By Jan Chaffin March 30, 2024

I just watched a sweet interview with two of my favorite authors Louise Erdrich and Tommy Orange where he describes being a child and lucidly dreaming of flying. They tallied the audience-“who believes dreams are important?” Had I been there, I would have raised my hand.

Dreams are forms of time travel and problem-solving, ways to move vast distances in an instant or be stuck eternally in one spot. Studies indicate birds and even we problem-solve about flying and foraging and other tasks while dreaming. Dreams are the truth’s doppelgänger as Naomi Klein (not Wolf) mentioned.

Many of my dreams seem to persist throughout my life. I don’t know if that impression is a quality of the dreaming or the waking world or perhaps both. I’m aware of the waking world in my dreams and a repeated theme (I think) is of trying to wake up, thinking I’ve woken up just to realize I’m in another layer of dreaming instead, sometimes nested layers, fooled again and again.

As many times as I try to wake up and can’t, there are those times I very much don’t want the dream to end. The nightmares of falling endlessly are deeply disturbing and cause panic but are followed by relief upon waking. However waking from a sex, love, longing or lust dream when ultimate satisfaction is just moments away is heartbreakingly disappointing as if life were dreams’ consolation prize.

Is this common, a shared experience? Do we all dream the same?

Some recurrent themes in my dreams:

As a child, I always wanted a pair of Chuck Taylor hightops-white with red and blue rubber piping around the soles. That wish persisted in my dreams also. I never got a pair. Always so close but I’d either wake up or they’d be taken.

As a child, I also had repeated nightmares about a doppelgänger Mom-one was kind and good and one was evil and conniving. I’d think I’d identified them properly only to be fooled. Again and again.

I’d have recurring nightmares about being stuck in one place while giant appliance noises at night threaten to overrun me.

I have recurring nightmares of being attacked from the sky by battalions of enemy aircraft. I have to hide under something and hope no one finds me. After 9/11, these increased.

In some dreams I am able to fly, anywhere from seconds to minutes, from inches to many feet above ground. It is glorious. Tommy Orange described the dream flight muscle as somewhere between heart and belly. I think that’s how I feel also. I have to will the flight, more or less successfully, and as he says, for many reasons-to escape danger or simply elevate above vulgarity.

Do others dream of flying? I think many of us dream of falling in fact I once read if you don’t wake up you die, but how that can be proven is a bit of a mystery-with brain probes maybe? The closest I come to flying in real life is running. Maybe a few feet of air travel for every mile I run?

I often dream a very old pet from childhood who has been dead for many years is still alive and neglected in our childhood home that I’m visiting. I see the pet and am overcome with nostalgia, sadness at the imminence of their second death, and concern for how to care for them- find them food, comfort…

I have two cars in many dreams. I get to choose which one to drive. In waking life, I’ve come close, but so far, for one reason or another,  that pleasure still escapes me.

I dreamed God scolded me from the TV set during Andy Griffin telling me to be kinder to my Parents. He then pinched me. (OK that one hasn’t persisted!)

I am sometimes forced to climb horrifically scary routes to get to ordinary places. They start out fine, then become nearly impossible with no escape. I have varying degrees of courage and skill but somehow always succeed, swearing to avoid this climb next time. Sort of like Sisyphus without the rock.

I am playing in a desert paradise, climbing grippy rock walls like at Joshua Tree, calm and content knowing I’ve arrived home. In subsequent dreams, I am looking for this place. It is right around the bend but I never find it. I want to see what’s around the bend.

Every fall my cousins send me cards filled with crimson, lemon and verdant Virginia leaves to remind me of what I left behind. I keep the leaves in clear plastic and hang them from the kitchen cabinet so the sun shines through them. What my cousins don’t know is that Virginia never leaves.

When I started playing with Barbie, women couldn’t get credit cards but Barbie had  her own Dream House. I never forgot that. She inspired me to dream of  my own house. Greta Gerwig reminded me of that feeling of imagining yourself being endlessly re-invented through child’s play.

Doesn’t it seem absurd that there’s this giant orb in the sky so bright we’ll go blind if we look at it?! Somewhat ill-suited aren’t we, if we can’t look at the sky?

I have an irrepressible desire to express myself.

Clearly, people prefer the thrill of clandestine romantic encounters over those which are condoned, ones that risk if not ensure exposure.

I ran away once. Gathered a bandana like a hobo, with a few supplies, and my map of the United States with my Einstein stamp over Los Angeles; I was going to Hollywood. I was eleven. It was dark and Mom and Dad were asleep. I recall opening the front door, leaving and locking it after me to keep them safe.

I was terrified and excited. I’d never walked alone at night in my home town of Charlottesville Virginia. I headed towards Rugby Rd where a friend lived. A man in a car slowed beside me and asked if I wanted a ride. I said no thanks and kept walking. He drove away. I dove behind the bushes and hid in fear. Then I turned around and headed back home. Somehow the door was unlocked! We never discussed that night.

I guess, in truth, I ran away twice. The second time I stayed.

By Jan Chaffin April 6, 2021 Año Nuevo State Park Pescadero, CA

• Disclaimer: The views expressed are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of my employers.

One of the things I love most about elephant seals is their general indifference towards humans. They might look up at us if we get too close but they tend to settle back into their business as soon as we move away. Their lack of flight response was one of the reasons they were so successfully hunted for their oil-fortune-rendering fat. And maybe it is one of the reasons they have so successfully recovered from near extinction. They stay out of our way by choosing generally remote breeding spots on land and spending the rest of each year swimming thousands of miles to deep dark diving spots way out in the ocean.

But when they come to land and you get to witness their heft and stature, it’s a sight you don’t forget, especially on Valentine’s Day.

This past February, as a Friends of Santa Cruz State Parks Service Aide, I had the rare opportunity to watch a young male and female elephant seal mate for what might have been the first time for each of them. They were not within the preserve. Instead, the young bull had been hauling out for weeks to the south, on the public Cove Beach. In fact, he’d taken to completely blocking the stairs for most of every day so visitors had to be re-routed back to the far end of the beach for access. Since the presence of young bulls on Cove Beach was not uncommon this time of year, staff would frequently radio seal movement so we could adjust signs and access accordingly. But the presence of a female elephant seal was newsworthy.

Anecdotally, February 14th is the most romantic day of the year for elephant seals as well as humans. That morning a volunteer docent naturalist and I were explaining to surfers why they had to trudge a mile out of their way to get to their waves, when a young female elephant seal swam out of the water and gallumped up next to the cozy young bull blocking the stairs. There’s no easy way to describe how elephant seals move on sandy beaches. They do not use their hind flippers on land, but instead, sort of hoist themselves forward on their bellies, heads and chests lifted, using only their front flippers to propel them. It’s nearly impossible not to laugh when you watch them ambulate. The young bull looked around, suddenly interested. Who is this? She settled in next to him.

“What’s going on?” Asked the surfers. The docent began narrating what was unfolding right in front of us. The young male could be identified by his significantly larger size than the female and the presence of a rather large and bulbous proboscis (snout). Soon, we discovered another way he could be identified… 

The young bull looked left and right up and down the beach, perhaps looking for challenging bulls. Then, as if suddenly realizing his once in a lifetime opportunity, he began to nuzzle beside the young cow. She did not pull away. She lay patiently letting him attempt to mount her from the rear, spooning her and misaiming his suddenly revealed sizeable seal-hood. Each of us was mesmerized by this display; we felt a combination of fascination, vouyerism and, well… admiration.

When the young bull finally succeeded in connecting, he gently rocked her to and fro for well over fifteen minutes. When it  was all over, she did not seem displeased. The two seals separated and again the bull looked up and down the beach.

Suddenly, from the near breakers, another young bull approached and hauled out, speedily gallumping towards the female. The young stud quickly mounted a defense and vocalized mightily at the attacking seal “Go away skinny bastard!” The attacking bull ignored all warnings and responded “No way, Jackass, watch how it’s really done!”

The young stud launched an offensive and rushed to the ocean’s edge to intercept the young Lothario. The two titans clashed in the water, slapping gigantic canines into each other’s chest guards, ripping fur and flesh. The battle lasted until one of them noticed the young female had surreptitiously exited the beach and swam away.

At that point, both bulls were exhausted so they hauled out for a well-deserved rest, once again blocking the bottom of the stairs.

Humbled and amazed by what I’d just witnessed, I realized we humans could learn a few things from these grand mammals who are closer to us than we know. We thanked the interpreter for the lowdown. Blushing and smiling, each of us went our separate ways.  And the surfers were happy to walk that extra mile. 

By Jan Chaffin March 9, 2021

My Mom died eight years ago yesterday and since then I’ve attempted to unpack the 50 plus boxes of mementos and heirlooms. Among them is a photograph of my Mom’s Mom taken by my cousin Loy. I decided to hang it above the pantry of my 1890’s house. It seemed like the right place for a photo of her holding a recently canned jar of white potatoes. She is standing in her own canning pantry lined with shelves of nutritious future meals in neatly ordered rows of glass jars. 

She is neither proud nor shy. She is capable, appreciative, kind and has the strongest arms I’ve ever seen! She is smiling and filled with grace. Her hair is drawn back into a functional bun and she is wearing oval wire rim bifocals. Her short-sleeved flowered smock has been lovingly hand-washed and well-worn. The sunlight from my kitchen window is fading her photograph and I’ve debated moving it. But it’s already getting too light and I have a more preserved scan on a thumb drive somewhere.

Her strong arms held eight healthy babies and raised them mostly on her own. Before her husband John passed away, she hitched a wagon to her horse every Friday and rode twenty miles from Arrowhead Mountain to fetch him from his job constructing some of UVa in Charlottesville. Every Sunday, she made the same trip to return him to his dorm. In between, she planted, harvested, canned and prepared food for her entire family.

I visited the Hurtt homestead with my cousin Betty after my Mom died. The property is no longer in our family, but we were able to wander around and peer into the separate stone, mortar and wood-crafted “cold” kitchen for canning as well as the main and outhouses. From photos and stories, I could imagine the entire family crawling into chilly beds with heated rocks and chamber pots.

My Mom adored her Mom. When the children had to split up after Grandpapa died, Mom went with Grandma to live in town. My Mom’s grace and beauty were admired by my Father, who lived next door. He immediately declared he was going to marry her someday. And so he did, before he went off to land on Omaha Beach during the WWII Normandy Invasion.

So much fades away. Family, friends, youth. Even though the photograph is fading, I smile whenever I glance up at her, because her arms give me strength. I am her daughter’s daughter and I too have strong arms.

By Jan Chaffin March 6, 2021

I buried my cat where he last spent time-beside my house, under a blue potato bush facing the ocean.

As with the deaths of all my pets, I agonized over his. Mostly because COVID and my cowardice conspired to cause him unnecessary suffering and even more because I wasn’t ready for him to go.

Nonetheless, for the past four months (I keep track of the days since burial-so far one hundred twenty) I’ve found immense comfort in tending to and sitting by his grave.

I placed a marble tile on top, a bronze angel on the window trim and a vase of purple roses by his flagstone headstone which I continue to replace as needed. A friend added an exquisite Day of the Dead cat effigy.

I sweep the flagstone path and trim branches of the pineapple guava tree. It has naturally grown into the shape of a little grotto where I’ve placed a plastic chair to stealthily sit and meditate (and drink beer).

I visit every day. My cat died November 6, 2020 and at first his grave was all dirt. Now it is early March 2021 and bright yellow buttercups and tall spring grass have grown all around. I imagine his remains somehow nourishing the soil. He  is in these bright blades of grass and tall yellow flowers…

Could it have been another way? Because it happened, was it supposed to happen? I’ll never know. He stopped eating. I called the new vet, emailed frantically three times, They emailed me back that the doctor has received my email and will respond when he has time. EIGHT days later, he calls. It is the day after I buried my cat.

Apparently a lot of people acquired pets during the COVID shelter in place. I felt so scared and confused. The vet had thought he was in fairly good shape just a month ago (“he purrs a lot”) and put him on all sorts of meds. Sigh. He was probably in much more pain than I knew. Way too late, the vet agreed he must have indeed had underlying cancer or another issue after all just as the first vet suspected ten months earlier.

I couldn’t imagine going through those lonely fearful months during lockdown and the fires without him. Maybe that’s what pets do. Hang around for their humans.

Maybe if I hadn’t spent the last ten months frantically trying to feed him after his cancer diagnosis. Maybe if I had kept him on the meds even after he started failing again the last time. Maybe he was asking me to take him to the vet when he seemed to rally and greet me at my car and even get in the back door.

Maybe I should have taken him to the dreaded ER when the vet went awol. Maybe the last day when he growled morning and night at my forced syringe feedings, maybe that was the time to throw in the towel.

Maybe I should have been OK with being forced to leave him unexpectedly for eight hours when the vet said it would just be an hour. Maybe the vet shouldn’t have agreed to take us on with so many new patients already. When he couldn’t call back for EIGHT days during my cat’s worst crisis. Maybe it was the worst time in modern history to be sick.

Maybe it was his time.

If I sit quietly near his grave, sometimes stretched right out in front of it in the glorious full sun, I see him sitting looking at me and the passersby with his big beautiful almond eyes. I feel his nose nuzzle my leg. I reach down and pet his furry neck with the fatty tumor on the right side. I palm his reactive back and stroke his tail with the single lump near its end. I see his unevenly white-pawed feet and gaze upon his magnificent splendor. A great cat. And sometimes he is right there with me. And always he is right there with me.

If I sit quietly under the canopies of the pineapple guava tree and the blue potato bushes, loud little flurries of birds perch on the branches above. They nibble, look at me, at everything, seeing millions more colors and details than I can, then spring aloft to another branch, another tree.  They make the most amazing sounds, the swoosh of branches as they spring back, the whirl of the flapping air as their wings stir up tiny tornados. Bees, ants, butterflies, squirrels… So much life at his gravesite. The irony is not lost on me. So much to mourn. So much to celebrate as I sit with him under the blue potato bush.

RIP Jeweled Prince Duke Giuliano Kuleano

By Jan Chaffin December 27, 2020

It’s the day after Christmas 2020 at Waddell Beach near Ano Nuevo Elephant Seal Preserve. There’s a warm breeze and the sun is reflecting off the green tips of the huge waves. Vehicles full of families are pulling in and out of the parking lot constantly. Folks are stretching their legs and feasting their eyes on the beautiful Central California coast.

No one seems to notice the almost 5,000 pound Elephant Seal planted by the main entrance to the beach. A few families nearly trip over him until I call out “please watch out for the bull!”. I’m a State Park Service Aide and this is what I get to do.

Once I start pointing him out, folks become fascinated. He periodically lifts his massive head and chest up, tosses aside his humongous proboscis (snout) tilts his face to the sky, opens his mouth and bellows like a hells angel in a drain pipe. His deeply resonant short staccato burps are his calling card to other seals: “I’m Roger Rogue; here I am!” Families are delighted. When he settles back into the sand for periods of inactivity, folks ask: “Is he dead?!”

One young gentleman approaches me, clearly distraught. “I can’t believe the trash on this beach!” I try de-escalating with “Yes, it’s quite popular, we do the best we can.” He corrects: “Oh no, not you, I think you do great work. I’m a fisherman from Wisconsin and believe it’s within our power to stop pollution.” I cringe at how far he has travelled during a pandemic holiday lockdown, but it’s been a hard year for everyone, so I thank him and say: “Well, right now, my work is guarding this big guy” and point to “Roger” who, as if on cue, bellows boisterously for the gathering crowd.

The young fisherman turns and sees his first elephant seal. He is overcome and shouts with joy: “You go big guy, you get back in that ocean and swim, I LOVE you!”. Tears of joy stream down his (and my) face as he looks at me. “Don’t see those in Wisconsin, huh?” He nods no and smiles in gratitude.

Many wonderful opportunities to talk about the seal follow, and everyone is uplifted after spending time with the majestic mammal. But none are more transformed than the young fisherman so far from home the day after Christmas. This much I know: Seals Heal!

by Jan Chaffin December 3, 2020

I have an insatiable appetite… for attention. An uncontrollable urge to interrupt consumes every conversation. I was born an only child but I don’t think that’s the whole story. I’m pretty sure I ate my own twin.

Apparently it’s not that uncommon. There’s even a name for it: “Vanishing Twin Syndrome”.  “A twin disappears in the uterus during pregnancy… the fetal tissue is absorbed by the other twin… or the mother.” It’s also called “Twin Resorption”. And it seems “high resorption rates suggest intense fetal competition…”

I started down a fascinating rabbit hole of related topics, including: 

– Pregnant babies

– Twins with different fathers

– Stone babies

– Men who give birth

– Women who get pregnant while pregnant.

– Self-fertilizing women

There are, sadly, even parchment flattened twins called: Fetus papyraceus

When I was about 13, I remember Mom casually mentioning the doctor heard two heartbeats while she was pregnant. So I guess that meant she was expecting twins…? But that was the end of it. No further explanation. I’m sure I asked what happened, I just don’t remember her answer. All I remember is my Mom telling me how hard she and Dad tried for sixteen years to have me.

So much of what shapes us happens so early. So much of what I accepted as a child makes little sense to me now. Some things I’ll never know.

But it makes as much sense as any other explanation of why I need to be wanted so much. Literally, self-absorbed behavior. My twin and I fetally competed for resources in a life and death battle. I won. But something inside me needs to be acknowledged so fiercely that it overwhelms the rational socialized parts of my personality. Some vestigial lost aspect still pleads to be fed, to be heard, to be loved… to BE at all.

Plato spoke of the missing half and how love is the name for our pursuit of wholeness.

I wonder, with such an emotional ghost dance, is it too late to re-write my own creation story? Could I love all of me(s)?!

by Jan Chaffin November 12, 2019

Urged by a friend, I read a book of true stories by Israeli author Etgar Keret called the Seven Good Years. It was unavailable as an e-book but I was able to secure a hard copy from my local library.

It had been many years since I’d visited the library. In Library Book, Susan Orlean beautifully describes the childhood wonderment associated with a parent  bringing us to the library, letting us pick any books we wanted and the joy of getting to do this every two weeks.

Now, I remembered some of the reasons I was so averse to handling library books (or sleeping in hotel sheets). Crusty tan specks of stubborn food items were randomly stuck to some of the pages. I confirmed they didn’t originate from my own almond butter sandwich and that I hadn’t inadvertently contributed to the smorgasbord.

About halfway through the book, I discovered a white index card, the classic kind you never see any more- one side lined, the other blank. On the blank side were items in black ink listed longways down the page- a To Do list.

With a certain voyeuristic enjoyment, I read the list and tried to imagine who had written it. In the old days, when there seemed to be more trust, or we were more naive, I could have flipped the book to it’s inside rear cover and seen the signatures of the readers before me, listed in order of  due dates on a two-sided library card inside a  glued-on paper pocket.

The list seemed concerned with food and its procurement, storage and preparation. Similar in some ways to my own lists, explicitly yet needlessly reminding me to read, write, rest… and there was that last dash waiting for a task to be assigned. 

Who else had wanted to read true stories by the son of Holocaust survivors? A young housewife? A lonely heart? A professional chef? What was the big event on Thursday that required Wed eve prep? Did it go well? Were the souvenir food specs theirs?

I enjoyed the book of stories about Israeli life. It was from a perspective I knew little about and was emotionally rich with structural economy. Daily life consisted of dropping to the ground at a moment’s warning to duck terrorist bombs, and remembering to stay put after the first round in case there were more. I found it telling that the author’s most significant breakdown occurred in the U.S. not Israel, just after 9/11. His one wish that day, like mine, was to return home. I hadn’t realized how that day had lifted an illusory veil of safety for not only me and most Americans, but the rest of the world also.

I started mulling the commonalities between our cultures- family, honor, camaraderie, a history of prejudice and the dissimilarities- constant threats of military and terrorist attacks, a feeling of dispossessment. The threads that blend us together are those of communitas, a need to connect, a wish to belong.

I kept returning to that list on the index card and my curiosity; could be it concern? The same interest that led me to the library to read this particular book? The same hope I have that the author Etgar and his wife and son will be safe from more bomb attacks?

Here’s to Etgar Keret, the anonymous list writer and the public library. Thank you for this shared solitary experience among a collective of readers who, despite our differences, are all curious and concerned.

By Jan Chaffin November 27, 2018

SEARS in Capitola closed its doors for the final time this past Sunday. There were no whoops or cheers or pats on the back. Just the last shoppers exiting a barren store through a single unlocked door after waiting in endless lines to buy cheap stuff cheaper one more time.

No media reps covered the event. No announcements acknowledged the 125 years of service and no one offered to host an after party. Everyone clocked out one final time and walked through the employee entrance into the empty parking lot. Some would be returning for several more days of store shutdown and cleanup. They would be meeting with EDD to sign up and they were given severances. But most of the career consultative sales people didn’t have new jobs lined up.

Where will these talented professionals find similar work? Do jobs like theirs even exist any more? Where do customers go to consult with an expert about the best appliance to buy? Odds are  a Google search (which takes its commission in terms of user data) substitutes for a conversation with a human being.

Soft shopping will likely replace hard shopping. Even now, most people just do recon in stores- try on the shoes, open the oven door, bounce on mattresses then, often while standing in front of the commissioned salesperson, proceed to order online, saving perhaps as little as five dollars. This is of course after asking every conceivable question and taking an hour of valuable time.

And if their online order goes afoul, they return to request customer assistance.

Brick and mortar stores often cannot compete with their own online presence in terms of prices and promotions. And once a house brand becomes available elsewhere, there is little incentive to buy in-store from real salespeople.

But it’s a raw deal. The commissioned salesperson is highly motivated to help you find a good product as well as deeply knowledgeable of comparative features and benefits. This person can assure your order includes all needed parts and will customize your delivery to suit your location and scheduling needs. He or she can follow up on any issues after the fact and remember what size refrigerator you need for your rental units or talk the manager into a better deal.

The customer might accomplish all that online but eventually will probably still have to contact a human for service.

So that’s what the consumer world sacrifices for progress: a little more humanity and a generation of amazing salespeople.

Jan Chaffin June 11, 2018

Who Are These People?

I live on the West side of Santa Cruz. Some say ‘West side is the Best side’. In many ways, I agree. Despite the density of population and closeness of quarters, there has always been a core community here that would rally when bad things happened to one of our own; we were a neighborhood.

Of course, neighbors came and went over the months and years but I grew to know most of them and felt lucky to be surrounded by diverse, caring people who happened to also not leave a large footprint in our little urban world. We waved to each other in our yards and on our streets.

Some neighbors would only come on weekends and holidays; this was their second home at the beach. One family had several grown children and the husband held a high-level tech job in Silicon Valley. I watched their kids get married, their grand parents and pets pass away… They showered me with candy on every occasion and all they asked was for me to take out their garbage. I happily obliged since they were in many ways ideal neighbors and put up with my overwhelming myrtle bushes in their gutters. Their entire house had been rebuilt by a previous owner in violation of the tiny property’s set back rules. Regardless, my myrtles were out of control…

Other neighbors became good friends and I even adopted one neighbor’s cat when he started hanging out here instead of her house. She recently married and had a baby. The cat seemed to have issues with babies since this was the second time he jumped ship when one was born. She agreed he should live with me. I know she must be sad; I would be sad if he left me.

When a twenty-two year old who’d been drinking at the church rave(?!) totaled my parked car and almost hit the market owner, folks all came running and showed their support. A few of us even worked for the market owner’s wife when he suddenly died, leaving her to run a 90-hour a week business by herself. The neighborhood pitched in and donated to the family and they hosted a BBQ for us.

We have always, despite gangs, disreputable minister-landlords and destructive drunk drivers, banded together as a community.

It was the same where I came from. We were the first family on the block and I played in the woods until developers started building houses all around us. Houses were affordable and people often stayed for life. We became close to all of our neighbors; I remember the names and back-stories of every family on the street.

I’ve lived here since 1999. It is now 2018. A lot has changed. I’m not sure when I started noticing that the people who were staying a few days at the house next door didn’t look familiar at all. At first I thought it was just my neighbors being generous, loaning their second home to friends and family who wanted to hang out at the beach for a weekend.

The former cat owners would leave for days even weeks on end and a friend would show up to check on the house which would usually lie dormant. At some point, over the past four years, I noticed that folks would visit when they weren’t there.

First Uber came along. Then Lyft. And then came Air B‘n’B. Suddenly people’s real property could be leveraged for real cash. Suddenly people were trusting complete strangers within their most intimate confines, for a profit, for a deal, through a convenient, seemingly transparent middleman. The idea was that, like facebook, it’s Pavlovian policy would be regulated by social media. If you misbehave, you will be shunned. If you behave, you will be rewarded.

Last winter, three cars full of teenagers loudly converged and surrounded my house trying to find parking. They all pulled out backpacks and headed…. next door. I stood on my tiny front porch in dismay.

This spring, as I was quietly sitting on my front porch, I watched seven people and a bull dog emerge from next door and loudly assemble themselves in their matching monster trucks for a day at the beach. My cat recoiled in terror. I was beyond dismayed.

Sunday at 8:30am, I awoke to the loud squeals of a renta-family staying at the former cat-owner’s house.  Although she had told me months ago of their plans to selectively rent their house, some of their tenants were noisy large groups with lots of cars.

Several months ago, the church that has been at the center of the circle since it became a circle (was the reason it became a circle) was surreptitiously sold to a high-density housing developer. (Not saying the church-owner was an angel; he rented the church to the highest bidders, literally at the expense of the community’s safety and quality of life.)

I guess it’s a sure sign of becoming a living relic when you start railing against the inevitable tides of change. I understand I live in a town that is full of people who want to live here because it is very literally close to paradise. Property is gold. Roll tides roll. People are turning their homes into vacation rentals and gentrified flop houses just to pay the bills.

But at what cost? Where is the accountability? When did R-1 zoning change from single family residential to anyone who pays can stay for any length of time? Shouldn’t there be requirements for renters to stay minimum terms? Isn’t the house a hotel otherwise, subject to hospitality tax? Even so, in what way does that tax benefit the neighbors who just want their neighborhoods back? Should we retaliate with the same social media tactics that permit these practices by shaming or praising our renting neighbors on neighborhood forums? Where goes our peace of mind?

About a year ago, the neighbors next door stopped leaving sweets on my porch. Sometime after I realized they were (often carelessly) renting their house out, I stopped taking care of their garbage. Now we barely speak, much less exchange cards with holiday news… Maybe I’m wrong, but it seems a big part of paradise is how we share it.

An Observation By Jan Chaffin

November 15, 2017

Yesterday I witnessed a miracle. There were no flashing lights or heavenly choirs, just everyday people doing everyday things, living their lives. Let me explain:

I was waiting at the pharmacy window for a Tetanus booster I didn’t want. I’d run down to the drug store, determined to at least get some exercise out of this intrusion. Luckily, I’d arrived just ahead of the lunchtime rush. People began lining up behind me as another register opened on my left.

No one was making me get the shot, but it was overdue and I needed it to continue volunteering. I didn’t want this toxin in my bloodstream for the next ten years. I was irked at having to pay over $50 and generally annoyed at the prospect of taking time from my day to buy a sore left arm.

The line was growing longer as the gentleman on my left lingered at the register. He was about my age or maybe younger, large yet huddled over as if bracing against some unseen elements. He appeared disheveled and confused. He said he barely remembered his name and was having difficulty coming up with correct change and had forgotten to buy milk. He asked the cashier if he could go get it and she told him there was a line; she couldn’t wait for him. He repeatedly mentioned he was very confused and sick.

I couldn’t help myself. I looked over and noticed he held a piece of notebook paper with cursive large letters listing items to purchase such as paper towels, trash bags… He didn’t have any of those items either. Should I run and get them for him? I quickly dismissed the thought.

Initially, the cashier seemed a bit impatient. The line of customers was bristling with the first hints of annoyance. Being a cashier, I felt more empathy for her than for the customers. She had a worn, resigned look. Her arm bore the tattooed name of someone in large letters, less a show of strength than an entreaty.

As the customer stood paralyzed by confusion, she began calmly suggesting ways for him to find some ID or credit card or payment for his medicine. Slowly he counted out his cash and he was 40 cents short. The cashier quickly rummaged through coin bowls and found 20 cents while the line of customers all watched without offering assistance. I had run downtown with only a credit card in my pocket. No cash, no change.

Then the cashier did something surprising. She told the customer to wait a minute and she left the Pharmacy, running down the hall. She returned shortly with a credit card. Wow, I thought, she’s going to put the difference on her own card. Instead, she rang up the entire amount and returned his money to him and explained he could use it for the items he still needed to purchase.

He trembled with relief and thanked her. “What is your name?” he asked. “Meagan”, she said. It was the name on her arm. “I am so grateful to you. You are a nice person. Meagan, I’ll never forget you.” His demeanor transformed; he stood taller and smiled. He remembered her name. “It’s what we do for each other”, she said with a shrug. She continued helping the next customer as I turned away, momentarily overcome.

* Hawaiian for extended family – no one left behind. Communitas.

by Jan Chaffin

• Disclaimer: The views expressed are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of my employers.

Chapter Nineteen

I want to add a few updates since the last post.

The wood damage to my house is beginning to be repaired with a little help from my friends.

The Nazis returned for another flash mob appearance in Charlottesville.

Fires are raging throughout northern California incinerating entire towns, reminding us of our fragile nature. As I write this, some of our own Park Rangers are fighting those fires.

I’m among those being honored this week for our volunteer efforts at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. The honor has been all mine!

The neighbor who owns the cat and I sat down for the talk. It was decided I should install and leave unlocked a cat door. I now have a cat door and the cat comes and goes but so far always comes back to me!

Despite macing (accident) a senior aide and selling a forbidden site to a Girl Scout Troop leader who was trying to pull a fast one, I am surviving the season. And now begins the nostalgia of my last days at Henry Cowell. I mentioned earlier that the park is bigger than any one influence. This summer really hasn’t been about me. I am humbled in the presence of that which is greater. As have I, may those who follow me appreciate the resources they are serving, sharing and protecting.

by Jan Chaffin

• Disclaimer: The views expressed are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of my employers.

Chapter Eighteen – Finale

My State Park Summer is technically over but I’m scheduled to work until the campground closes at the end of October. After that, it doesn’t look like I’ll be needed at Cowell, but possibly at Ano Nuevo; with pupping Elephant Seals, it gets busy in the winter. It’s further away but seems like a fun place to spend the day.

In November, I plan to return to working three days a week selling appliances at Sears and have even asked to go full time. I will be at the mercy of an unknown retail schedule each week with shifts anywhere from 9am to 9pm. If there is a day or two of Parks work available per week, I will consider it but I can potentially earn a better living at Sears (assuming I sell enough appliances).

I guess I’ll survive the season at Henry Cowell but “you’re never out of the woods…” as I keep learning in various humbling, hard ways. It has been a demanding job running the kiosk on my own at the mercy of all sorts of campsite misadventures. My patience has been tried and sometimes I failed to deliver splendid customer service. Sometimes it was all I could do not to hiss and spit. But overall, I enjoyed discussing the trails and park resources with visitors. I remain in awe of the park and have made some new friends among the staff. Most are tremendously dedicated and routinely perform heroic maneuvers.

My runs have become less arduous as I work earlier and darkness descends sooner. I no longer set out on two hour trail adventures before work and still haven’t successfully completed the Big Rock Hole loop. I realize it might have to wait.

This summer has brought many changes and has affected me and loved ones unexpectedly. My cousin Betty passed away, then my cousin Gragg followed by Betty’s Mom, my Aunt Gladys, then my cousin Debbie These were dear, close members of both sides of my Virginia family. I was now the last Chaffin – the first line of defense against mortality. Most of my life has already been lived and the rest is probably not going to get any easier.

I was deeply impacted by the White Supremacist riots in my hometown in July. Those wounds are still fresh.

I randomly discovered massive wood rot after last winter’s heavy rains. My house is falling apart and I’m in a bind trying to find timely funds and repair expertise.

The neighbor who owns the dear cat that hangs out at my house told me that the church, which was the reason the Circles were designed and has been a part of our community since forever, had just been stealthily sold to a high density housing developer.

Another neighbor’s dear cat was bitten in half by some wild animal and left for her to discover in my yard. This has led me to panic about the well-being of the cat who loves me but is not mine, so, with his owner’s permission, I started keeping him inside at night if he was still on my porch at dusk. None of these activities are well-conceived, just emotional reactions to helpless worry. Each decision brings comfort yet creates havoc for the cat, my neighbor and me.

And one sunny afternoon, as I am sitting with the cat on my front porch, I hear the dreaded screech of an out of control car coming around the circle. At about 50 mph, a Toyota Corolla skids towards us heading up the sidewalk into my yard, instead destroying my noble Civic parked out front.

The cat dashed out of harm’s way while I just stood in disbelief. This was the second time in ten years a young drunk driver had destroyed my Honda in front of my house. I knew I’d never get enough to buy a decent replacement. I was angry and sad and all out of sorts. After considerable searching, I found a lovely Mazda 6 but paid more than I received from the settlement. Nostalgia won for a while and I decided to keep the Honda as a second salvage vehicle because it still sort of drove… Until it wouldn’t start one day. That was the sign I needed to let it go.

Over the past several months, I’ve watched my savings and my interest in hard work diminish at about the same rate. I’m tired of always working low wage jobs but I live in paradise. It could be worse. So that’s about it for my State Park Summer, unless it isn’t!

http://gravesitestories.com/my-state-park-summer-pt-10/

OpEd By Jan Chaffin

On Thursday, August 10, 2017, my cousin texted me from Charlottesville concerned about the coming weekend’s three planned demonstrations. A far-right group with ties to white supremacists was scheduled to protest the planned removal of a long-standing Robert E. Lee statue from the city’s Lee Park (newly re-named Emancipation Park) on Saturday while nearby at least two other groups, including Black Lives Matter, were protesting the presence of the far-right group and were supporting the statue’s removal. She predicted a perfect storm of violence.

She also informed me the far-right had hired The Warlocks MC as “security”. She mentioned the ACLU was defending the freedom of the far-right to meet and speak in public. Apparently, she added, this whole campaign to remove the statue arose after Charlottesville Vice Mayor Belamy responded to a letter written by one of his students. A 13 year old had written that the statue scared her. As it turned out, she is the daughter of the Vice Mayor’s wife. City Council hired a commission to decide what to do, then ignored everyone’s input. They decided against a city-wide referendum, so folks all chose sides. The topic attracted the attention and interest of various extreme right and left leaning groups. Charlottesville is one of many southern towns facing questions about keeping its confederate past on display.

I didn’t think too much about it until I received more texts from her Friday afternoon and Saturday morning. Much was transpiring as she wrote. My dear cousin describes herself as a Libertarian. She was barricading her home and had her guns loaded. Extreme reaction, I thought at the time.

A life-long friend from Charlottesville texted me our town was on CNN.  I turned on the news to watch live footage of Saturday’s gathering just before the noon Lee Park far-right rally. She also indicated there had been a terrifyingly violent torchlight white supremacist march across UVa campus the night before. The media images I saw were reminiscent of KKK clan footage except the marchers were hoodless. Local university and government officials were quick to decry the violence, but the Saturday gathering was still sanctioned.

A local white supremacist named Jason Kessler coordinated with well-known neo-Nazi Richard Spenser to organize the far-right weekend of activities, according to CNN. This faction is apparently called the “alt-right”. There was also believed by the media to be a presence of alt-left protesters such as Antifa. CNN displayed quotes from former KKK Grand Wizard David Duke who was present at the rally. The remarks were clearly inflammatory and pro-Trump, linking Trump’s promise to make America great again to their agenda. The theme was “Unite the Right”.

Here is what I saw on CNN as I watched live coverage from a little before 9am to 11:30am Pacific Time. Please note everything that follows is filtered by the video and commentary CNN chose to air. The sound was mostly muted and correspondents were interpreting the video footage.

The rally was due to begin at noon Eastern Time. I saw mostly white men. Many were dressed in white polo shirts with cropped, side-buzzed hair. A significant portion of the alt-right protesters were carrying prepared white shields with black emblems emblazoned on them and were lined up as if ready to mobilize. Many wore protective head gear and carried confederate and other flags with long poles which they proceeded to use as weapons when approached by the counter protesters.

I didn’t see any guns in the footage but later saw copious photos of heavily armed militia members walking downtown. Surely this is illegal I think, but discover Charlottesville allows protesters to openly carry firearms in public.

A police presence was noticeable but the officers seemed to stand idly by as the sides approached each other with verbal taunts. There was no attempt to insert themselves between the arguing factions. The confrontation escalated into episodes of violence then several minutes ensued of full on physical violence.

I saw very few women and not many black men in the crowd, just lots of white males. The alt-right and the police seemed to be pepper spraying the counter protesters but it was hard to tell who were the police and who were the similarly-clad protesters. Hand to hand combat was observed throughout the crowd and many men were using flag poles as weapons. The police allowed the engagement to continue.

For some reason, my first impression was that these weren’t locals; these were mostly hired goons on all sides with a few locals drawn to each.  As the footage continued, I determined something of a distinction between the organized alt-right and the homespun counter protesters. It looked sort of faked to me – like the confrontations were staged. But the blood was real. Everyone everywhere was videoing the event with their phones, stepping up to the conflict, then dashing away from harm. The bits of audio that were aired were scary in their intensity and confusion.

After a few minutes, the state police formed a line and started moving towards the fighting cluster. Since I couldn’t hear the audio, I relied on the commentator’s narrative. Apparently the police declared the gathering unlawful and demanded that everyone disperse. Everyone responded immediately and separated.

The police herded everyone into side streets and attempted to split up the main body of conflict into splinter groups. I felt all sorts of emotions watching my personal turf on national TV – bewildered, angered, saddened, scared. My cousin later said she was embarrassed as well as grief-stricken.

I watched as cameras followed separate groups up Market Street towards the downtown parking garage. Violent engagements persisted, one on one and two on one while police watched. I saw them motion to some of the fighters, casually suggesting they break it up after watching them scuffle for about 30 seconds.

Inside the parking garage I watched footage of a black man confronting angry white men, talking and shaking each of their hands, apparently defusing their anger. It was one of the few signs of attempts to keep peace.

At that point, I saw signs of some rather serious injuries although it appeared police were cordoning and blocking views of the injured sideliners sitting on the sidewalk being treated not my medics or cops but by other protesters.

The National Guard was called in at that point and lined up ready to mobilize. By then, rioting protesters headed down McIntire Road towards McIntire Park.

Alt right spokesman and UVa graduate Richard Spenser vowed this was not over. David Duke leered ‘we’ll be back’.

By this time, I had to prepare for work. I was shaken and frazzled by all I’d seen and didn’t want to leave my internet and media access, knowing there was no cell reception in the redwoods. Shortly after I arrived, I checked the CNN website and discovered someone had plowed into a crowd of counter-protesters by Timberlake Drug Store killing one and injuring many others.

I managed to get enough signal to text my friend and ask if the crash was deliberate. Yes she answered. I went a little ballistic realizing the alt right had committed murder in my home town. After watching the replaying footage over and over, I had to wonder if the authorities invested with protecting its citizens had failed to prevent a tragedy, if their complacence had in fact encouraged it.

During the entire ordeal, Trump was tweetless. Again, passively, tacitly approving the confrontation by his lack of disapproval.

Later, I learned two state police officers were killed in a helicopter crash while they were monitoring the incidents. Three lives lost to a scary, armed assemblage of bigotry and hate, perhaps inadvertently facilitated by local open carry laws. The responses from individual Charlottesville officials were largely eloquent… after the fact.

My cousin has been deeply affected as have all my dear friends and family in my home town by the violent invasion of the alt right terror squads. In fact, intimidation appears to be their intention. What is hopeful is the coming together of citizens such as my cousin in support of the victims.

Was this the last gasps of a dying, resistant culture or a resurgence of newly empowered supremacists and domestic terrorists?

I love Charlottesville. I grew up there. I buried both parents at the funeral home across from the Lee statue. I understand why the idea of glorifying the confederacy is distasteful. But trying to erase history is also distasteful and potentially dangerous. It happened, and could happen again. Erect more statues that tell more of the story, but don’t deny the past, as indefensible as it might seem.

That was my opinion last week. Now, I don’t know. History is seen through the lens of the dominant culture. It might be time to reframe the view, leave a better legacy. Maybe it’s time the statues of Lee and friends are fired and recast.

by Jan Chaffin

• Disclaimer: The views expressed are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of my employers.

Chapter Seventeen – Trees Are Dying

Imagine a landscape of coastal wetlands and cascading rivers ringed by mountains of dense redwood forests filled with a teeming abundance of flourishing plants and animals.

The year is 1750. The place is Santa Cruz California. Native cultures have been living here for at least 11,000 years, burning the grasslands to provide food sources and carving canoes out of redwood trees for fishing and trading. There are over two million acres of pristine old growth redwood forest along the coast that ten thousand natives call home. Out of the 10-100 million species of life on earth, over 50% live in these redwood canopies.

By 1950, Europeans have settled throughout the area, deforested over 96% of all redwoods and destroyed almost 100% of the native population. If the Save the Redwoods League hadn’t purchased 170,000 acres of redwood forest in 1917, there would be no old trees left here.

Guess where that movement started? Right here in Henry Cowell Park! These grand old trees survived a couple thousand years of natural disasters but nearly succumbed to a couple centuries of unchecked greed. We are fortunate to live among these few remaining ancient giants and we are still learning the many secrets hidden within them.

Since working at Henry Cowell, I’ve been reading a bit about local natural history. Particularly inspiring sources are Malcolm Margolin’s classic The Ohlone Way and Richard Preston’s The Wild Trees. Both are great reads as well as great sources of information about the general area. Whenever asked, I share what I’ve learned with park visitors. When park visitors share something they’ve learned with us, it’s even more rewarding.

Last week, that’s exactly what happened. During a lull in the nearly constant flow of arriving campers, I was enjoying the camaraderie of my workmates. We were laughing about something and briefly distracted. When we looked over to the walkup window, we noticed a drawing on the ledge. We hadn’t heard or seen anyone walk up so we wondered who had left it. The mystery was solved when we turned it over and saw a young camper had signed her name. The subject was about loving our earth and she had shaped the planet into a heart.

We were delighted by the stealthy gift and promptly hung it on the wall for all to see. A few minutes later, a young girl walks up and hands us another drawing. It is a lovely colored pencil sketch of a redwood beside the slogan “Save Our Trees”. She quietly tells us her younger sister made the other drawing. We thank her and ask if she wants a sticker. She thanks us, says she wants nothing in return. The new art piece is added to the first.

Yesterday, I arrived for my shift exhausted and expecting a busy, taxing day ahead. I looked up and saw that a third child’s drawing had been added to our “art wall” and I couldn’t help smiling and appreciating the chance to work in such a special place.

http://gravesitestories.com/my-state-park-summer-pt-9/

by Jan Chaffin

• Disclaimer: The views expressed are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of my employers.

Chapter Fourteen – Full Swing

 I survived the July 4^th Big Weekend and the week after without incident. My July schedule granted me a reprieve from opening duties. Two out of three shifts were shared from 3-11pm and one was an overlapping 12-8 mid shift with no paperwork at all! I was working with someone all month at campground. I peeked ahead to the tentative August schedule and saw I had one day at day use but otherwise more of the comfortable same. Summer was here, it was hot and we were busy but I wasn’t bearing much of the brunt of it.

So far, my bosses had not contacted me further and everything seemed to be moving smoothly along. While ever-ready for repercussions, it seemed staff members were otherwise occupied, at least for now. But between this and my other customer service jobs this summer, I was challenged to keep my cool sometimes. By the end of my convenience store shift, I was ready for a hermitage. The festive summer crowds enjoying the weather and time off occasionally rubbed me the wrong way as I plugged along at three part time jobs. Oh well. Nothing lasts forever. Including my too-easy  park schedule.

When I rechecked the August and September schedules a little later, I noticed I was going to be opening at the day use kiosk by myself and, in September, closing many nights at campground… by myself… Sigh. That wasn’t how they told us it would be, but I guess if I can’t cut it, I’ll know by then.

Chapter Fifteen – Dark Interlude

 During the slower evenings at campground, I indulged in some research on the Trailside Killer (David Carpenter). In the 1980s, he committed a spree of murders in Bay Area State Parks including Henry Cowell. Since I often ran right by the site of one of his murders, I became fascinated with the crime details. I personally remembered the fear he caused and a close friend who served as Sheriff’s aide during his arrest actually talked with him. I learned, as the oldest inmate on Death Row, he is still fighting a death sentence at tax payers’ expense.

I was considering writing a short story based on the Cowell murder or perhaps trying to do an article revisiting the crimes from more recent crime-profiling perspectives. I think I was mainly trying to assess the source of the Cowell mystique-what contributed to the phenomenological richness of the area.

Chapter Sixteen – A Sense of Place

 Some places just seem to have more presence, more place-ness than others. Followers of various faiths often make pilgrimages to Places of Power within their iconologies. Today I was running to the Buckeye Trail. For weeks I studied maps and made failed attempts to find a connector trail across the San Lorenzo River at Big Rock Hole. First, I ran past Cathedral Redwoods towards the Rincon Trail parking lot and the steep twisty transverse down to Big Rock Hole beach. I was determined not to climb back up that relentless pitch but the nude beachcombers at river’s edge dissuaded further explorations. I didn’t want to invade their space and also didn’t want them to know I was lost.

My next try was from the opposite side of the river. I ran a loop from Eagle Creek to Rincon to Ridge Trail and the Observation Deck, then down Powdermill Road to the start of Buckeye Trail. Out of time and steam before my shift, I postponed the big adventure until I had more of both.

Today was the day! I headed straight from my car to Powdermill Road, past the mountain lion warning sign to the Buckeye Trailhead. The trail book promised an otherworldly experience. I didn’t hope for that much, just a chance to find a way across the river.

Yet, the trail offered a verdant lushness unlike any other area of Henry Cowell. I could see the trail coil down across the canyon. Listening to the bird calls reverberate through the canyon, I felt transported. Without having been to the tropics, I imagined this is what the rainforest might feel like. I felt invigorated by the sights and sounds and newness and adventure. I also noticed how very steeply the trail was descending. In sections, I needed to scramble over fallen trees and down slippery eroding dirt hills with exposed tree roots for purchase. Suddenly, rounding a curve, I heard the roar of rushing water. Within a few more turns, I spotted the river and soon the trail opened onto several sandy flat beaches.

I stood mesmerized by the view, feeling like some lost explorer discovering Shangrila. No one was anywhere near. In the middle of summer, in a busy State Park, I felt transported to an isolated, remote tropical island. Tempted to swim, I looked at my watch and changed my mind, realizing I still had a grueling climb back out of the canyon before my shift. I scanned the far banks of the river but didn’t spot a connector trail. The river was broached by a little island in the middle. I ran up and down the beach a bit looking for any signs of a trail but decided it was time to go. Another day I’d try again.

The climb out was indeed arduous. I was trembling with fatigue when I arrived back at the kiosk just in time for my shift, but I was smiling ear to ear.

I spent the evening thinking about the allure of Henry Cowell Redwoods. How it is so much more than a State Park, a bunch of adobes and ranchos, a powdermill, a murder site or even the home of the save the redwoods movement. Its sense of place exceeds every explanation. I thought of my struggles with trails, camp rules and closing shifts. My inadequacies understanding Cowell’s identity have been due in part to its vastness. In some sense, this place is beyond determination. Again I’m reminded it’s not about me at all.

http://gravesitestories.com/my-state-park-summer-pt-8/

by Jan Chaffin

• Disclaimer: The views expressed are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of my employers.

Chapter Twelve – The Conversation

After a few weeks of running up and down the technical canyon trails that connect campground to day use, I feel myself getting stronger and more sure-footed. The terrain transitions from shady needles in the redwoods to deep exposed sand and railroad ties near the observation deck. It feels good to know I can still run those same trails almost twenty years later.

What doesn’t feel good is yesterday’s conversation. My day started out well. I’d logged a whopping ten-mile run in mid-day heat and was still feeling the adrenaline rush as I began my late shift at the campground kiosk.

The two early shift aides and I were surprised to see our boss drive up. We are paid by a non-profit that staffs some State Park positions but we never interact with them. We joked that he was hand-delivering some long-awaited privacy shades for one of the exposed kiosk windows or my special order x-small tactical jacket. We then laughed maybe it was one of our turns to get the axe. Haha. In the back of my mind, I fretted when I heard he was meeting with the Supervising Ranger. Surely, it couldn’t involve me…

The Ranger phone rang and the Supervising Ranger requested I walk over to the ampitheatre and meet with them there. I looked at my co-workers and said, oh well, I guess this is it. They looked somewhat dismayed at the reality of the visit’s consequences and wished me strength.

What followed felt like a grilling-a petty one at that. My boss called it a conversation and asked me about comments I had made to a Senior Aide as long ago as my first day as well as several incidents including the Ranger Phone Hang-up. I explained my side of the story in each case, and they both nodded as if understanding. Then he asked about other aspects of my job knowledge and performance and I indicated I felt I was performing those tasks well. He asked if I felt prepared for the workload I was encountering. I said, no, not at first, but I felt more confident now. He asked if I needed more training and I said perhaps with one specific aspect.

Then my boss said there had been reports from a couple of co-workers that I was short with them when busy. I asked for context but he wouldn’t give me details. I was surprised and hurt by this approach. Now I had to wonder which of my co-workers felt strongly enough about my behavior to contact my boss instead of me or a Senior Aide. At the end, I had to sign a piece of paper. He said he would check back in a week and if he gets any more reports meanwhile, we would have a different conversation. The Supervising Ranger was mostly silent throughout. Wondering how many other Service Aides had gone through this ordeal, I felt deflated.

I finished my shift somewhat shaken up and not sure I wanted to keep working where I apparently wasn’t wanted. I made a few defensive references to the discussion with coworkers then tried to get beyond it but kept circling back to my irritation at being singled out. Ironically, I had given up hours at a better paying job to take this “fun” summer job. I considered ditching Parks and going full time as a Sears Appliance Sales Consultant. Ugh. There were was much to like about spending paid hours in a redwood forest. I decided, I’d fight to make the Aide job work, at least for a little while.

Chapter Thirteen – The Longest Shift

 The awaited JULY FOURTH WEEKEND arrives. Saturday July 1, a bit before 7am I unlock the campground kiosk and begin my opening preparations, fuelled by a greasy Burger King bacon egg and cheese croissant, hash browns and a diet coke. Yum! Not my usual faire, but the demands of the day seem to warrant the fast food support.

Ten pages of camper tags take extra long to print out. More than twice as many campers as usual are arriving with no extra staffing scheduled. Oh boy! Over all, the morning moves smoothly and doesn’t start ramping into hyperdrive until about 10am. A Senior Aide and an off-duty Aide help out so things are manageable. When the closing shift Aide arrives, we are in full swing. I feel like I should work a bit longer to help him. After a half hour more, the Senior Aide says I am good to go. Whew, after 9.5 hours, I’m ready. I’d made it through my last scheduled solo opening shift of the summer! Whether I will be permitted to keep my job still remains to be seen.

http://gravesitestories.com/my-state-park-summer-pt-7/

By Jan Chaffin

• Disclaimer: The views expressed are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of my employers.

Chapter Eleven – Botched It

A couple of weeks go by and Saturday opening shifts, while not easy, are manageable. A sudden soar in temperatures seems to launch summer into full swing. Traffic is snarled throughout town, folks are walking around in flip-flops and tank tops, in that graceless, tacky who gives a crap vacation state. Invited cars are lining neighborhood streets for summer night cookouts and deck parties. Lots of people are everywhere.

The campground is always full now except for cancellations. In some ways, that makes it easier because I can quickly say, sorry we’re all full to any queries.

Today is one week before the big FOURH OF JULY WEEKEND. Memos have been sent to prepare for early and long shifts. Indeed, I am scheduled to start an hour earlier (at 7am- gasp) on Saturday July 1 and work an hour longer, alone, facing 56 incoming campers plus bunches of extra visiting vehicles because apparently no one likes to camp alone. And let’s not overlook the hundreds of lost souls sent to the wrong park entrance by Google despite our numerous, unheard requests to fix the coordinates. They clog the line of waiting cars and require me to walk outside and hand each driver a little scrap of paper with preprinted directions while describing the turns to take.

Campers start approaching me before I even open the kiosk (before I even get from my car to the door). Somewhat rocking my confidence and flow, I try to accommodate their requests without unduly interrupting my task list. Feeling stressed and rushed, I remind myself to breathe and relax. Transferring yesterday’s camper information to today’s report, I notice two cancellations and make a note of the relished open sites.

Meanwhile, a visiting Ranger from a neighboring State Park pulls up and introduces himself. He will be providing support next weekend because our own Rangers will be patrolling off-site. He asks to come in and observe our set-up just as I start getting busy. The phone is ringing, campers are lining up at both windows and cars are backing up. Sure, come right in!

Checking in campers is really no big deal. It’s the “problems” that create snags and slow things down. Invariably, one or two campers walk up in the morning with site issues – noise, psychotic site-mates, or, in this case, bad mojo. I explain we don’t have any other sites. She is a single woman and needs to feel secure and calm, she slowly, hypnotically explains. She asks can someone else be moved and we answer in the negative. So, the chivalrous Ranger rescues the damsel in distress from the site she booked herself but now doesn’t like because of the bad vibes surrounding it. He offers her one of our special reserve sites and even comps her an extra night. I return to the quagmire of which sites have opened up and who gets what when.

Opportune campers grab one of the open sites. The camp host returns with a site update which I scan. It looks like we have one site. A car pulls up and asks “Any sites tonight”? And I answer, yes, we have one – it’s your lucky day. Sometimes you want certain prospects to get the sites they keep calling or walking up to ask about but luck usually determines the outcome. We can’t stack the deck or play favorites. So, because they showed up at the right moment, these young men got the site I was hoping the nice family in 76 would get.

Or did they? They return shortly saying someone is in their site. It’s two hours before noon checkout. That must be it. I recheck the board, the list, the site map… Yes, that must be it. No worries, they say. They’ll come back in a couple hours. Although irregular to sell a site before the campers check out, I don’t see any real problem.

Until the campers in that site walk up at 11:40am and want to renew for tonight, saying they were told they have first refusal. It’s gone I say. What sad looks they have. Yep, it’s gone. They walk away crestfallen. I barely feel remorse. Until I rethink what just happened. Good grief, I just sold their site right out from under them. Why did I think any part of that was OK?! I call the Senior Aide and explain I messed up asking if she would approve putting the young men in another reserve spot for the night instead. She approves. The camp host reappears and I tell him of my mistake. He runs to catch the packing campers and offer them another night. He returns shortly shaking his head; they are not pleased and decline his offer. Damn; I’ve really screwed up.

The Senior Aide later explains I should have refunded the new campers as soon as I discovered their site was occupied. Not to mention, I should never sell an occupied spot. Ever. The looks on the banished campers’ faces stay with me. I wish I could apologize but it’s too late. I vow never to repeat this mistake while bracing for JULY FOURTH WEEKEND!

http://gravesitestories.com/my-state-park-summer-pt-6/

by Jan Chaffin

• Disclaimer: The views expressed are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of my employers.

Chapter Nine – Week Three

I was catching on. In fact, I had day-use down. Opening, closing, solo… whatever. My last week of day-use assignments included a spending spree in the gift shop and a brave (foolish?) jump in the San Lorenzo River. On a warm after-work run, I returned to my now-private swim hole and couldn’t resist a dunk. In, out. Fun!

When I told the Senior Aide, he shook his head. No way would he get in that nasty river.

Temptations were removed when my June shifts switched to the campsite kiosk on Graham Hill Road. Both the river and the gift shop were across a canyon and miles away. Instead, I ran to the Observation Deck frequently.

“34 campers are due in” chuckled my training partner. My first solo opening shift at the campground would be epic. All week I panicked, dreading the challenge. I made sure to get to bed early but sleep eluded me. Finally, I decided to just get an early start and arrived at 7:10am for my 8am start. Clutching my opening shift instructions, I moved through each task from counting the cash to printing the incoming camper slips to updating the license forms to hanging the flags and setting out firewood. I was ready to open by 8:45.

Then the onslaught arrived like an avalanche. Campers approached from all sides wanting to add cars, swap sites, book walkups, get wood, buy day passes, get directions to the Garden of Eden and try to check in early. The phone rang non-stop but I seldom had a chance to answer it.

By 12, there was no sign of a let-up. In fact, more and more cars were lining up. I had to keep the road open and was constantly interrupting transactions to ask cars to pull over or redirect them to the correct location; Google somehow reversed day use and camping directions, creating lots of unnecessary traffic at both entrances.

A Senior Service Aide showed up to assist and started controlling the flow and giving me instructions. I bristled at the added element of anxiety she brought despite needing help. Around 2:30, I hit a wall. Without warning, I suddenly couldn’t complete a thought or remember how to fill in a camp slip.

That’s when the Ranger Phone rang. Rule number one: answer the Ranger Phone when it rings. “Excuse me, I have to get this” I tell an impatient would-be camper waiting in line to check in. I can barely hear the voice on the other end over the Aide’s radio squawking non-stop static at full volume. I think he was asking if there were any issues with campers checking out. I told him none that I knew of. I think he then repeated the question “Are you sure?” And I said I thought so. Then, for whatever reason, I felt so besieged that I told him “I have to go. Good bye.”

And I hung up the phone. On the Ranger. “Who was that?” asked the Senior Aide. I told her. Suddenly, her voice sounded like the taste of gun metal. She said “Oh, that’s no way to talk to a ranger. I needed to talk to him; there’s an issue with checkout.” She hadn’t told me there were any issues. I didn’t know she needed to talk to him. And yes, it was a stupid way to treat a Ranger. She took me outside during a rare lull and explained I would be talked to by the Ranger.

Indeed, the Ranger took me aside and explained he would have to tell my boss. He was concerned if I handled his call like that how would I handle a customer’s call when stressed. (I knew I wouldn’t even answer a customer’s call unless I was able to talk…. But still…)

By that time, the closing shift crew had come on and knew something wasn’t right. I managed to pull myself together and perform the cash-closing procedures for my shift. I had gone from thinking I was coping well to wondering if I was going to be fired. And worse, if I actually should be fired… Did I have a major personality disorder? Was it low blood sugar from lack of food? Lack of respect for authority? Much soul-searching ensued. I wrote my boss as soon as I got home and explained I did a dumb thing and apologized, promising it would never happen again. Then I waited for the consequences, dreading my next solo shift more than ever, wondering if I wanted to spend my summer this stressed.

Chapter Ten – Week Four

A week passes. No word from my boss. Saturday rolls around again. I decide to slow down and joke with the waiting campers that it’s just me and I’m doing the best I can, hoping to gain their sympathy. Thankfully, the morning is busy but not overwhelmingly so. The Senior Aide assists me again for a few hours and we actually joke around like buddies. I find it easier to work with her this time. I start making mistakes around hour six, but I catch some of them and slow down even more. I also make sure I have plenty to eat and drink. The Senior Aide is pleased with my progress. Whew! Who knows what next week will bring, but a month into my State Park Summer, I think I just might make it.

http://gravesitestories.com/my-state-park-summer-pt-5/

by Jan Chaffin

• Disclaimer: The views expressed are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of my employers.

Chapter Eight – Stunned

Arrrrgggggg!!!!!! Maybe the campground really does hate me after all. It’s beginning to seem that way. Each day here brings its own challenges. Today’s is as puzzling to me as getting lost on an out and back single track trail.

My trainer is an experienced Aide. She allowed me to open the kiosk by myself. Surprisingly, it took more than an hour to print the day’s camping lists and slips and update the site maps and lists. I obviously can speed that up and do some steps after opening to the public, but she acknowledged the process can take that long.

All afternoon, there were no issues beyond the usual retrievals of belongings after domestic disputes and radio reports of hiker and biker injuries. There are so many injury calls that our supervisor has invited us to a mock rescue at the infamous Garden of Eden swimming hole/trouble spot off Hwy 9, which will include a helicopter landing.

Supervising Ranger Joe came by and presented me with my very own key to the kingdom. I ran the Graham Hill Trail at lunch successfully. Campers checked in at a manageable rate and all was dandy. Until my trainer left and my new shift partner and I had to manage the kiosk. Still, no big deal; I could handle cash wrap and she could attend to campers. After all, I’d successfully balanced the drawer yesterday afternoon at Day Use and was expected to manage both kiosks by myself in a few days…

But for some reason my brain just could not recall the simplest of procedures. I reprinted and repeated one form three times while cursing and asking the Aide a million questions, all of which she patiently answered. I wouldn’t blame her for thinking I’m a neurotic graceless flop. I was heading down a cold sweaty tunnel of despair grumbling about pay grades and Accounting degrees and rethinking this whole shebang to hide the growing fear I couldn’t cut this job.

Eventually, I calmed down, focused and got through it after, much like a precocious three year old, I finally realized my tantrum wouldn’t solve anything.

An after work run up to the Observation Deck helped, although I swear I passed big orange fire hoses on the trail up and took the same trail back without seeing them. Again, it seems my senses get stunned here at Campground. Maybe Campground doesn’t hate me. Maybe, instead, it’s humbling me and telling me there’s a lot I need to learn here. Or maybe it’s not really about me at all.

http://gravesitestories.com/my-state-park-summer-pt-4/

by Jan Chaffin

• Disclaimer: The views expressed are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of my employers.

Chapter Six – Lost

I’d determined the campground hated me. My first day working there I got lost on a frontage trail right by Graham Hill Road. Impossible. I’d gone for a mini-run during our 30-minute lunch break and confidently headed out from the kiosk certain I’d have time to spare upon my return.

The path was lovely yet a tad noisy from its proximity to passing cars. I crossed one entrance and picked up the trail again, then went another quarter mile or so. I turned around to return and expected to come upon that same entranceway any second. Nope. Suddenly I was headed down a ravine and across a stream. Suddenly I heard no cars and had only minutes to get back before lunch ended. What a weird feeling. How did I get turned around on a trail with no intersections?!

I finally decided to plunge on towards what should be Graham Hill Road as quickly as possible. I came out near a cross street way north of where I expected. Instead of looking for that nefarious frontage trail again, I just braved it on the “shoulder” of Graham Hill Road next to speeding vehicles. What an embarrassing adventure. Finally, I came upon the campground entrance and made a mad dash for the kiosk, arriving maybe a minute before I would have been late, breathing heavily and feeling sheepish.

The next time I worked the campground, I twisted my ankle on an uneven patch of dirt while scoping out my favorite campsites before my shift. What seemed minor became extremely painful the next day. A week later, it had caused me considerable pain. I even had to take a day off from any running, which was unusual and felt very wrong.

Upon more consideration, I concluded the campground probably didn’t hate me. In fact, I had been running in my uniform when I shouldn’t have been wearing it. I didn’t realize it wasn’t acceptable at the time, but somehow the campground knew, haha.

Chapter Seven – A New Trail

The morning got off to a bad start. No sign of my shift partner and cars were lining up at the day use kiosk at 8:10am. I texted her number, then panicked and texted the Senior Aide explaining I had no key and no partner. In hindsight, I should have waited to call him and tried calling my partner and the campground kiosk first. She pulled up 25 minutes late apologizing she didn’t have my number.

It was a beautiful warm Saturday- perfect weather really. The first half of the shift was an unending line of cars. Again, I couldn’t imagine doing this alone but knew that day was coming soon. Closing cash wrap was another hour of struggling but it made incrementally more sense than the last time I’d tried. Yet I still needed lots of help and prompting.

Taking two days off from training for a prior commitment was inopportune; my learning flow was interrupted during a critical time, I’d asked for time off before even starting and it turns out my commitment was less than committed to me. I’d lost training, confidence and most of a paycheck that week. No good turn…

The ankle was still tender, so I decided on an easy after-work run along a trail I’d never explored: the Zayante Trail, which connects Cowell to Felton. I gingerly ran past lots of families and small children swimming at the usual spots off River Trail. I crossed the main entrance road and found the trailhead.

The Zayante Trail dipped down into a culvert then leveled out and paralleled the San Lorenzo River. About a mile in, the trail intersected a lovely wide flat stretch of sandy white beach with a deep sunny swimming hole.

There’s something archetypal about finding a sunny swimming hole! An almost irresistible urge to jump in came over me. I headed down the sandy beach to the water’s edge and started removing my shoes. I think I would have stripped right on down to my skivvies if I hadn’t heard a noise to my left. I looked over and way at the other end of the swimming hole was another person, the only other person I had seen along the Zayante Trail. Oh well, I waded in knee deep and decided to save the swimming excursion for another day, still excited about finding a new, fairly private spot to take a dip. The week was turning out OK after all.

http://gravesitestories.com/my-state-park-summer-part-three/

May 14, 2017

I opened Betty’s ashes on Mother’s Day. I’d never seen human ashes before and was surprised by their appearance. Mostly sooty grey sand as you’d expect, but occasional dark rocky bits and little irregular cream-colored clumps made clinking sounds as I rotated the jar slowly in my hands.

For whatever reason, feeling the weight of her remains in my palms warmed and soothed me, felt somehow right. Resting. She is resting.

Her son Travis and her partner Richard asked if I’d like to have some of her ashes to sprinkle in the Pacific Ocean. They sent them to me inside a box with the cards I’d sent her while she was sick. There was also a smaller box, carefully taped shut and wrapped with white paper addressed from her to me in bold black type. I couldn’t open it yet. I set her jar of ashes on the end table I’d inherited from my Mom and Dad. Irrationally, I wanted her to have a view.

Of course I readily accepted their offer, but when I considered the details of the endeavor, its practicality was called into question. How do I make sure her ashes scatter in the ocean and don’t blow back onto shore or all over me instead? Should I rent a boat? Walk to the end of a long pier and wait for the wind to change? Regardless, I planned to save a portion of the ashes for any future ceremony her family might plan. And I wanted to keep some here with me.

Meanwhile, Betty’s daughter Torah has been in touch with me, extending gracious access to her feelings and sharing details about her family. She is a writer! She looks a lot like Betty and seems to have many of her qualities and she too is a force of nature. She has three children, all amazing and unique and unfolding into the future.

Travis’s voice sounded so serious and grown up when he left a message letting me know the package was en route. But I knew his heart was breaking; he’d always been very close to his Mom, ever since he was a little boy.

Betty and I played across generations together as kids. She was always considerate and attentive, even protective of me. I was in awe of my older, beautiful, mannered cousin. We were both coming of age in a turbulent world, both only daughters; my Mom was her Dad’s sister. I never knew until after her death the extent to which she had been tortured as a child. But it makes sense of course.

Somewhat later in our lives, we reconnected. She’d had two children by then and they were both quiet and smart. Travis and I enjoyed some of the same activities since I was somewhere between his and his Mom’s age and a bit of a tomboy.

Betty went through a bitter divorce and her personality reflected some of her inner struggle. She combined Southern gentility with formidable feminism. During a certain middle part of her life, she seemed to react forcefully to the poor treatment she’d received from the important men in her life. I think she was grappling with ways to survive in tact. There were also unnamed health issues. She never elaborated.

Mom and Betty had a special bond. After a reconstructive surgery, Betty proudly slid up her blouse to reveal her new cleavage. I remember Mom blushing and smiling at the same time.

For many years after our Dads died, we would make semi-unkind but forgivable jokes during our annual Christmas dinners with The Sisters as they attempted to yell loud enough to hear each other.

When Mom was dying, Betty was right by my side sitting the long hours together in her hospital room hoping she’d rally and thrive but knowing better. When Mom’s sister Armand died, she sat right next to me at the funeral, filling me with strength and support. Afterwards, we drove up to Arrowhead to locate the Hurtt homestead. When the new owner tried to turn us away, Betty persuaded her to let us tour the grounds since this would be our only chance.

Betty explained what the stone-walled canning kitchen was used for, where the fruit trees were planted and the importance of a certain large rock in the front yard. We then drove to the nearby church where she found ancient cemetery markers from her Mom’s family. I cherish the photos, videos and memories of that day. It was one of the best days of my life, thanks to Betty.

A year later, we met for coffee during my annual pilgrimage back to Charlottesville. I snapped a photo of her that she liked. She was wearing a plastic tab on her ring finger and jokingly explained her new fellow had proposed to her but that was all he could afford. But she kept the ring on… She’d just met Richard and she was smitten. Things were tumultuous between them at first. She attempted to confide in me, but I probably was less accessible than I should have been. Through no fault of hers, I often felt less than worthy of her confidence. I always expected we’d have years to get to know each other better.

The next time I heard from her, she had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. For a brief, Betty-esque moment, she beat it-the only known survivor. We made plans to see each other. She tried to drive up to Charlottesville last summer to see me but was too weak to complete the trip. I offered to visit her, but it didn’t happen. I never saw her again.

The cancer returned with a vengeance. She fought until it made sense to stop. With Richard’s help, she arranged our final phone conversation. I was nervous and self-conscious and didn’t really say what I wanted to say. On top of everything, I actually asked a favor of a dying woman. Gracious to the very end, Betty said of course. I asked her to send me a sign if there is something on the other side. She said she’d do her best.

Two stars- Castor and Pollex lined up side by side low in the sky the night I buried my Mom. I saw them again the night Betty died.

Her two children are in touch with me and we are reconnecting after her death, sharing our grief. Maybe Betty has sent me a sign after all!

In our family, there was a minister, a policeman, a realtor, a boy scout leader, a DJ, an engraver, a luthier, a winemaker and a folk singer. And his name was Walter Gragg Chaffin… He was all that and so much more. He was my first cousin and I loved him dearly.

Growing up in Charlottesville during the 60s, Gragg played in coffee shops around the University corner’s burgeoning folk music scene and entertained our every family gathering with his humor and musicianship. He was the life of the party. And now our Gragg is gone. But his legacy will endure.

Although a handsome and personable youth, he never enjoyed good health. Early in life, he suffered from debilitating spells of asthma and later diabetes as well as a tragically undiagnosed case of Lyme disease which rendered his fingers useless for his most cherished endeavor – playing music.

Gragg was the son of a telephone operator and a career Naval officer. His Mom, June Mawyer Chaffin was born in the Blue Ridge Mountains and grew up near the writer Earl Hamner Jr. She was something of a writer herself in her later years, authoring her childhood memoirs and a beautiful poem about a mustard seed. Gragg’s Dad, Tip, was an official Navy photographer and later a golf pro at Keswick before working for the Post Office. Gragg was born while Tip was stationed in San Diego but spent the rest of his life in Charlottesville, Meherrin and Halifax with his beloved fiancé Emily. He loved to camp and fish and sit around a fire with friends swapping stories, sippin’, pickin’ and grinnin’.

Gragg had a real soft spot for animals in addition to his love of the outdoors; he loved his feral and pet cats as much as any one I’ve ever known. He started feeding one or two stray cats and soon a whole litter was showing up daily at his door. But Gragg had the biggest soft spot of all for his own family. He never missed a hospital visit to a sick relative or a phone call to check in with a loved one even when he was barely able to get around due to neuropathy. We would chat across the miles about everything from synthesizers to steam trains and he was always remarkably well informed with astute observations. He gave me my first guitar, an Irish penny whistle, a gorgeous Oscar Schmidt electric autoharp that he modified himself with special minor chords and he inspired my lifelong love of music. Thank you Gragg!

Few people knew that Gragg was also a devoted father who loved his only son Gene very much, despite being estranged from him for many years.

For some reason, our family song became “Your Cheatin’ Heart” by Hank Williams and Gragg would lead us in renditions during countless cookouts and holiday parties over the years. He taught me the chords and I would try strumming along but couldn’t hold a candle to his singing and playing. Nonetheless, we all gave our rousing best efforts lifting our voices together to celebrate music, life and family, thanks to Gragg. Cheers, dear cousin. You are gone but will never be forgotten. May you sing with the choir of angels.

by Jan Chaffin

• Disclaimer: The views expressed are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of my employers.

Chapter One – New Hire

Fog levitated above the grassy lowlands, hiding the distant hills like a half-raised shade. Occasionally a blue hole of sky poked through the tall trees.

I was alone on Hwy 9 driving from my Westside Santa Cruz home to my first day of work as a Park Service Aide in Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park. Felton was only six linear miles away, but Hwy 9 was hardly linear! A single lane coiled gracefully up the hill as the ground cover shifted from sand to pine needles. The sun sputtered between unendingly high, beanstalk trunks while I carefully navigated the tight turns. As Felton approached, the fog lifted, illuminating entire sections of brilliant blue and green. I turned into the entrance and instantly relaxed into the park.

The day use entrance to Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park is one of the loveliest half miles I’ve ever driven. Surrounded by meadows and majestic redwoods, the road promises surprises, more enticing with every turn.

I parked by the little kiosk and surveyed my new office. The windows on all three sides were covered with instructions, rates, maps, notices and policies. The wooden kiosk itself was constructed in that iconic state park style, painted familiar brown and white, chipping and in slight disrepair. For some reason it had a little covered patio behind it and the only door opened onto it. Both sides of the kiosk had sliding windows for visitors to approach by car or on foot.

I was the first to arrive so I jogged to the Redwood Grove nature trail, scoping out the ubiquitous Gift Shop along the way.

The Grove is a legend unto itself and deserves entire treatises instead of a brief description. Sublime… As I finished the mile loop through the tallest and oldest redwoods on the coast, a rare blush of euphoria flashed over me; I was suspended in happiness. Was this bliss?

Chapter Two – Day Use

The line of cars slithered as far as I could see. A shimmer of viscous exhaust surrounded it like a snake’s halo. “Day use is $10.00. Please park at the top of the hill to the right. Be sure to walk through our Redwood Grove.” Repeat. “This is nothing.” my shift partner said. “Wait until after Memorial Day.”

The routine was fairly straightforward and within a few minutes, I was able to jump in and start helping. By the end of the shift, I felt like a seasoned pro. Until it came time for the cash wrap. A solid hour later, I emerged from the park office dazed and confused until a run along the San Lorenzo River re-charged me. I drove back to Santa Cruz along a now sunny Hwy 9 feeling on top of the world. After all, I’d just spent an entire day in the redwoods and gotten paid for it.

Chapter Three – Campground

Head State Park Ranger Joe pulled up to the kiosk window and smiled. “Thanks for your quick action today Ladies. You might have helped save a life.” What had transpired was just another day in the life of a State Park Peace Officer but it had deeply affected me. I felt a sense of pride and purpose approached only by my volunteer work with sea otters.

Weekdays in Henry Cowell Redwood State Park Campground are pretty mellow. There are usually empty campsites and folks drive (or ride) up to book a night’s stay or check in to their pre-reserved spots. The volume is manageable so it fairly easy to catch on to most procedures. Mid morning, a hiker approached the kiosk with a cell phone and announced: “There’s a teepee in the park.” I looked at the woman, not sure why she was telling us about it.

She proceeded to show us a photo on her phone. Indeed it was a teepee of sorts, more of a tarp on a clothesline. And it was obviously not at a campsite. Someone was illegally camping on State Park property. My seasoned shift partner helped the woman determine its location on a camp map. Meanwhile, Joe drove up to make his morning camp site check. I handed him the clipboard with the list of who was due out for the day. I also gave him the map and told him of the hiker’s report.

A few minutes later Joe pulls up again and returns our campsite list. I ask if he’s found the teepee yet and he said he was heading there next.

Within minutes, we hear the emergency dispatch radio crackle to life. Joe is summoning emergency medical help for a severely dehydrated semi conscious 50 year old male. Within minutes, an ambulance pulls up to the kiosk while we listen to details of the rescue unfolding over the dispatch. We watch the EMTs load a person and take off. That’s when Joe pulls up to the window. Turns out the gentleman had been reported missing for weeks. He went into the woods to die, found the tarp in the trash and hadn’t eaten for weeks. But he wanted to live and wanted help.

Chapter Four – Nightshift

Noises at night in a redwood forest sound different. Or, more likely, I hear noises differently when I am in a redwood forest at night. Silence suddenly becomes a thud or a bump or scratch. A car door thunk, an engine rev or ignition all sound full of menace and ill intention. No sound is friendly. Even silence is menacing in it’s uncertainty. The mind could really spin out.

But I am lucky. I am training with another seasoned Aide, who’s done this for a while and is very helpful and unflappable. Yay. The day starts at 1500 and will go to 2100. There is quite a rush of campers checking in and joining groups and swapping sites and looking for other campgrounds and buying wood. Wow. All sides. I gasp at the thought of doing this alone. But the hours pass quickly and soon it’s time to walk across the parking lot in total darkness to my car. Challenging shift… Not feeling quite as warm and fuzzy now.

Chapter Five – Working with the State

Three days into the season, I’m happy as a clam running some of the loveliest and most challenging trails in the park after work each day and generally handling the job with ease. Staff members are typically very helpful and friendly. They’ve been quite attentive to the needs of the new seasonal hires and have even responded to my request for two days off my second week of work to honor a previous commitment.

Yet, I bristle on the fourth day when one of the Senior Park Aides requests that I wear a non-uniform shirt on my pre-work mini run. The request makes sense. Yet I expect the smiling thumbs up of the other rangers as I run by, not scrutiny. I realize it doesn’t take much to stack another chip on my shoulder. After forty-five years of working, I still need constant positive reinforcement from my coworkers and employers and a perfect work schedule. It’s unrealistic to say the least. So I have a few techniques to talk myself down; I just need to remember to use them.

I find it helpful to consider this summer as State Park boot camp. I’ll be given the worst shifts, the lowest wages and the least help. Anything better will be bonus. Yet, it will end before I’m ready and I’ll look back with nostalgic affection on my State Park Summer.

http://gravesitestories.com/my-state-park-summer-part-two/

My convoluted idea of making our personal and family histories and archives sharable as part of a funeral or burial package is this:

Participating members of this service can download a program that allows them to hover over a zoomable satellite view of the cemetery plot of the loved one(s) and through a menu overlay for navigation,  identify all sorts of categories of information about participating members based on varying permissions. We can connect to each other, other families, entire communities and world events!

This in conjunction with ancestry.com family tree integration and perhaps even facebook guestbook wall space, will let us immortalize ourselves as we would want to be remembered and connect with and learn more about where we came from. This service might be the afterlife internet provider of your choice! (We’ll manage your online and social media profiles posthumously, per your pre-arranged instructions.) When he heard my idea, one friend coined it “social media for dead people”, only half-kidding.