On The Eleventh Day Of Christmas, The Pear Tree Grew A New Limb (Much To The Dismay And Confusion Of The Partridge)

Location: Burrito heaven.

Listening to:

Someone told me that it would be cool if I wrote a mini-farming lesson every day for the twelve days of Christmas. I agreed at first, mainly because of the prospect of creating clever twelfth-day themed titles for all my entries, like “Five Seeds A-Sprouting” and “A Grafting In A Pear Tree.” Well, hopefully they’d be a little cleverer than that, but I’m not too worried about it since I never ended up doing it anyways. Trying to write those entries would mean I’d be obligated to actually post one every day, and deadlines are just not really my thing. Also, we’re on, like, the…eleventh day already, right? It’s practically all done with now, so let’s just leave those lords to leap over whatever they were leaping over and get on with the year.

Instead, I’m going to offer you an opportunity to surround yourself in a virtual forest of the Sequoia that I found so awe-inspiring up in the National Park near my most recent host farm, and I promise it’s not just to fill space—there’s a point in here somewhere. I don’t particularly like the practice of New Year’s Resolutions because it just seems so restrictive and forced to tie yourself down to some commitment just because another Gregorian cycle has passed. A friend reminded me that we make resolutions all the time—you know, “I’m going to stop smoking so many cigarettes,” “I’ll start going to the gym…tomorrow,” but they’re just constant little self-improvement attempts in our minds, and we only formally recognize them around this time of year. People are always thinking of things that they should or shouldn’t be doing, which is great, but doesn’t get you very far unless you feel strongly enough about your “resolution” to stick to it. Which (kind of) brings me to my topic of the day, and hopefully it doesn’t turn into some teary-eyed reflective nonsense. There’s quite enough of that going around already in the New Year’s aftershock waves this week, in so many Moleskine notebooks all around the world—before everyone forgets and rushes off into Valentine’s Day.

We have a lot to learn from trees. They are the perfect image of patience, dedication, practicality, and so many other wise adjectives and nouns not listed here. I read an article this morning that really reminded me of the wisdom of trees. Mainly, because the article was titled, “The Wisdom Of Trees.” The story explains a natural mathematical phenomenon that appears in the pattern of a tree’s branches:

When a mother branch branches in two daughter branches, the diameters are such that the surface areas of the two daughter branches, when they sum up, is equal to the area of the mother branch.

This is kind of cool, in a random fun fact sort of way that makes you say, “Huh!” as you promptly let the information trickle away to make room for more important things, like the score of the football game or the capital of Wisconsin. That’s what researchers thought at first too, until they realized that the branches grow in this precise and particular way for a very essential reason. Apparently this distribution of growth is the most efficient way to stabilize the tree against strong winds during storms, making their growth pattern the ideal feat in survival engineering.

I’m not a mathematician or an engineer; I don’t know the gory details of why this works. The point, I think, is the purposefulness of plants. The elements of a plant have always amazed me: leaves perfect for absorbing sunlight, stems and branches perfect pathways for nutrients, and the flowers—oh, the flowers. Such a great design! Sure, they’re just tantalizing attractions for bees and other pollinators. But hey, it works.

I’m impressed with this ingenuity. And I can’t imagine that this exact, repeating growth of new branches, being so mathematically precise and advantageous, is an accident. I don’t mean that plants are designed a particular way or “someone made them like that”—this blog steers very carefully clear of God-type-themes and religious matters. I mean that plants are fucking smart, and there must be some tremendous desire to survive behind all the bark and pine needles that pushes out new limbs with a ferocious and strategic thirst for survival.

This might be a bit of a metaphorical stretch, but I’d like to believe that we’d all be a little better off if we just quietly, practically found ways to get where we want to be, instead of making a lot of noise about resolutions which turn into failed resolutions which turn into next year’s resolutions, or some variation on the same unwinding thread. The trees grow entire forests of their own children with their practical nature, by trial and error and seeing what works, and—most of all—with dedication to the cause. And to have dedication, it’s essential to deeply believe in what you’re working towards. The trees wanted to grow into forests, and so they did. I’ll skip the part where we came and chopped them down, though; that’s a different story.

I did make one resolution this year, though, and I’m not sure if that makes me a total hypocrite or not. But I think it’s a good one, and a practical one, and one that I’ve been trying to stick to for a couple of years now anyways: to write something every day. Not in here, always, just in general. Most of it will probably never go much further than the private pages of my many scattered notebooks, but I’ve always found that to be the best way to expand my mind, and a mind can be a beautiful thing when left to its own devices.

What I’m trying to get at here though, is this: the trees didn’t have to “resolve” to grow the way they do. They just did it. Not right away, but gradually, slowly, with care.

Don’t just go out and lose five pounds. Don’t sign up for a million pottery classes on a whim. Unless you really want to, that’s fine too. But whatever is in your heart that’s trying to get out and grow into perfectly shaped branches, nurture that and see what new things you can do with it. Let the branches grow how they want to grow, and you won’t need any resolutions for 2012.

ps: For those of you interested, yes, this is still a travel blog. Next whirlwind adventure features Shumei Santa Cruz Farm in about two weeks’ time, which is a peaceful looking “Natural Agriculture Center” in the mountains of Bonny Doon, north of Santa Cruz. Read all about what they’re all about right here. In the mean time, you can find me munching on veggie burritos here in San Diego, freezing overnight in Joshua Tree, or camping in Anza Borrego, depending on when you catch me. See you at Nacho’s Taco Shop! (Their spicy carrots are truly the best in all of East County.)

Oh, and the capital of Wisconsin is Madison, but I had to run a quick Google search to figure that out. I feel like I should have known that. Thanks a heap, fourth grade geography.

A Burning Hanukkah Shrub Told Me…

Location: Home again, home again.

Listning to:

It’s a Christmahanukwanzaa miracle.

I’m not normally a believer in that sort of thing (or really any sort of thing that can’t be thoroughly dissected via scientific method), but there’s just no other explanation here. Despite draining a few too many glasses of holiday cheer last night—which appeared drink after drink in its own small miraculous way, although I think the proper word there is not “miracle” but “fermentation,” or maybe, “people like having an excuse to drink, the holiday season being an excellent catalyst”—I awoke in my own bed at 6:30 a.m., having been spared the strike-by-lightning treatment after showing my face in a house of worship after a full year of non-attendance (here’s a tip: drinking prior to a family-oriented church service, even on Christmas eve, is probably never a good idea. I’d forgotten how many sudden transitions between sitting and standing and sitting again are required. That is, the program directs to “stand if you are able,” but I don’t think sangria is a valid excuse, in the Lord’s eyes, to surrender use of my legs. I mean, Jesus didn’t hesitate to pass around the good old Eucharist a few times himself, but I think he still expected all of his friends to attend his crucifixion afterwards, inebriated or not). I’m not sure if it’s the perspective I’ve gained from being back at home again after three straight months of travel, or my own version of Christmas spiritedness, or the lingering effects of the sangria, but I woke up feeling very inspired to write…something.

So, you my most devoted readership, get an extra special, albeit entirely unplanned, holiday edition of The Bicycle Trip. Santa must have sprinkled some magic elf dust on my pillow last night…oh wait, is that not a Christmas thing? The traditions are so easily confused, especially when your family insists on celebrating Christmas and Hanukkah (Hanukah? Chanuka? Chanukkiya? It’s like Shakespeare trying to spell his own name, or some celebrity couple trying to invent the most creative version of “Brittany” yet) simultaneously. The potato latkes are something special, though—no complaints in that department.

Now that that little ramble has taken up a good hour of the time I thought I’d be able to squeeze this entry into, before the other three Parkers awaken with a hunger for cinnamon rolls and the urge to rip colorful paper off of small boxes, I’d like to delve into a series lessons I bring home from life on the farm(s)—fueled by the power of rounded shovels, drip irrigation, and Sierra Nevada Porter. I was planning on taking the rest of Festivus off to roast chestnuts or whatever people do while they’re pretending that San Diego actually experiences something resembling winter, but the Internet is telling me to write massive quantities of semi-informative monologue, and apparently it can’t wait until 2012—unlike Palin’s presidential bid, cough cough.

 

Lesson One: Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.

The word of the day is monoculture. Webster’s defines this as “the cultivation or growth of a single crop or organism, especially on agricultural or forest land.” I define this as a really bad idea. In a perfect world, farmers would invest in a variety of diverse crops, as has been the tradition of agricultural communities since we calmed down on that whole hunter-gatherer thing. Growing an array of veggies and other good edible things not only makes sense for the small-scale farmer who wants to support him/herself by eating self-cultivated produce as much as possible, it ensures the livelihood of the farm as a business. You see, if you grow a hundred acres of nothing but Concord grapes at your vineyard in Napa, there’s nothing to fall back on when the rain comes too late or too much or too little, or an unseasonably cold winter freezes all of your plants, or the mites and weevils find your field especially habitable (an even larger problem when you are growing organic, as spraying insecticides is basically the biggest no-no). Of course, when you go into the farming sector (I intentionally avoid the word “industry” here) with intent to live entirely off the profits of crop sales, there is a HUGE risk involved due to the natural fluctuation of production from year to year. Some preventative measures can be taken—i.e. keeping plants moist during an overnight frost, insulating with hoop houses or other covers, and spreading natural mineral compounds (such as diatomaceous earth) that deter pest activity—but, in the grand scheme of things, we’re really, really tiny, and nature is really, really powerful. Storms happen.

So, some loss is inevitable. But you’ll be in much better shape if one tenth of your crops are affected by an infestation than, you know, ten tenths. Wikipedia summarizes this pretty effectively, as per their impeccable reputation:

Monoculture is the agricultural practice of producing or growing one single crop over a wide area. It is also known as a way of farming practice of growing large stands of a single species. It is widely used in modern industrial agriculture and its implementation has allowed for large harvests from minimal labor. However, this ratio remains true only if the accounting for labor required is limited to the number of workers employed on the farm. If the indirect work of employees involved in producing chemicals and machinery are taken into account, the ratio of labor to output is higher.

Monocultures can lead to the quicker spread of diseases, where a uniform crop is susceptible to a pathogen.

It’s the same basic problem presented by messing with honeybees’ DNA to make zombie super-pollinators, or eating nothing but Twinkies, or telling all women that they need to fit into size four jeans. Variety is good. It’s spicy. It keeps life interesting, and it’s especially important for our crop friends, who can (as noted above) become very sick very quickly when there’s not enough different kinds of them to figure out how to front a defense when presented with a potential biological enemy. During my stay in Napa, I talked with my host farmer about the fact that he was one of the only farmers within a good ten mile radius who wasn’t growing grapes destined for Cabernet Sauvignon. In fact, he wasn’t growing grapes at all. Aside from his obvious disdain for the culture that comes along with the monoculture (i.e. hella wine tourism), it actually seemed like he felt sorry for the vineyard owners who have been sucked into the area’s trend regardless of the seeming impotency of—that’s right—putting all your eggs, or grapes, in one basket. It had been a relatively slow winter at Atlas Peak farm for tomato production due to bad weather—but they also raised fruit trees, Kiko goats, zucchini, squash, peppers, eggplants, and so on. As Rich told me, it had been a hard winter, but for those who were relying entirely on that one single variety of wine grape, it was proving disastrous.

We just need to get smarter about production in general. Quantity does not always lend to quality, and—now, this is purely speculation combined with my own brand of deductive reasoning, so don’t ask me to cite any sources—I have to imagine that in a mechanically planted field full of supposedly identical corn cobs, there must be some compromise in standards for efficiency’s sake. Now imagine that same field lined with heirloom tomatoes of different varieties, or apple trees grown from seed (whoa! Slow down, Michael Pollan!), or a rainbow assortment of carrots. Or—even better—all of the above! I know I tend towards the idealistic side regarding back-to-the-land, let-nature-do-its-own-thing philosophy, but I really can’t see the comparison between an overworked, nutrient-depleted patch of genetically modified soybeans and a few rows of different peppers, maybe even allowed to—buckle your seat belts and hold on tight here—cross-pollinate. There’s a whole world of possibilities out there; the genetics are so intricate, so diverse, and just so damn GOOD at producing organisms that can naturally fend off predators, it’s really hard to imagine what sort of crazy striped fruit could pop out next. What we need to do is reject the standardization of crops that cater to these particular, idealistic images that modern consumerism demand. Or change the mindset of the consumer. Because it’s not just about the variety of the vegetables—it’s a whole way of living. It’s about embracing beautiful differences and working within a world of often unpredictable and ever-changing surroundings, instead of trying to control everything and force the whole globe into one perfect, straight-kerneled corn cob.

Now, when we’re talking about eggs of the non-metaphorical sort, feel completely free to load them all up into one big basket. It’d just be silly to carry a dozen baskets for your dozen eggs—but don’t be surprised when one of them cracks, either. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Speaking of eggs, I just realized that I haven’t indulged in any seasonal eggnog yet. This needs amending, so I bid you adieu. Keep tuned for more lessons from the nouveau farming frontier—next time, we eat a rusty spoon!

An Unkindness Of Flat Tires

I’m growing to be a lazy blogkeep once again, but at this point—approximately a week away from my estimated date of departure from BeeGreen Farm for the holidays (let’s keep it non-denominational, ya’ll)—I figure I can wait until the end of my sojourn here to summarize my learnings and findings and such. In other words, I’m a lazy blogkeep.

Instead, I decided it’d be fun to post a list of various animals I’ve encountered/cared for here in Three Rivers thus far along with their respective group-form names, because I always thing it’s interesting what strange and often unrelated noun is used to describe what I would probably uniformly label as “herds” or “flocks.” So for those of you still dedicated enough to be reading right now, I hope you learn something new!

I don't know if two merit as a group. But they're so cute.

A pack of dogs

A clutter of cats

A harras of horses

A pace of asses

A paddling of ducks

A flight of swallows

A bevy of quail

A murder of crows

An unkindness of ravens

A meal of vultures (also committee, vortex, venue or wake)

A kettle of hawks

A cast of falcons

A herd of llama

A nest of rabbits

A rhumba of rattlesnakes

A flock of sheep

A kine of cows (a dozen cows are a flink)

A descent of woodpeckers

A hedge of herons

A knot of toads

A scurry of squirrel

A parcel of (wild, ferocious and bloodthirsty) hogs

A band of coyote

A mob of emus (haha)

An army of caterpillars

The view from the dining balcony of our loft/treehouse/clubhouse thing, on the not-so-clearest day. Mmmmm, mountains.

Best for last. I think my favorite is definitely the caterpillars. They do seem like an army, especially when they’re tomato hornworms.

Oh, and my front bike tube sprung another leak three miles into our ride up the south fork of the river yesterday—patch time! The joys of bicycle maintenance are really endless. I’m thinking of renaming this blog “The Frustrated Bicycle” or maybe just “The Trip” to avoid the inherent impression that I have any idea what I’m doing as a cyclist. But that’d be like deciding to change your kid’s name when he’s a toddler because you don’t fancy the first choice anymore, which is kind of unfair and may provoke some sort of identity crisis. So for now, the bicycle rides on.

A Rose Hip By Any Other Name

Location: The existential treehouse of the mind

Listening to:

When I first decided to travel alone, I assumed that, by nature of my chosen situation, I would spend a large portion of my time by myself. This was not the main intention of my travels, but I was aware that it may very well be my reality for a while. While the nature of the company has turned over frequently along this strange road, intrinsic aloneness (or loneliness—there’s a difference between “lonely” and “alone”) has not been the case at all. I’ve spent a decent number of unaccompanied hours gazing out of Amtrak windows and the like, but mostly I’ve been meeting far too many interesting people who compel me to ask questions and share meals and conversations and thought-dreams. This has probably been my favorite part of traveling alone: having the fortune and the luxury to be completely available to whomever is around, and finding kindred spirits among strangers.

However, I do enjoy my “me time” as much as the next guy. I haven’t missed it much at all though, because I have been so constantly fascinated with my surroundings (animal, mineral, and vegetable alike) that living with other people 24/7 has seemed more like summer camp than anything else. And who doesn’t love summer camp? You remember that one time…

So when I found myself, by chance, completely alone by the duck pond today, it caught me off-guard in a big way. Meeting all the people and trees and goats that I have thus far encountered has been wonderful. But it’s important to know how to be alone properly, too, and I remembered how to do just that again this afternoon. Charged with a rare solo project (most afternoons here find me working in the garden with at least one other wwoofer) of gathering wreath-making materials (our host makes various herbal and floral wreaths for friends and family and to sell at farmer’s markets and street fairs out of rosemary, oregano, thyme, mint, pepper berry, lavender, and my personal favorite: rose hips), I roamed the gardens until I found an especially bountiful rosebush, and started clipping away. When I had a decent box full, I collected my collectings and spread out on the grass next to the pond to start trimming away thorns and other undesirable appendages. Finding the rhythm of my hands and the branches and the snipping of leaves and the ducks chasing one another in playful circles around the patch of reeds…it was all so peaceful and simple and that’s when I realized why: I was being alone, and I was being really good at it.

A friend showed me this poem the other day; it came to mind as I brushed away dead rose petals and it seems appropriate now. I think everyone needs to be alone sometimes, to sit down by the water and trim the thorns off their flowers.

All Pumpkin Everything

Location: Three Rivers, California. Just down the Kaweah River from your friendly marijuana smugglers.

Mood: Stuffed!

Listening to:

Thanks for the sweet tunes, NPR.

Fun Fact: I don’t know, something about turkeys drowning in the rain.

This Thanksgiving, I would like to give thanks for simply being where I am—at this point in time, in this frame of mind, in this country in this world in this universe, and so on and so forth.

I really didn’t want this to start off sounding like a Hallmark card, but it looks like we might be heading that way. Seriously, though, being abundantly grateful on Thanksgiving Day is a big deal for me, mainly because I’m usually, well…not. This is not your average harvest day—but then again, this has not really been the average past few months for me, so it’s probably fitting.

What's going on at this table?

I have plenty to be grateful for. It’s just that I prefer to express my gratitude more spontaneously, not according to some annual dedication to personal reflection…or whatever. I find it more effective and, honestly, meaningful to say a quick “Thanks for giving me opposable thumbs today!” Maybe a “Thanks for that green light back there, yo. Really saved my ass.” Or my favorite: “Thank god I don’t live in a remote village being constantly bombed and invaded and set on fire over oil-drilling privileges.” I like to say these things throughout the day instead of sitting around on the last Thursday of the second to last month and contemplating it all between bites of mashed potato.

This year, however, feels a little different—maybe because of the setting, or maybe because I’m getting less cynical. Could it be? Let’s hope not. Don’t get me wrong, I will still shit-talk (with a vengeance) the blatant commercialism that plagues this autumnal celebration, the nonsensical traditions of green bean casserole and football fumbling that have unfortunately come to be associated with this holiday. You can take your festive centerpieces straight back to Michael’s, thank you, and I hope you saved the receipt.

Not to mention the ridiculous notion of rejoicing in family values and patriotism while completely disregarding the reality of how many natives our ancestors slaughtered in return for their hospitality. To give thanks for how the original Americans shared their agricultural knowledge and harvest bounty, we just said, “Yeah thanks, we’ll take that for ourselves now. Don’t worry, we’ll throw you a few college scholarships about three hundred years down the road to make up for this whole thing.” Disgusting. In my humble opinion, when we all go ’round the dinner table and list off what we’re all thankful for, topping the list should be the kind and welcoming people who only wanted to share this land together. Hum diddly-dum.

Well, enough of that. Really, I’m not trying to take it lightly, and I still want to abolish every damn printed-for-your-elementary-school-classroom poster depicting happy little cartoon Native Americans grinning at the table and spearing slices of white-breasted turkey meat next to their happy little cartoon pilgrim counterparts. Oh, and I’m pretty sure they weren’t growing cranberries.

A Thanksgiving feast of champions. Hand-made dolmas from fresh picked grape leaves whaaaat? Okay, I'm just really proud we pulled it off with a hot plate and a toaster oven.

But after spending about four hours yesterday afternoon tearing up tomato vines past their prime, digging up weeds, shoveling compost into soil, constructing raised beds, and transplanting the most adorable lettuce sprouts (varieties with the most adorable names: Butterhead, Brun d’Hiver (winter brunette)), I stood up from squatting over the rows of freshly sown crops, and this strange sense of appreciation for and connection to the past hit me like a semi truck over roadkill on the freeway (sorry, a little morbid there. But “like a ton of bricks” is just so cliché. And how often does anyone realistically get hit with that large a quantity of bricks at one time?). I was tired through to the soles of my shoes and my shoulders were aching. Dirt and rich black compost and trailing bits of crabgrass root clung to the front of my shorts and t-shirt, and found their way under my fingernails, embedding in the creases of my palms.

I brushed a sweaty strand of hair away from my cheek and started to gather up our various gardening implements, visions of sugarplum fairies and a hot shower dancing before my eyes, and that’s when I realized: this is exactly what people give thanks for.

Working hard in a small plot of land all day, tending to new tendrils and worrying about seasonal timing and underwatering and overwatering and frost burned leaves; nourishing seeds into plants into delicious edible things out in the sun so that we can all sit down to a well-earned rest with the ones we love. It doesn’t matter how many vegetarians are in attendance of whether or not there’s pumpkin pie—hey, my “get together” with loved ones was over Skype—rather, the point is that this country was constructed upon the foundation of our own sweat, turned into the soil by hand. Okay, obviously sweat isn’t a prime choice in fertilizer. It’s a metaphor, damnit. It’s hard labor and dedication to working with—not against—the earth that has allowed us to party and laugh and love equally hard.

Hella' lettuces!

This doesn’t mean that I’ll cease to rant about how I want to move to Canada (only for the free E.R. visits, of course), nor does it discount the hilarity that is sure to ensue the next GOP candidacy debate. Politically, ethically, economically, yes. We do live in a pretty fucked up age—sometimes. But it’s not all bad, and—politics aside—it doesn’t mean that there’s nothing to be grateful for.

There are so many centuries worth of kindred fellow seed-sowers that I want to give thanks for today. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to scribble out this blog entry over a bottle of Shock Top Pumpkin Spice Pale Ale in comfort and with the safety of knowing that we can all wake up peacefully with the sun tomorrow and keep on sowing.

WHATDOESITMEAN

Mood: Like the changing color of the leaves, or something. Not really, it just sounded poetic and meaningful. I’m doing quite well, thank you for asking.

Listening to

:

Fun Fact: The newest acceptable moniker for the Department of Energy is now: “Oops.” Bah dum, pshhhhhhh.

Well, that was a nice hiatus. Don’t we all deserve a brief hiatus now and then? Hiatuses. Hiatusi? What’s the plural on that?

Anyways, sorry my bloggery has been lacking. I’ve been a neglectful blogkeep, but what can I say? Life on the road keeps you on your feet, but not always on your wordpress.

So. They say a picture’s worth a thousand words, right? So I thought of a way to con my way out of writing a bunch of wordthings about my past few weeks: post a million picturethings! I hope ya’ll aren’t getting tired of the naturey-type photography yet, because there’s plenty to be captured here and I sure do like taking them. However. I haven’t figured out the super efficient way to post a bunch of photos at once, and I’m too impatient/computer incompetent to sit here and add them all one by one. There has to be a shortcut, right? There’s always a shortcut. So you will see many many pictures of mountains, strawberry plants, and donkeys once I figure that out. Until then, you get a recap of some of my favorite Napa goats. Enjoy!

It might help to summarize instead. I’ve relocated from Napa to a farm that specializes mainly in rare roses, fruit trees, and lots and lots of veggies! I’m glad that there are no zucchini and a smaller plot of cherry tomatoes though—I think I’ve seen enough three foot long zucchini to last a lifetime. Things I like here include, but are not limited to: our adorably cozy upstairs loft with its outdoor kitchen and shower, my lovely roomates—Christine, l’artiste from L.A. and Omar, who just taught me how to chop firewood!—waking up to the sound of donkeys every morning, the quietness of stars on clear nights, having someone to go on bike rides with again, the hiking trails (sixteen acres of backyard!), the proximity to Sequoia National Park, the quaint single bar that has live folk/country music every night, getting my hands dirty transplanting strawberries…the list goes on.

Kind of a bummer about visiting the park so far, though—we can literally see the sequoia and the snow in the mountains from our back porch!—because we tried to take a day trip last week but got reprimanded by a very serious and officious NPS ranger for using our host’s pass (which she loaned us) while she wasn’t with us, apparently that’s on par with killing a baby kitten or something. So we took that afternoon to hike around the foothills in BLM land for four or five hours, which was really lovely too…but I wanna see some big-ass trees!

When I started writing this entry, there was the pressing matter  beer and a bonfire to tend to (largely unsuccessful since it rained on all our firewood two nights ago), so I must away with me. Is that a real phrase? Anyways, more later (including photos of the garden, which we’ve been painstakingly uprooting crabgrass from for the past couple of weeks. Ugh!), and now I am called away to take the dogs on their morning walk up the mountain. Upward Over The Mountain…that’s a great Iron and Wine song. I would add it in here for fluidity’s sake, and your listening pleasure, but I haven’t figured out how to do that yet either. God, someone needs to give me a tutorial here. How have I made it this far?

Oh yes, and one last order of business—this blog can rightfully be referred to as THE BICYCLE TRIP (all caps, duh) once again, because le vélo is now in full service, after suffering from serious Deflated Tire Syndrome in Napa for a month. Okay, not too serious, but hard to deal with when you’re stuck up on a mountain in wine country with no bike tools. Lesson learned: always carry bike tools! Omar and I went on a lovely 20-or-so mile ride up and back the north fork of the river today to celebrate.

We Are The 1% Milkfat. We Are Occupying Your Refrigerator.

If you are anywhere near as outraged and disgusted at the actions taken by the Oakland Police force and Mayor Jean Quan in issuing and supporting the violence taken against the Occupy Oakland protesters, I urge you to write the mayor at JQuan@oaklandnet.com (or click here. Look, I’m so nice, I gave you a link!) or take similar action in expressing your opinion. We live in a democratic nation where we are fortunately able to freely express ourselves, protest, and support all those who wish to peacefully do the same, and this should not be taken for granted.

 

Subject: I am disgusted.

Recipient: Jean Quan

Mayor Quan, On Tuesday, October 25th you allowed a pre-dawn raid of the Occupy Oakland camps at Oscar Grant Plaza and Snow Park. That evening, you allowed police to wage a violent and unwarranted attack on people simply exercising their freedom of speech and right to assembly. The use of tear gas, rubber bullets, and flash grenades were completely unnecessary. Your approach against a peaceful assembly of civilians, clearly protected by the First Amendment, only made matters worse, and displayed for the country the ignorance, greed, and hunger for power that so often unfortunately afflicts our elected representatives—soiling the name of democracy and creating conflict where we asked for peace.

Therefore I demand that you:
- Direct Oakland Police to cease the use of force against peaceful protestors.
- Demand that the Alameda D.A. drop all charges against those arrested for peaceful protest and release them immediately.
- Allow for the return of peaceful Occupy activists to City Hall Plaza and attend other public rallies, marches and gatherings without threat of excessive force.

This display of blatant and unnecessary violence goes against everything that I believe our wonderful and FREE country to stand for. I am not anti-America; I am anti-fascist. I am anti- any governmental system that claims to exist for the benefit of its citizens, and then has the insufferable audacity to turn against those very citizens in a cowardly show of mismanaged struggle for absolute power. I am anti- police force that fails to execute its most basic duty: to PROTECT and SERVE. Our democracy is a system by the people, for the people, and cannot be supported by city governments and police officers who deem it necessary to act with violence against the very population they have taken an oath to be working for.

What has happened to humanity? If nothing else, if this appeal to restore America to the diverse, progressive and democratic nation that it claims to be on paper does not stir your interest or remind you of your civic and political duty, think of your own family and friends. If people you personally knew and loved were amid the Occupy Oakland protesters, would you feel comfortable in making the order to use tear gas and fire rubber bullets? Use a little common sense; have some compassion.

The fact that you have called to attention your disregard for this area, which is already riddled with crime, unemployment, and street violence, reinforces the very base of Occupy Oakland’s credibility in their protest. This neighborhood, so often forsaken by its own police force, should be encouraged in their attempt to call for socioeconomic justice, and protected from those forces who threaten it. The residents of Oakland who have chosen to take time away from their jobs and lives to participate in this protest should be proud of their efforts towards restoring a disadvantaged community, and for demanding the same treatment as the rest of the first amendment empowered public. The residents of Oakland represent the 99% being taken advantage of by our economic system in a very real sense, and therefore have possibly more right and more reason than anyone to demand proper access to their civil rights. I cannot commend your heinous actions in any way, but I will give you this: you have brought attention to a group that quite possibly best represents the core of the Occupy Wall Street movement, and I hope that at least this will spark further revolution of the peaceful in overcoming the violent, and the public masses that actually represent our country in being allowed the justice and freedom to pursue happiness that our forefathers promised centuries ago.

Where is your police force when true crime—rape, robbery, murder, prostitution, gang violence—occurs in Oakland? They seem to turn the other way, yet somehow deem it appropriate to lash out at those trying their utmost to show what a culturally diverse and promising city Oakland could be at its full potential. You are targeting the wrong crowd. Violence likes company, and I would not, at this point, blame the Occupy Oakland participants for starting an outright riot against your oppressive forces if such a response were to occur. However, I have faith that this will not be the case, for the protesters have already clearly shown that they are more tactful, intelligent, and respectful citizens than yourself.

As a parttime Berkeley resident, I am usually proud to say that I live in the East Bay Area. I frequent many parts of Alameda County, including Oakland, to attend events, visit friends, and explore the community. On this day, I am both outraged that such actions have been taken against the neighborhood that I call home, and ashamed to even call a place that would elect such a leader home. You should be ashamed of yourself as well, for you have failed us as a leader and as a fellow human being. I recommend that if you cannot properly step up to the duties that your mayoral office requires of you, you should seriously consider stepping down from your position altogether, so that someone more capable, more responsible, and more morally sound may take your place.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Claire Parker

Berkeley/San Diego, CA