WHERE JOY RESIDES

THE LIVE OAK NATION

peace love & dirt

   Little Jacque is about to pass through the magic hoop into a land of music and mirth.

    It is a land of tie dye, smiles and dance. Under beautiful Live Oaks, the Santa Ynez mountains north of Santa Barbara become a place of enchantment. After 26 years it has become a multi generational celebration of Father's Day and those beautiful oaks.
    The three day Live Oak Music Festival is a major fund raiser for KCBX FM, public radio on the central coast.  Before she went through the hoop, little Jacque observed, "Live Oak is kind of an NPR version of Burning Man!"

   There were many eyes at Live Oak.

  The gentleman brought instruments and provided his own side show.

  Emcee Joe Craven in one of many wardrobe changes.

 Little Jacque is not sure she wants to leave the magic ring and go back home.

    There are few men with a never ending wardrobe like this.

    One more time, before we go-shake it!

    See you down the trail.

FRAGMENTS OF CHARACTER

EXCERPTS OF A LIFE

     Winter mornings in the depression could be raw. Karl would stand by the rail track and collect pieces of coal thrown out by the train's firemen. He'd run home with his pockets full so his widow mother could toss coal onto scraps of wood in the stove. 

     She was an usual woman and spoke with a British accent. Her eldest son was dead and so was her husband who had taken her from Muncie to California and back as he knew his own death approached.  Karl made that trip and now the journey into young adulthood. He was a teen and the man of the house.

     His mother worked in the chilly kitchen making and wrapping sandwiches, putting them into boxes with cookies. Karl placed the box lunches into bags carried over his shoulders and ran a couple of miles to a factory gate.

     He'd sell lunches to the lucky men with jobs. On the coldest of mornings a foreman put down bricks that had been heated so Karl could warm his toes as he stood hawking the lunches. Then he'd run home or directly to school.

    On the rawest mornings he'd remember his days at his first house in California.

     His mother and other women made lunches to serve to real estate prospects in what had been orange groves north of LA. The husbands had gone to work, Karl's dad to the LA Brick Factory, where he contracted the lung disease that would claim his life.  But on those days he had plenty of sun and land to run.

   But there were a few good years when his mother and father bought a new house and where he could roam the hills when he was not caddying and then playing golf.

    He was a bright eyed and happy youngster who didn't mind the 6AM car to the LA Country Club for a day of carrying bags. He and  the other boys being shuttled knew that before sunset they'd be given a sandwich and allowed to play a few holes, even getting lessons from a pro. They got to keep the tips.

FAST FORWARD

     By now Karl had watched his father die, and had seen his mother who came to the US as a young English girl, labor to make ends meet in the depression by making those box lunches and working as a char woman. He did what he could to help-selling the lunches, sweeping up at a lumber yard, helping a coca cola driver unload cases and working at the Y.

   There was little time or place for a depression era kid to continue golf, so he learned basketball.  By his senior year those days of running to sell lunches, gathering coal and his time at the Y left him a talented ball handler and shooter. He was recruited from the Y and AAU leagues to play his senior year as a scoring guard on the vaunted Muncie Bearcats.

FAST FORWARD

   He had met the love of his life but their marriage came abruptly, with WWII.  Karl was a Drill Instructor at Camp Shelby, turning recruits into men who were bound for jungle combat.

   Eventually he was sent to the south Pacific as a "top kick" or Sgt. Major. Friends recalled  he was a true hard ass. He never spoke much of those experiences. It wasn't until he was dying and when I pressed him that I learned about those days, and others.  

    Karl's friends had shared a few stories, but he would usually cut them off.

    Karl was without a doubt my best friend. Though I knew him my entire life, there were a few years when my youthful rebellion put a strain on the relationship.  That ended though as I grew to admire this man who though he had deep convictions was fair, just, open minded, well read and traveled, informed and hard working. He had indeed worked his entire life, but without regrets. He carried a philosophy that you make the most of each day and live it as fully as you can. He'd been raised by an Englishwoman and her sisters and was every bit a gentleman. And he remained a great golfer. He never shied from tough issues.

   He promoted racial equality, supervised Sunday School, was president of the PTA, coached little league and did those other selfless

things fathers do.  Karl was not only a friend, he was a mentor and an example. Karl W. Cochrun was my father. I hope my daughters have learned from their grandfather through me. 

   Our best wishes to all fathers. It is a responsibility deserving our best.  

    See you down the trail.

DEPARTURES AND ASPIRATIONS

ARTISTIC DEPARTURE

  Jude Johnstone has been breaking hearts as she prepares her departure from Cambria to Nashville. She just wrapped her emotional "Farewell Concerts" on the central coast. 
  I've posted previously about this extraordinary woman whose songs have been recorded by Bonnie Raitt, Trisha Yearwood, Johnny Cash, Emmylou Harris, Bette Midler, Stevie Knicks and Laura Branigan. She's a powerful performer in her own right.

   Above, her youngest daughter Ra (Rachel) shares the spotlight. Jude has been a coffee shop and village friend and we remember when Ra would come with mom or elder sister Emma to Lily's coffee deck with a teddy bear in tow.
She's become a powerful singer and writer with huge potential.  Big sis Emma is in theatre in New York now. The family is a creative and talented dynamo and the matriarch will be missed.
     The West coast music profession tilts differently now and the lure of Nashville is right for a writer of such depth, intelligence and life. So long Jude, thanks for the rich legacy.  More about Jude including in her own words here.  A photo tribute to Aspirations can be seen below.

A CURIOUS DEPARTURE

     I can't tell you why exactly, but I feel sad for Rachel Dolezal, the now retired head of the Spokane Washington NAACP. I feel bad for the NAACP since their advocate and one who has filed discrimination complaints, is not who she has claimed to be. Dolezal is not an African American, though she has been posing as one.  Probably more than anything else I'm curious about why. Why indeed?  

     Discrimination exists and there is a need for advocates who work to establish fairness and harmony. While her intentions may have been noble, though we don't really know that, her credibility is damaged. I hope the people of Washington and Spokane specifically will not hold her indiscretions against the NAACP.

FURTHER ASPIRATION

   See you down the trail.

IN A TIME OF HEROES

SHAPE AND TEXTURE

A few scenes from around the house, including a lemon tree next to Indiana-
the raised bed of flat tillable soil on the hill side.
HEROES

    Are there enough heroes? Can kids find the real thing when the big screen rocks with fantasy creations and while game screens spew violent destroyers? Do they still matter?

      Here is an account of a down to earth superhero and inspiration. His name is Bud Goff. He's not a hulk, probably even a little shorter than average. He's got gray hair but his eyes sparkle with life. A smile is his normal visage. If you've been to the Farmer's Market in Cambria you've probably seen this hero, directing traffic and conversing with everyone driving in while he hands out sweet treats. He's human sunshine that way.

     For many years he's played a major role in the annual community festival, Pinedorado. He plans, he buys, he schedules, he lifts, he works and he's there.

     I see Bud in a different light, in fact in the early light of dawn every Thursday morning on the tennis court. Fog, cold, glaring sun peaking over the mountain, heat, no matter the weather or conditions he's the first at the court and waiting for the foursome to arrive. 

     He's a lefty and he's got a serve that can break right at you, or away from you in an exasperating bounce. He's fast, dashing from near the baseline for a volley at the net, or moving to get a shot breaking to the alley. At the net, Bud is one of the most tenacious and proficient I've seen. It's near impossible to score on him, but he can put away passing and cross court shots you can't get to. He's got a drop shot that can kill you. He has coached and still offers advice.

     Despite his considerable tennis skills, Bud just delights in being on the court and out in the morning. He'll notice hawks soaring, or the geometry of contrails, or notice the loping of calves on the grazing slope behind the court. No matter how close the match, or good or bad the play, Bud's incantation is "We're just out here having fun you know!"

      Between games he'll tell us about something new he's read, an oddity he's heard about, show us a new phone or tell us a joke. Just two weeks ago he gave us a demonstration of a new way to tie shoes!

      As we were heading out to the court this morning he asked, "Who do you think is the oldest person to play on these courts?" Jim and Ellie and I offered well it could have been Ed Simonsen, he played until he was 91.

      "Well…," Bud paused

      That's when Jim said "You just had a birthday!"

       "Yea, I'm 92."

       We all gave him a fist bump, wished him a happy birthday. He went out and started driving that left handed liner of a serve.

        In my book, Bud is a real hero, and an inspiration!

        Who are your heroes?

       See you down the trail.

      

       

DIFFERENT & GENIUS

DIFFERENT

   Before the dawn of awareness, back in the dark ages of the 1950's, we had what were kindly called "Special Ed" classes.

    In the Muncie elementary school the special ed class room was in the basement, but trips to the boys room gave us a chance to glimpse into a world different that our own. There were kids in wheel chairs, kids who's faces and heads were different, some of the loud voices were different and there were some who just looked sad.

    I noticed more of the same when we moved to Ft. Wayne and the Special Ed kids were not entirely, but a little more integrated into other classes and social activity. Still there were kids who's only apparent "special ness" was they were quiet and withdrawn.

    By my freshman year I had become a friend of a kid with muscular dystrophy. He struggled to speak but it was merely a physical affectation, his mind was keen and he was extraordinarily bright. His body betrayed him and physical motion was a challenge so we walked more slowly but we built a friendship that has lasted. He benefited from being moved out of a "special ed" class into the mainstream.

    Clearly some with particular conditions seemed to benefit from the closer attention provided by a special education teacher. It was those quiet and somewhat non social kids I continued to wonder about, until years later I learned of autism and Aspergers syndrome.  When that veil of ignorance was lifted I understood in retrospect a friend from earlier days.  

     He was, I was told, a genius. His room was full, truly full, of completed models of every airplane, ship, submarine, car or boat. OK a lot of kids were model makers, but these you had to see to believe.  Tiny to huge and they were perfect. What Mike had on other kids was his encyclopedic knowledge of every plane, boat, car and ship he had made. And then there were the Dinosaurs of every imaginable size and shape and again there was his encyclopedic knowledge. Same for the Rocket ships, which in this case he made and fabricated himself. Plus there were the pages and pages of the detailed and intricate drawings of dinosaurs, rockets, planes and boats.

     Mike could also play the piano. To my young and frankly somewhat bored ears, he sounded like a concert master. 

    I learned you could not touch Mike, he would freeze, choke and/or maybe yell. He wouldn't play ball, they were dirty and there was touch involved. He'd ride his bike, but only on a clearly prescribed route. We could never make even a slight variation. Mike had been in my grade school for a couple of years, but missed a lot of classes. Eventally he had a special teacher. He lived only a couple of blocks away, though Mike never came to my house. I didn't mind that we were at his place because his mom made sure we had plenty of Twinkies, an extravagance for our family. She was always nearby and would routinely look in as we hung out which meant watching him build or explain a model or riding that special bicycle route.

     I thought of Mike as I watched LOVE AND MERCY the amazing film playing now, telling the story of a special boy, Brian Wilson.

    We thoroughly enjoyed seeing Brian and his band in concert last September, his musical genius still fully evident and switched on.

     But what a rough trail he's traveled. Those who are fans know the story, but seeing it vividly portrayed increases the respect and admiration for one of those quiet, maybe sad and special kids.

     Paul Dano as the young Brian and John Cusack as the elder are superb. Their performances are riveting. The versatile Paul Giamatti is perfect as a maniacal and manipulative Dr Eugene Landy, who controlled and for a period ruined the life of a musical genius. Elizabeth Banks is more than merely a beautiful foil to Landy's meanness and temper. Banks portrays Melinda Ledbetter's struggle to free Brian from the prison of Landy's drugs and control and she does so with an authenticity. Brian Wilson calls the film very factual.

     Director Bill Pohlad does a masterful job of capturing how the young Wilson struggled to capture the genius but bewildering inspiration in his head and turn it into a unique and remarkable music and sound. 

     The Wrecking Crew, subject of a recent film is seen working with Wilson and giving him credit for his brilliance, even if eccentric. 

     If you are a fan, this is a must see though at times is a bit painful or heart breaking. Your respect for Wilson will  increase. 

     I can't imagine how contemporary music and Brian's life would have been different had he grown up away from Southern California where artistry, creativity and even eccentricities are tolerated. I wonder though what became of my pal Mike and others who traveled in less sunny and accepting climes. 

JUNE TAKES

  Early summer brings Twilight on the Terrace at Hearst Castle where Cafe Musique plays on a plaza being refurbished.

HOW MUCH PAELLA CAN YOU EAT?

   You can try to answer that at the annual Pinot and Paella Festival in Paso Robles. Begun by Marc Goldberg and Maggie D'Ambrosia of Windward Vineyard the Festival has become a signature central California event. 20 Paso Robles Pinot Noirs and 15 Paellas. Proceeds to to the Paso Robles Youth Arts Foundation.  Enjoy-

   

  By the way, trying to determine your favorite is challenging.

   See you down the trail