many others built that room and after Emanuel was born
and Willie left, Waymen moved in. About 2 weeks later I went to find Patrick
(Diev) who went with Willie for 3 weeks and it had been more like 3 months.
I didn't get back so Waymen and others sold my family heirlooms and tied
one on. It surprized me Pam got mixed up since she delivered
Emanuel in that room with Willie, David and Penny in attendance. Guess
I'm not the only one forgetting the details. That's whats nice about lots
of people telling the story. You don't need to repeat the bit about Waymen
and others selling my stuff. I guess I'm still a little sorry about thoes
things being gone. I'm sorry Waymen is gone that way too.
Eulater Be
Section Two: Tuck Feature
Click to see photo of Tuck with canine-consuming
feline, Eowyn.
Sandi Stine, 8/20/99: Tuck Remembered and More
Well, I got through to Suzie tonight after calling Coyote, Peggy and Bishop,
White Feather, and information to find Bart's phone number. I spoke with
him and he confirmed that Tuck's youngest daughter, Barbara had called
to say that Tuck had a heart attack this morning and died. I then got Suzie's
number and spoke with her. She is upset but has her family around her and
seemed as well as could be expected. She loved Tuck very much and he was
good to her, so he will be missed. She said he was at the computer laughing
one minute and gone the next. That seems like a fitting parting for Brother
Tuck, nes't pas? She is calling me tomorrow to tell me of arrangements.
They will bury him in Maryland, and I didn't have the heart to tell her
about the ashes at Morningstar thing, oh well, some things cannot be unfixed.
I think its' strange that today is also the day my father
died some ten years ago, in the morning. coinkidink, eh?
I'm kind of surprised, (of course I thought Tuck was
dead for years, some time ago, so much so, I wrote deceased on a marriage
license and became a bigamist). I'm not feeling nparticularly sad, but
I will tell you there are two things he did that I truly love him for.
The first was that he brought me to live at Morningstar, and while I had
lived at Wheeler's and been to M* before I met him, he knew the teritory
and everybody in it. He was the social bridge for that shy, young girl,
who spent the better part of her
time hiding in the woods avoiding all the way most cool
folks, because they were all so cool. He introduced me to Lou, and Ramon,
and Coyote, and Louie (lion), Barry Plunker Adams. He took me to Marble
Mount Washington, the birthplace of the rainbow tribe, where we walked
deserters across the
border to Hope, B.C. I met my Art delivering the Kaliflower
intercommunal newsletter in our apartment at 1660 Waller, in 1969...we
would not find each other as partners til some 25 years later. Willie B,
Jon-Jon and Terry, Pam Hanna, who became my ally on the bulletin board
from hell. So in some sense, Tuck
brought me to all of you, which has meant more to me
over the years than most other things in my life.
And never mind all that other shit, which there was plenty
of, and we all know it. What did'ja expect from a moral anarchist?
The second wonderful thing he did, was that fine piece
of internet art, the morningstar home page. Suzie says that she wants to
keep that going, and is hoping that someone will be syssop for it. I hope
so too, it was probably the best work Tuck ever did in his life.
So how we are all shaped and shifted by one another,
and what comes to really matter in the end is that we were loved and loved.
Wonder if he found Lou and their arguing yet. Thanks for all the all, Abadaba,
catch you on the flip-flop.
Bart mentioned a piece I wrote some time ago about Bolinas,
it is the only piece I talked about Tuck in (short of our conversations
on the most). I am sending it with this message. Love to all in you that
lives, and all beyond you that loves. Badaba, Sandi
It was 1973, and except for a few militant new age holdouts
and twelve year old wanna be's, the dream was over. Half a million marchers
against a war never properly named couldn't catch the attention of a bunch
of blind, corrupt bastards masquerading as an administration in Washington,
D.C., and an awful lot of acid heads are trading in tickets to the land
of enlightenment for droppers, points, and bags of stuff that take them
to the way far down land of nowhere. Not what I would call a banner year
in the chronicles of higher consciousness!
The Haight was a graveyard, a bleak and littered ending
for brightly colored innocence. Hollow-eyed junkies and speed freaks stood
knee deep in dead dreams, pale ghouls waiting to cop. And it seemed like
every day more people were enlisting in the zombie regiments of the addicted.
I tried a couple of survivor guilt and heroin cocktails, but shooting dope
never did much for me except make me throw up and then have to lie very
still in a dark place. It was too hard to stay in the Haight, and since
self destruction through drugs seems untenable, I did the next best thing
-- I left!
So me, Tuck my ex-digger husband, and Eowyn, the dog-eating
cat escaped the city, and found a friendly refuge in Bolinas. We inherited
a wonderful house built into the western faced cliffs of RCA beach, aptly
named the ''Cliff Boat" and adjusted to our new life of self-imposed exile.
I only met the blue-eyed , wild haired merchant marine who built that house
once when he stopped by and spent an hour telling us in loving detail about
the cobalt blue and brick flagstone floor. He described himself as a frustrated
shipwright who was forced to practice his craft on dry
land. I didn't really understand, until the first time it stormed and the
cliff boat walls creaked long sounds while the whole place swayed, just
like a boat riding
out the rhythms of wind and surf. Even after months of
living there, the salt rains whipping across the windows would still wake
me up wondering if we hadn't finally achieved the mad shipbuilder's dream
and worked loose of our mooring to set sail across the frothy sea! Yes,
all things considered, Bolinas and the Cliff boat house were a wonderful
place to stitch up the sails of my soul. Life was simple. It had to be
since we were trying to avoid the money wheel. We had to haul our drinking
water from the stream a quarter of a mile down the beach, and being broke,
we ate a lot of rice, millet, and spaghetti. I found an old beaten oak
table orphaned by the side of the road, and it took a whole morning of
lifting and dragging it through the chaparral to get it to the house, and
then another week to sand and polish it. But when it was finally done,
it proved well worth the effort. It was rich, beautiful, and and useful
for making jewelry which we spirited into the city and sold to the tourists
cruising GhiradeIli square looking for authentic hippie trinkets.
Things on the cliffs were quiet and mellow. Excepting
of course times when friends would bring their hapless dogs into the house.
It usually took all of three or four minutes before all hell broke loose,
as Eowyn had a psychotic response to dogs. I had found her in the rain
three years earlier at Morningstar Ranch, clawing insects from under the
bark of a large redwood. She was smart, half-starved, and fearless (hence
her moniker). I fed her, and we became fast friends. She was, by far, the
best traveling companion I ever had, affectionate and uncomplaining regardless
of our transportation situation. She traversed the country with me, up,
down, coast to coast , in cars, buses, and trains without a growl or a
qualm. If she was tired, she slept in my pack, or rode curled up in my
lap, happy to be stretched out watching the passing scenery. It was only
when we became stationary for any length of time that she become territorial,
and when that imperative awoke the dog problem came with it. After all
Eowyn was the better part of Burmese, a direct descendent in that ancient
lineage of temple cats, and by her reckoning any canine in sight or scent
was game. She would stalk them. And I'm not talking about friendly teasing
and chasing stuff -- I'm talking about deep and malevolent, murderous intent.
A dog -- any dog on her turf was cause to wind herself up into instinctual
overdrive, and attack in a screaming
maelstrom of fur, which then required at Ieast two people
to peel her off of her unfortunate victim. Her fury was unmatched and undaunted
by size, bulk, temperament, or breed. I am now convinced after being captain
of that canine rescue squad for many years, that cat was some kind of karmic
kitty avenger, sent to make reparation for every cat that had ever suffered
at a dog's mercy. I know for a fact that somewhere outside of Boston is
a large Husky that she personally dissuaded from cat-chasing for life.
These cat/dog scenarios took their toll on social visits, after all it
was difficult to carry on a conversation with someone who's busy first
aiding their pooch's torn up nose while the psychotic cat locked in the
broom closet is yowling and slamming herself against the barred door. The
best thing about these scenes were they were one trial learning events
for everybody. People did come back to visit, they just never brought Rover
over again. Other than these periodic feline rampages, we managed to hold
the psychic carnage to a minimum, slowing our lives to match the migrations
of the sea lions, whales, and Canadian geese.
That summer was good to us. I found fresh watercress
and hand fed brown rice to the Canadian Geese stragglers that managed to
get themselves caught and banded at the bird observatory up the road. It
was an idyIic existence for hippie renegades, peaceful and perfect, living
slow and deliberately, keeping time with the rest of the life forms sharing
the planet. I knew how living was supposed to feel, and that I would never
fret, be frantic, or forget that feeling again. The first November storm
swallowed up the Farallons for about four days. But nature's unpredictability
was far more tolerable, than speculating about human action, and a persistent
rumor had it that the Coast Guard had purchased our beach front, cliffs,
and all the land for almost a mile around us, on which they planned to
build a communication station. We had no direct information. No one showed
up to talk to us, There were no posted notices. But anything to do with
military endeavors and personnel, no matter how benevolent always made
my intuition twitch.
It must have been two or three in the morning when these
four guys in fatigues broke through the bedroom door. They rammed it so
hard that the frame burst and brought them tumbling in on top of the bed,
and us - scaring me straight out of my wits and a sound sleep. They didn't
speak to us and the only response we could get to our questions was a brusque
"shut up and get fucking dressed". I wished them a happy (although somewhat
sarcastic) Thanksgiving and one of them snickered meanly. They were then
nice enough to shine the flashlight elsewhere while I
got dressed. That act seemed the extent of their etiquette, as they neither
asked our names or introduced themselves. I couldn't see their faces in
the dark. I knew they were dressed in khaki, and had large military issue
flashlights which they were pointing into every corner and cupboard in
the house. When they were satisfied poking and prodding the interior space,
they all moved outside, except for one big stiff dude who stood in the
door and reeled off an
officially memorized notice that we were trespassing
on U.S. military property, and were subject to federal prosecution unless
we vacated the premises immediately. I suddenly got scared, wondering if
they were going kill us and try to dispose of our bodies. Two of them came
back in and answered my silent reverie by tossing my oak table through
the bedroom window. I heard it break as it hit the base of the cliff. They
told us we had twenty minutes to vacate and they busied themselves outside
again. We scrambled, snatching up everything we had of value: clothes,
jewelry, tools, and musical instruments. We rolled up sleeping bags and
stuffed our packs in record time. I tossed whatever was left into garbage
bags and called the cat, but there was no sign of her. I figured she probably
bolted when the eviction committee showed up. A voice growled that our
time was up. We gathered up our things and carried
them up the hill away from the house. I turned around
to go back and get the food and heard the seaward windows shattering. I
walked around to the front of the house, and watched the uniforms try to
tear the benches from the galley floor. The workmanship held up to their
pilage pretty well. They gave up and one guy lugged a kerosene container
inside. I started forward to tell him the history of the house, its builder,
the flagstone floor, but I knew that my words would have been a sacred
prayer spoken in some strange tongue that meant nothing to this guy and
his world. I choked on the importance of what I couldn't say and crouched
down crying in the coastal sage. They carried out their orders with a matter-of-fact
efficiency, and the house burned quickly in the steady pacific wind. In
the dawn there was
little Ieft, save the flagstone floor covered with twisted
debris and the smell of smoke hissing from the hardwood remains. With one
last look at their handiwork they warned us that "we'd better be gone when
they came back". they tromping off carelessly through the brush, rattling
the empty camouflage can. The mist closed in around us and we stood in
the damp trying to comprehend the damage. I walked to the edge of the cliff,
and saw my table smashed on the driftwood stumps below. I thought of dragging
it all the way from the road, hand sanding out the gouges and weather stains,
and polishing the oak. It had been a Iabor of love, like hauling water,
like Iiving here. And I wondered what kind of labor our houseburning was
for the men who had just carried out the task. I wandered through the ruins
and found some broken bags of millet and rice that hadn't burned. I scattered
the remaining grain for any wayward geese that might happen by, when I
finished Eowyn was sitting on my pack staring into the scattering ashes.
I walked over and petted her, offering a ride. She jumped off, and disappeared
into the brush. Tuck and I mutely shouldered our packs, adjusting the straps
once, and then again. Mine seemed heavier than it ever, and I had to adjust
it a third time before bringing up the rear of our fog bound homeless band
heading for the Mesa. When we crested the hill, I looked back. I could
still made out the mosaic
pattern of flagstones underneath the collapsed debris
below us. I had a burning hope that those flagstones would stay set in
that hillside long after the Coast Guard had ceased to exist. It was a
comforting thought,
something to keep me warm on the long walk across the
fields to the road back to San Francisco.