Letter To My Sons.

Written By Michael Shannon

Small towns like Arroyo Grande California are everywhere. People moan and groan about the loss of this particular institution but the truth is they are in plain sight and they are all about. Even Los Angeles the much maligned city which graces the southern part of our state is simply a collection of small towns grown together. The largest is the City of Los Angeles, the smallest, the City of Industry with just 295 souls. The two encompass 86 other municipalities, many of them much smaller in population than our own.

I’m sure that even today most of them have their little quirks. Old fashioned storefronts, little men and boys stores, a store for young women’s clothes and right across the street one for older matrons, not a Target in sight. Do some have a municipal court where the judge leans out the window and hollers at his friends walking by? Probably do. You go to the butcher shop for meat and next door, Bennet’s grocery store. If Muriel doesn’t slip you something from the candy jar right there on the counter, a hop skip and jump away was confectionary. An ambitious kid could double-dip if he was clever.

In the days before todays media blitzkrieg you could not watch, and by that I mean the television screen which in my youth was slowly eroding the preeminence of the printed word, a battle which has largely been won by screens, people still walked down our streets then and likely knew each other. In some cases their families had known one another for generations. It was difficult to pass the store fronts without at least a wave to those inside. The owners might come out to shake your hand and shoot the breeze a bit. In the 1950’s Saturday was still go to town day and most people were in no big hurry. Farm and ranch families could be pretty isolated for the rest of the week.

Us kids would beg to go down to the variety store. It was in a newer building attached to the big old Tufa stone building where the judge sat upstairs looking out the window. Judges were not too busy then. Local people were sort of judged by bloodline and only those who were from out of town were in any sort of jeopardy. Jerry Dana was his name and he was the great-grandson of Captain William Dana one of the original Rancheros. Dana was a prominent man, not just because he was an heir to huge cattle ranch but because in the olden days couples had very large families and generations later the little dusty town of Nipomo, the site of the original rancho was almost completely populated with Captain Dana’s extended family and their decedents. “More than you could shake a stick at” my dad said. You didn’t have enough fingers to count all the family names who had lived here for generations.

Variety stores were once everywhere. There was almost nothing you needed that you couldn’t find in one. Ours wasn’t a fancy one like Woolworths or JC Penny’s, no just a room full of open display cases filled with what were once called notions. You could buy a wash cloth or ten if you were a mind to. There were dishes, knives and forks, both china and plastic, plastic being the latest thing for the frugal. If you were a girl there were dollies and pocket knives for boys who were growing up in the shadow of the war, the greatest generation as it’s called today. It was then just a war that nobody’s parents talked about or had any fondness for. They had all lost something. But boys are boys and the greatest attraction were those little rubbery green army men, no sailors or marines or aviators of any kind, just soldiers with their rifles and bayonets a little curved or crumpled but still deadly in the minds of little boys. If you could talk your mother into opening her coin purse Mary Margaret would trade a few silver coins for a glassine bag of little green killers.

The other big attraction was the baby in the window. Not the doggy like the song says but a real baby boy. They had a little picket fence to keep him from falling off the counter and a blankie if he wanted a nap. You could see him through the big window in front and he could see you. The glass was perpetually smudged from mothers and their children tapping on the glass, getting his attention and trying to make him smile. A small one person zoo of sorts I guess.

All of this in a little town of fifteen hundred that covered about four blocks. Every thing you needed on God’s green earth was to be found, everything from life to death. One end of town was where you could find the home of “The Baby Doctor’ Charles Clark and the other the home of Beder Wood, a carpenter who built coffins and served as the first undertaker who in a bit of unique advertisement displayed tombstones in his front yard.

Now we’ve set the scene or more precisely the end of my great-grandfather John Edward Shannon.

I never met the man, my great-grandfather. He died twenty one years before I was born. I know about him though. His full name was John Edward Shannon and he was evidently quite the character.

Like most people of the time he arrived in Arroyo Grande by a circuitous route. He was born in Lackawaxen township in northeastern Pennsylvania near where the Lackawaxen and Delaware rivers collide. It’s just spittin’ distance from the New York Pennsylvania line.

In 1850 it was a place of no particular note. Hasn’t changed much since. It’s still rural as it was then just one hundred miles from Manhattan and having just 1,572 th the population. You could populate a single apartment building, 650 west 42nd street in New York’s Hell’s Kitchen with all the residents of Lackawaxen.

Born in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere to a housewife and a stonemason whose family owned an inn and tavern in town. They had purchased it at auction in 1779 when the original owner was hanged by the British for counterfeiting. In the long history of Lackawaxan, other than my great-grandfather they’ve only managed to produce two notables, Ed Porray a former baseball pitcher who is the only MLB player to have been born at sea and Pearl Zane Grey. Pearl Zane Grey was an American author and dentist. He almost single handedly created the western cowboy genre publishing over 90 themed books. Between Grey and the movie studios they established the myth of the American cowboy. Grey knew better but it did make him rich. He and his wife Dolly are buried in Lackawaxen overlooking the Deleware River a place they both loved.

The Tavern.

Grey lived in California and was friends with Charles Lummis the publisher of Sunset magazine which was then and now a booster for the Golden state. He knew Wyatt Earp, the big liar from Tombstone who captivated authors and screenwriters with gunslinger tales which he mostly made up. He also tossed some back with Gilbert M. “Bronco Billy” Anderson and William S. Hart recognized as the first American cowboy star of the silver screen. Aronson found fame starring in, writing, and directing hundreds of silent Westerns for Essanay Studios starting with the 1903 landmark film The Great Train Robbery. Of all the westerns ever made Bronco Billy and W S Hart had the distinction of never having been real cowboys. All of them plowed a fertile field because they were right on the tag end of the cowboy myth. They were writing about train robberies while Butch and Sundance were still doing them.

That was all still to come though when Dad Shannon left Pennsylvania. I asked my father once why he left Pennsylvania and he said,

“Too many trees.” True enough. That part of the state is filthy with trees, “He felt it was too depressing.”

Like some of the men in the family he needed adventure, the same impulse that drove my grandfather to run away from home here in Arroyo Grande for in his day it was a remote place with a tiny population. Nothing to see here he said, His parents both had heavy hands as the old saying goes. The leather strop was used for more than sharpening straight razors.They tended lay it on heavy and like many teenage boys he couldn’t wait to “Dust his broom.”

So great-grandpa Shannon did just that. He hit the road, the railroad that is. At fifteen he signed on to one of the great railroads of the day, The New York Central, famous for its route up the great Hudson River and the nefarious business dealings of its owner Cornelius Vanderbilt one of great and aptly named Robber Barons of the era.

He worked the unglamorous jobs. A warehouse man, he was just low paid labor expected to hump crates and boxes into and out of boxcars working the old twelve hour day. Men were cheap and pretty disposable and there were never labor unions on a Vanderbilt road. Eventually he graduated to brakeman, walking the tops of the cars and spinning the brake wheels according to the steam whistle, hand signals and colored lanterns displayed by the the train crew. Winter, summer day and night, walking the running boards on the cars or hanging on in the blinds* An incredibly dangerous job.

In the 1870s, railroad brakeman was statistically the most dangerous job in America. Approximately one in every twenty brakemen was injured each year, and the fatality rate often exceeded that of coal mining. The vast majority of these deaths and injuries were caused by falls from moving trains and being crushed while coupling cars.

To connect cars, a brakeman had to stand directly between moving cars to guide an iron link into a slot and drop a pin at the exact, split-second moment the cars met. This frequently resulted in crushed or severed hands and fingers. Missing digits were so common that railroad superintendents used them as an indicator of a man’s experience. Back up and read that again. Your bona fide’s were not about your intelligence or how nimble you were or even if you just wanted work your way up in the ladder, but a visual demonstration of your worst experience. Brakemen were also required to run across the tops of swaying freight cars in all weather conditions, turning manual brake wheels to stop the train. Slips, falls, and being struck by low-hanging bridges or trees accounted for countless fatalities, a rate of roughly one in every 300 employees and an injury rate nearing 70% within five years of employment. The primary culprit was the manual link-and-pin coupling system.

George Westinghouse had just developed the air brake in 1869 but other than George Pullman who built luxury passenger cars no one was eager to foot the bill to fit air brakes to freights. Men were cheaper anyway and had familys to feed and had to work no matter the danger. Thats how the accounting department looked at it. It finally took the federal government to step in and make it law before they began spending to do it.

Seven years on the road, starting at as a swamper at fifteen with the last four as a “Brakie.” The brutal winters on the Central’s east Hudson river line got him to think seriously about getting into some other line of work. Something easier, less dangerous and more profitable. Become a capitalist, a uniquely American career. Then as today serious education not necessary just the ability to buy cheaply and sell dearly. Vary simple if you liked risk, few scruples and a belief in yourself.

The answer, such as it was , was to break into the freight cars and sell what goods they could find inside. I’m sure it seemed easy, big railroad, thousands of employees, so, so easy. Open the door, throw the goods off and pick them up later. Theft was pretty common, Jesse James robbed his first train just four years before our great-grandfather took it up. He predated Butch Cassidy by ten years. Dad Shannon was a budding capitalist sure to be a success although that was going to take some readjustment.

A Capatilist, until he wasn’t. The yard “Bulls” the security men who roamed the yards and the Railroad “Dick’s. detectives knew all about that particular pastime. They were on to him pretty quickly and caught “Red handed”, nabbed, cuffed and hustled off to court where he stood before Judge George. Found guilty in a brief judges trial he found himself the recipient of two years, all expenses paid stay by the State of New York.

Cellblock Sing Sing

He found himself standing outside an Iron gate. Chained up ankles and wrists. He had his first sight of the State Prison at Ossining, New York, the maximum-security prison for men operated by the New York State Department of Corrections, popularly know by it’s official name, Sing Sing. He didn’t hear anyone singing. It was Monday, March 20th, 1871.

It was seven months before the Great Chicago Fire, Lt. Colonel George Custer had a little over five years to live, The transcontinental railroad had just opened for business the previous year and the Germans had just formed the first German Empire after defeating the French in the Franco-Prussian War. Ulysses S. Grant was president. The president sent Federal troops to South Carolina to put down the Ku Klux Klan and Henry Morton Stanley finds Dr. Livingston. Canadian giantess Anna Haining Swan (7ft 11in tall) marries the ‘Kentucky Giant’ Martin Van Buren Bates (7ft 9in tall) at St. Martin-in-the-Fields, London and Giuseppe Verdi’s opera “Aida” premieres in Cairo, Egypt.

Such was the state of the world as John Edward Shannon shuffled through the gates of the prison that would be his home for the next two years.

NEXT CHAPTER

He lights out for the coast.

• The “Blinds ” refers to the space between coupled boxcars, a favorite place for Hobo’s and brakemen trying to stay out of the freezing wind.

Cover: Dad Shannon at home in Pismo Beach. California

Michael Shannon is a writer from Arroyo Grande, California.

Letters to My Sons

Michael Shannon

To be remembered is a universal human desire. In whatever fashion you leave your mark the secret desire, probably unconscious is to a memory.

The incredibly ancient dwellings that have survived millennia are marked by grafiti. So are rail cars. Mankind seeks to leave some kind of mark that reminds us that they lived.

“Floronius, privileged soldier of the 7th legion, was here.” A note scratched into the plaster of the gladiator barracks in Pompei or a lines scratched on the interior wall of tombs in ancient Egypt’s Valley of the Kings by a visitor from India four thousand years ago.

Remembrance is like ripe fruit pulled, plucked from the limb, held in the palm. Who was that person? How did they get here, what did they do. What circumstances led to this particular point in their time. Every thing that man has wrought signifies the simple act of being.

Some, a simple act of love and kindness hold memories of the lost. The Oregon trail where as many as 20.000 emigrants died has just a handful of verified grave sites. You can count them on the fingers of one hand.

Typhoid and Cholera were the great killers. Lack of sanitation and bad water killed quickly in the days before any kind of medical help was yet available. Diarrhea killed in hours. Accidental gunshots, kicking mules and horses. falling under the moving wagons and contrary to celluloid history perhaps only forty or fifty deaths from Native tribes. Arguments over trivial matters led to shootings which in the days before any kind of medical help was slightly useful were nearly all fatal. Rare was the train that carried a doctor. You were lucky to have a midwife. In it’s peak years the trail killed about one in ten.

Because graves had to be made quickly to keep the wagon trains moving, most were hastily buried and left deliberately unmarked to prevent scavenging animals or vandals from disturbing the remains. When possible, folks were buried in shallow graves wrapped in a blanket in the center of the trail so the passing livestock and wagons would tamp the soil and erase all traces of the grave to prevent Coyotes, Badgers and Wolves from digging up the remains.The trains rarely stopped, miles had to be made before the snow flew and blocked the passes in the Rockies and the Sierra.*

One of the pioneers who never made it past Scotts Bluff was Rebecca Burdick Winters. She was born in Cayuga New York state in 1801. Her father was Gideon Burdick a veteran of George Washingtons’ Continental Army. He had served as a drummer boy enlisting when he was just fourteen. The Winters family had moved west to Illinois where both had converted to the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints and had been on the receiving end of a great deal of persecution by their Christian neighbors. In 1851 they had decided to join a Mormon wagon train bound for Salt Lake City in the self proclaimed State of Deseret.**

Preparations were made to sell their property and chattels and join a train to cross the Great American Desert to what was to become Utah. The Winters party of ten wagons pulled out of the Mormon city of Nauvoo in Illinois headed west. They trailed along southern Iowa, crossed the Missouri at Council Bluffs entering what was the unorganized territory,*** and headed northwest up the Platte River.

Rebecca bagan showing simptoms of Cholera as they traveled along the banks of the river. Little was known about the cause in 1852 it didn’t yet have a formal name. Sometimes called Gastric Fever or Slow Fever because it started with a low but ever increasing fever and could last weeks. It was also called Pythogenic fever a term meaning “generated by filth or putrid matter.” The emigrant trails were well traveled and their was little to no sanitation. Contrary to general belief the trails weren’t necessarily two wagon ruts because in the search for grass for the livestock the pioneers had created parts of the trail that were as much as a mile wide. In the ground ahead was offal from dead animals and even humans. There was urine and excrement from the travelers who didn’t bury it and when traveling by a river the river itself was polluted by the trains ahead. People knew the dangers but could simply not avoid infection. Dysentery, Cholera and Typhoid fever cause somewhere around 30,000 deaths out of the 350,000 travelers in the peak years along the trail. Rebecca was one.

According to several journals kept by people in her train she fell ill and lingered for a few days, a slow-developing misery lasting less than a week, characterized by a rising high fever, severe fatigue, delirium, and explosive Diarrhea. The loss of fluids which could not be replaced killed her. There were no IV fluids available in 1852 and they knew the water was contaminated. They could do nothing to save her. Rebecca lay in the wagon bottom on a bed of quilts and slowly slipped away. Other ladies on the train did their best to keep her comfortable but she slowly slipped into a confused state and died soon after the train passed Chimney Rock. Rebecca was the fifth person on the Winters train to die after leaving Council Bluffs. One every 90 miles or a death about every three days. These were not strangers but someone you knew well, a neighbor, a family member. Sister Rebecca was one of the vast numbers that died right along the beginnings of the trail as it ran along the North Platte river.

Great number of pioneers that died were buried in the center of the road, perhaps ten to twenty per mile over the life of the trail. A shallow grave would be scraped out, the body wrapped in a blanket and a few shovel fulls of dirt would cover the hole. The hitches of mules or oxen would be led over the grave to tamp the earth down and fianlly the stock hitched up to the Studebaker or Murphy built wagon and the entire train would roll over the dead, tamping it down in an attempt tp keep the wildlife from digging it sup. No headboard or any other marker would grace the spot that marked someones resting place.

To prevent the disease from spreading, and perhaps for the comfort of his wife, Hiram pulled his company off the trail. Three days later, from his camp thirty-three miles east of Fort Laramie, Captain Snow sent a note to Hiram, imploring him to “not delay on account of sickness” as he believed it would exacerbate the situation. The messengers met Winters’s division on the way and learned that Sister Winters had died at one o’clock the previous afternoon. Rebecca Burdick Winters, a wife to Hiram and mother to his children, never reached the valley of the Great Salt Lake.

On the fifteenth of August, 1852 she slipped away to the place whence none returns. She was 53. She no longer felt pain, the fatigue of the trail or loneliness of the prairie stretched before her in seemingly table flat emptiness that made no day seem different than the one before, but Hiram, her husband of 24 years and Alonzo, Hiram, Rebecca, Hellen, Elizabeth, and Hetta, her children did.

He could not bear to leave her alone, one of the nameless disappeared who paved the trails west. She would have a proper resting place. The train stopped. Rebecca was the first and not the last but because of the love of a husband she would be remembered.

Hiram walked to the center of trail between the ruts and started to dig. His shovel moved in the age old rhythm, push, lift, throw as he went deeper and deeper. The wives washed and cleaned Rebecca, dressed her in her finest clothes, rolled her in her quilt then took turns at sewing her shroud closed. As the hole grew deeper William Fletcher Reynolds, a family friend, salvaged a broken wagon wheel from the brush removed the spokes and pounded the iron rim into an oval then carved her name and age into an iron wagon tire. She was laid gently in her grave surrounded by her family and her friends. Uncomfortable with the idea that she would be covered by dirt, planks were laid beneath her, the body lowered and more boards placed over her and the grave shoveled full. Once the livestock and wagons completed their work the iron tire was partially buried over the grave to mark her final resting place. This marked the gravesite.

The rest of the Winters family arrived in the Salt Lake Valley five months later in October, 1852, and they eventually settled in present-day Pleasant Grove, Utah.

Following wagon trains saw the tire and simply went around it. In 1869 the completion of the transcontinental railroad put an end to wagons on the Oregon/Mormon trail and after nineteen years Rebecca’s grave sat in lonely isolation in the valley between Chimney Rock and Scotts bluff. Only an occasional cowboy looking for a lost steer came across the tire and wondered who.

Hiram and the children never forgot Rebecca and went back to visit her in the years following. The family carefully watched her resting place to make sure it was not disturbed. The farmers and ranchers kept a respectful distance and made sure no one bothered her..

Almost fifty years would pass before an advance survey crew laying out a new line for the Wyoming and Western Railroad building up the Platte Valley came across the isolated grave. No one on the crew knew who Rebecca Winters was but out of respect they rerouted the tracks from the original plan to avoid disturbing her. When the railroad was finished the tracks ran right next to the old wagon wheel tire for almost 100 years, A crewman or passenger might see it in passing and wonder how it came to be.

Nearly a century later, in 1995, the railroad which by that time the Burlington Northern approached the descendants of Rebecca Winters and worked out a plan to move the gravesite to a safe and accessible location. In the presence of more than sixty of her descendants, a team of archeologists worked to exhume Rebecca’s remains that autumn. Rebecca Burdick Winters’s body, now in a mahogany casket, is buried a mere one hundred yards from its original location.

Rebecca Winters’s reputation as warm, caring, and selfless makes it unsurprising that her gravesite was marked with permanence. Asa S. Hawley, who traveled with the company, wrote that many in their camp had died from cholera, but that “the most sorrowful to him was the death of Sister Winters, one of God’s noble and courageous women.

Rebeca Burdick Winters has lingered purely through luck and the kindness of others who never knew her but understood that she had lived and deserved those kindnesses by simply having been.

So when you are traveling stop and take a moment. Turn down highway 24 from Scott’s Bluff, toward Rebecca Winters Memorial Park, stop and walk over to her grave and say a prayer for the good woman.

*Dithering, a late start and simple human hardheadedness killed the Donner party by arriving too late to the mountains passes.

**Utah territory was incorporated by the Federal Government in 1850 but did not become a state until 1896.

***THe future states of North and South Dakota, Nebbraska, Kansas, Montana, Wyoming, Colorado and Oklahoma.

****In June 1996, hundreds of Winters’s descendants gathered for the dedication of the Rebecca Winters Memorial Park. The grave remains the only known marked graves among the approximately 6,000 Mormons who perished crossing the plains.

Written by: The Science Department and Professor William E. Lye

California Industrial Technology University (CalTech) and the Massachusetts Institution of Technocrats (MIT) announce a new joint study on the cumulative effects of giant windmill farms on the earths rotational rate

Exhausting study over the last two decades indicate, with the advances in technology and the growth of individual wheels and the advent of massive wind farms the rotational energy of the spinning blades has caused, just like a ships screws or an aircrafts propeller an increase in the earths rate of spin by a factor of .0007%. The greatest problems, or fear of the science communities study is twofold. One the increase velocity of the earths spin is quite likely over time to throw the earth out of its stationary orbit and farther from the sun which will cause cooler temperatures, reduced crop yield and a new ice age.

Secondly the daily destruction of the air caused by the slicing and crushing effect of the blades will cause decay of the atmosphere which will reduce the available oxygen necessary for humans and other life on the planet. The quantities of oxygen will be reduced, causing Air Famines around the globe.

The increased rate of spin could also cause gravity to begin losing its grip with the likelihood of some lighter objects flying of into space. Humans, individually may at first notice some weight loss which the study has determined will be followed by a levitational force that will begin launching the lighter species of them into space.

Unless these scientific studies are met with legislative mitigation, over time the earth will go spinning off into the cosmos never to be seen again. The solar winds will gradually increase the rate of spin until the planet will simply disintegrate.

Added to the Presidential commission on alternative energy’s concerns over the windmills destruction of the “Clean Coal” industry and the wholesale slaughter of migratory birds especially the Bald Eagle our country’s symbol this report bodes ill for the future of the windmill industry. Noise pollution will increase causing epidemics of deafness in countries who embrace this destructive technology.

Aggressive political manuvering by nations looking for land where people can hear will inevitably cause military conflict with the have-not nations invading the haves in order to exploit “Peace and Quiet.”

The scientists of the two universities recommend the wholesale dismantling of windmills as soon as possible to forestall this calamity. They urge you to call or write your congressman or Senator, particullarly Senator Mike Reed (R.Utah) who is the chairman of the Energy and Natural Resources Committee and Ted Cruz (R.Texas) Committee chair on Commerce, Science, & Transportation. Cruz in particular hates the cold and would be permanently discomfited by the resultant plunge in the mercury.

CC; The White House, Washington City DC.

BLOOD SPORT

By Michael Shannon

For those of you who struggle to make sense of political shenanigans here in the United States maybe I can offer you peace if not understanding of the subject.

First, “The Great Game” and what it means. As originally coined it referred to a so-called “Tournament of Shadows” featuring political and diplomatic struggles between western powers and the the countries of the middle east. Secrecy, spies, murder and open warfare were featured in the attempt to control the governments and destinies of entire countries. Kings, Prime Ministers, Presidents, Dictators, Tsars, Generals and religious leaders operated in a murky underworld of governments always seeking advantage. The whole thing driven by profit or money if you will, the only true “Universal Language.”

Dear Mister King of Whataboutistan. I see your father sent you to Oxford, Cambridge or Berkeley for a first class education. I understand that your goal is to raise your people out of poverty and build a modern capitalist county. Wink, wink. Great idea. Now, heres what we can do. For a nominal amount of interest we will loan you a Billion or so. You can then begin realizing your dream.

We will provide you with skilled advisors to help you in your endeavor. They can set up the agencies you will need to disburse the funds, plan improvements and expand your army because you will need security for yourself and all the special people who will gladly help you in accomplishing your goals. Actually the more you hire the more loyal people you have. It doesn’t cost much, buying loyalty is a snap.

We don’t ask for much in return, just the opportunity to buy minerals and other goods from you for a nominal fee. That Potash in the hills is just going to waste, we could use it for fertilizer at home and that Guano on your coastal islands makes great gunpowder and we need that also to make sure that the German tyrant or the French Emperor stay in their places. If you give us a monopoly on them we will pay you directly, put money in your treasury which you can share as you see fit but only if you want to of course. The peasants in the hills don’t really need the money do they? They’d just waste it and since you’re the King it’s really all yours anyway, right?

Those Russians up north can’t really be trusted can they? Perhaps you would consider letting us station just a few troops to help if they try anything funny. They have a history of that you know. If you could see your way clear to letting us to help you out, you know just a few thousand soldiers and some generals and such. By the way we have some great medals and silk sashess encrusted with diamonds and rubies, we’d oh so happy to give you a few, they will make your uniform look oh so fine, very Kingly if you know what I mean.

The former Shah of Iran, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi.

If you need help with mineing we can do that too for just a nominal share. We’d be delighted to build you some railroads too, we will even pay for building them you will just have to sign over a little land along the right of way, not a gift mind you, after all were are doing you a favor. In any case you will need them to haul the Guano and Potash to the docks where our latest devices will load it onto our ships. The money will just roll in to to the bank we will charter in your name. Maybe take some of your bright boys and teach them the business, mentored by our skilled adviors mind you but they will learn the system.

And hey, what if we build you a couple of mansions in London or perhaps one in Monaco just so you have a nice place to live and not in that old Imperial Palace you live in now. It’s old and drafty isn’t it? No problem, New York living is great and your kids can go to the best schools, hang out with Manhattan posh crowd and not have to worry about business at home we will be glad to take care of that for you, just a small fee.

Life in London, New York or Paris is good for the kids, keeps them out of your hair so they’re not scheming to show you the door. Your girls can hang with Kim and Kylie and the boys can play polo. No sucession worries.

If the warlords get restless up in the mountains why we can provide our troops, we will call them advisors, to train and help you keep them at bay and don’t worry about weapons we will sell whatever you need, at least up to a point. Your army doesn’t need the sophisticated ones we use. The risk is they might turn against you so better be safe.

Oh, and those poppies in the south, you know, he ones that produce opium, you could make some serious money there if you need it. Drugs will keep your people happy and quiet. We will back you on that so go ahead.

Don’t like the sound of that, well do a Google search on the Opium Wars.* Ask the Chinese how that worked for them. Oh no, no, no thats not a threat. We don’t do that, we bring drugs into our country by the truckload and then throw billions of dollars at enforcement that doesn’t work. Just arrest the users and street dealers but stay away from the finance boys. Just make ’em think you’re doing something when you’re not. Tell them “Just say no.” Heck, just blame it on the young woman with a baby who walked across the border all the way from Guatemala. The drugs are in her backpack. Beside she’s probably a murderer or rapist. She is the wrong color too and doesn’t speak “Our” language. Both strategies will work for you.

If you still don’t have enough money and power as if such a thing is possible we will lend you more and perhaps you would be willing to let our businesses buy some concessions to operate in your country. I mean, you have all this unskilled labor that has nothing important to do and we could take care of that for you for a nice “Little” finders fee. Just a few chemical plants or some mineral extraction pits and mines, your people will be happy to have meaningful work and we don’t really need to spend money on safety or health care and pensions. Ignorant workers are happy workers.

IMF, International Monetary Fund.

Careful with education too. Educated workers are guaranteed trouble. They might start asking for a piece of the pie. So be careful what you teach them. Of course, when they gather in groups, you can just call them a “dangerous mob” and shoot a few. Thats worked well for us. Increases profits too.

If you come up a little short we would be happy to lend you more money. Interest has gone up a little but I’m sure thats not a problem for you and you can squirrel away a few billion Shekels, Rubles or Dollars in Switzerland for a rainy day, after all thats the only reason the country exists. A gentlemen’s agreement to let it hide away important monies for the powerful just like like you.

So lets shake on it and good luck. We’ll be your friends until we are not.

Notes:

PS: We will send you the phone numbers of some of our friends and they would be happy, I’m sure to give you any tips about exile when you need it.

Mrs Marcos, Mrs Arafat, Mrs Shah Reza Pahlavi, Idi Amin or Pol Pot, give ’em a ring. Don’t wait too long though like Muammar Gaddafi did. His Giant Revolutionary Nuns Amazon bodyguards couldn’t save him.

The Revolutionary Nuns.

*The Opium Wars were two mid-19th century conflicts between the British Empire (and later France) and China’s Qing dynasty. Fought over illicit British opium smuggling, trade imbalances, and diplomatic sovereignty, China’s defeat initiated a century of foreign exploitation and territorial concessions such as Nanking, Macao, Singapore and Hong Kong..

Cover: A 19th century political cartoon lampooning Russia, The Bear and Englands, the Lion’s adventures in Afghanistan. Names have changed but the games the same.

Michael Shannon will on occasion resort to Snark or as his friend Will says,”Why don’t you say what you really mean,” usually punctuated with laughter. Both are from California and proud of it.

Michael Shannon

Letters to my Sons.

I SEEMED TO HAVE LOVED YOU IN NUMBERLESS FORMS, NUMBERLESS TIMES…
LIFE AFTER LIFE, IN AGE AFTER AGE…FOREVER.
Rabindranath Tagore*

The tombstone speaks. It might be surprising to you that they do indeed speak to historians. Mankind’s desire to be remembered after death is an element of our collective history. Remembered by many when fresh, time slowly erodes those who knew the people lying under them until only the curious, someone who never knew the living person seeks out those that tell a story.

Cemetery’s are everywhere. During Vietnam I was stationed at Naval Hospital annex Pearl Harbor. Another sailor and I toured around the islands and visited whatever site we might find interesting. There are great things to see no matter where you live. Hawaii has its share. Long the home of the US military’s mid- Pacific’s home, there are more bases than you can shake a stick at.

I’ve seen the huge veterans cemetery nestled in the crater of the “Punchbowl” in Honolulu. The National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific, located in Honolulu’s Punchbowl Crater, is the final resting place for over 53,000 veterans of WWII, Korea, and Vietnam. The “Punchbowl’s,” 116-acre site serves as a major Honolulu landmark.

The cemetery holds nearly 13,000 World War II dead from the Pacific theater. It is the resting place of numerous Medal of Honor recipients, including Pvt. Mikio Hasemoto of the all-nisei Japanese American 100th all Nisei infantry regiment.

It holds the remains of Medal of Honor recipient Senator Daniel Inouye, “Spark” Matsunaga also rests there. Both men veterans of the brutal Italian campaign up the boot of Italy. Both of them were later elected to the United States Senate from Hawaii.

The first time I went there it went to see the grave of Ernie Pyle who I knew from reading some of my mothers books which he wrote when he was a war correspondent in the Big One WWII. He is buried between two unknown soldiers, reflecting his desire to be with the ordinary soldiers he covered and who loved him.

There is also a memorial in Okinawa on the site where he was killed by a sniper that states, “At this spot the 77th Infantry Division lost a buddy, Ernie Pyle, 18 April 1945”. He is a person well worth reading if you want to know about your great uncles and fathers who called themselves “Dogfaces” and who, for five years ground down and finally defeated the worlds three great fascist powers. He literally carried his little typewriter into the lines and wrote about the sons of American families. He shared foxholes, slept in the mud and rain. He was bombed, strafed and lived as the riflemen did. He was revered by soldiers because he both spoke and wrote about their lives which were rarely featured in the big press of the time. He saw the tragedy of war right up front with the troops who lived and waged it. He knew the “Doggie’ who wore a stained and dirty khaki shirt, broken down boots and carried an M-1 rifle. They saved our country for $1.67 a day.

So thats how I became a “Haunt.” Someone who haunts graveyards. You can walk through one and try and imagine what the lives of the people who lie there were like. Those who came before you all have a story to tell. Some important, some not so much but a story nevertheless. It’s all those stories connected that comprise history.

Perhaps it’s in the genes. My father and uncle jack literally grew up on an old cemetery on our ranch. The dairy my grandparents owned had its milking barn and silos built right over the site of some of the earliest burials in our little community of Arroyo Grande, California. Before the dedication of the Odd Fellows cemetery which lay just west of the townsite itself many rural ranch folks were buried on their own property and this county has dozens of very old burial grounds dating to the earliest inhabitants including the original native population.

When I was in grammar school we could slip through the three wire Bob wire fence hustle up the hill and on the other side, visit the small burial site of our early pioneer Francis Ziba Branch, his wife Manuela and his three young daughters, Maria Josefa, 15 Manuela, 13 and Ysabel, 5. They all died within days of each other in 1862. The Smallpox that killed them brought by a visitor availing himself of the legendary hospitality of the Californio Rancheros.

That old story is marked by tombstones inside a dilapidated wire fence under an ancient and gnarled Oak that was there before any Branch and guards their memory today..

Just outside the fence, the Hemmi’s, father Peter and son, 15 year old PJ, who shot a neighbor to death in a land dispute. They were hanged from the Pacific Coast RR bridge in town for the suspected murder. It was a scene right out of an old western movie, the rope with its 13 loops slipped over the heads of the accused before they were and pushed off the edge. After the pair, man and boy were sufficiently strangled the upright local leaders went home and slept the sleep of the righteous. The next morning children coming down Crown Hill headed for school found the still, limp bodies swaying gently in the morning breeze. Coming together like a flock of birds, chirping and chattering at a sight the knew they might never see again.

The tombstone speaks. It might be surprising to you that they do indeed speak to historians. Mankind’s desire to be remembered after death is an element of our collective history. Remembered by many when fresh, time slowly erodes those who knew the people lying under them until only the curious, someone who never knew the living person seeks out those that tell a story.

Cemetery’s are everywhere. During Vietnam I was stationed at Naval Hospital annex Pearl Harbor. Another sailor and I toured around the islands and visited whatever site we might find interesting. There are great things to see no matter where you live. Hawaii has its share. Long the home of the US military’s mid- Pacific’s home, there are more bases than you can shake a stick at.

I’ve seen the huge veterans cemetery nestled in the crater of the “Punchbowl” in Honolulu. The National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific, located in Honolulu’s Punchbowl Crater, is the final resting place for over 53,000 veterans of WWII, Korea, and Vietnam. The “Punchbowl’s,” 116-acre site serves as a major Honolulu landmark.

The cemetery holds nearly 13,000 World War II dead from the Pacific theater. It is the resting place of numerous Medal of Honor recipients, including Pvt. Mikio Hasemoto of the all-nisei Japanese American 100th all Nisei infantry regiment.
It holds the remains of Medal of Honor recipient Senator Daniel Inouye, “Spark” Matsunaga also rests there. Both men veterans of the brutal Italian campaign up the boot of Italy. Both of them were later elected to the United States Senate from Hawaii.

The first time I went there it went to see the grave of Ernie Pyle who I knew from reading some of my mothers books which he wrote when he was a war correspondent in the Big One, WWII. He is buried between two unknown soldiers, reflecting his desire to be with the ordinary soldiers he covered and who loved him.

So thats how I became a “Haunt.” Someone who haunts graveyards. You can walk through one and try and imagine what the lives of the people who lie there were like. Those who came before you all have a story to tell. Some important, some not so much but a story nevertheless. It’s all those stories connected that comprise history.

Perhaps it’s in the genes. My father and uncle jack literally grew up on an old cemetery on our ranch. The dairy my grandparents owned had its milking barn and silos built right over the site of some of the earliest burials in our little community of Arroyo Grande, California. Before the dedication of the Odd Fellows cemetery which lay just west of the townsite itself many rural ranch folks were buried on their own property and this county has dozens of very old burial grounds dating to the earliest inhabitants including the original native population.

When I was in grammar school we could slip through the three wire Bob wire fence hustle up the hill and on the other side, visit the small burial site of our early pioneer Francis Ziba Branch, his wife Manuela and his three young daughters, Maria Josefa, 15 Manuela, 13 and Ysabel, 5. They all died within days of each other in 1862. The Smallpox that killed them brought by a visitor availing himself of the legendary hospitality of the Californio Rancheros.

That old story is marked by tombstones inside a dilapidated wire fence under an ancient and gnarled Oak that was there before any Branch and guards their memory today..

Just outside the fence, the Hemmi’s, father Peter and son,15 year old PJ, who shot a neighbor to death in a land dispute. They were hanged from the Pacific Coast Railway bridge in town for the suspected murder. It was a scene right out of an old western movie, the rope with its 13 loops slipped over the heads of the accused before they were and pushed off the edge. After the pair, man and boy were sufficiently strangled the upright local leaders went home and slept the sleep of the righteous.

The next morning children coming down Crown Hill headed for school found the still, limp bodies swaying gently in the morning breeze. The little group of kids stood chirping and chattering like a flock of little birds as they took in a scene never to be forgotten.

The Hemmi’s were refused burial in the cemetery on our property by our most upright of citizens, for Arroyo Grande had at the time almost as many churches as saloons. By the good graces of Mrs. Manuela Branch they were buried next to her family. A series of tragedies told in old stone and wooden markers.

In later days, a grandson of Manuela Josefa Branch talked of the lynching, he being a witness, saying that the two went quietly, no blindfolds, no Priest with a last prayer, simply shoved over the edge of the Railway bridge. Fred Jones was just fifteen himself and accompanied his father and the other men. Years later he said he had always wished he had stayed home. Mrs. Hemmi was sitting in the shed that passed for the make shift jail house. The look on her face revealed that she knew exactly what was about to happen. The old man had never forgotten the look of horror on her face at that moment

Fred Jones 1871-1967. Grandson to Manuela Josefa Branch. Witness to a hanging.

So, it has always been a human practice to celebrate or memorialize lives, to leave a mark that one has existed literally from mankind’s beginnings. Roughly 110 billion people have lived on earth. Most of their stories are unknown to us. The idea that an individual would have a personal marker is only a couple of centuries old. Gravestones, or headstones, evolved from ancient megalithic markers used around 3,000 B.C. to identify communal burial chambers, with individualized markers becoming widespread in the 17th century. While early markers focused on marking family sites, modern inscribed headstones grew popular with churchyard burials and, eventually, in cemeteries for the general population by the 19th century.

In my travels, what had started as just a curiosity has become more than that. A visit to graves has become a prominent feature of anywhere we go. Just the simple inscriptions can trigger a desire to find who and what that person was or did.

Somewhere behind the inscription is a life and a history, a story to be told. A man who immigrates from Ireland to the Hughes ranch on the wild Sixes river, never married and lived out his life and was buried in the family graveyard up on the ridge overlooking the wild Pacific Ocean.

Link to the Immigrants Tale: https://atthetable2015.com/2021/03/13/an-immigrants-tale/

If you ever travel to western Europe walk the old residential streets of Amsterdam or Vienna’s streets where the houses, chock-a-block as they are will have small brass markers set into the cobbled sidewalks, “She stumbling Stones,” or Stolpersteine, the brainchild of German artist Gunter Demnig. For years he’s been traveling across Europe placing plaques in front of houses where Jews lived before they were deported by the Nazis. The small memorial consists of a 4 x 4 inch stone with a brass plaque stating the Jewish victim’s name, date of birth and death and the name of the camp in which he or she was murdered. The aim is to make the magnitude and triviality of the Holocaust tangible and to commemorate the victims at the place they were taken from their lives. Demnig also likes the idea of bringing relatives ‘back together’ by placing their stones together after they were transported and murdered in the different camps.

Stolperstein, Wien, Austria.

In case you are wondering, there is a stone in front of Anne Frank’s home at Westermarkt 20, 1016 GV Amsterdam, Netherlands.

There are parts of Vienna where literally every house has a plaque by the door with the names of the boys who went to war, were killed in WWI and WWII. They bring home the monumental sacrifice made by those boys to the megalomanic, suicidal vanities of old men. No history book can do this. It is simply stunning.

Cpl Edgar Green 2nd Australian Infantry, Gallipoli, WW1 North Gate cemetery, Baghdad, Iraq.

My wife’s great uncle Edgar Green’s body lies in the North Gate Cemetery in Baghdad, Iraq. “A little piece of England” as the British were wont to say when they were a worldwide empire. No one in our family has ever stood before it and prayed for his 24 year old soul. He was just 20 when he left Australia and traveled half way around the world to defend his country against the Turks and Germans. A stomach wound at the battle of Lone Pine on the Gallipoli peninsula and the 1918 Influenza epidemic ended him. Just an individual tragedy whose by product was the war to end all wars.”

As we grow closer to home, in Bridgeport, California there is a tiny grave that has the inscription,”The first white baby born in Bridgeport.” There is a subtle message there. I’ve seen the same inscription in the old Yosemite cemetery and another one up in Bodie. It’s a not so subtle statement that more than hints at America’s built in racism.

A couple years ago we traveled in Nevada and drove up to Virginia City. My family had stayed overnight there in 1955 when it was just a few inches from being a ghost town. We stayed in a room at the old Silver Queen hotel. I still remember the plaques on the doors that listed the Silver Kings, John William Mackay, James Graham Fair, James Clair Flood, and William S. O’Brien. The hotel was also the home of Samuel Clemons.

It is not the same today. It’s packed with tourists and its main type of business seems to be modeled on the cheap traveling carnival. For myself. a trip to the graveyard was the pièce de résistance. There are ten, thats right, ten cemeteries in the thirty acre plot. It’s built on a series of small hills and the paths that wander around, up and down between the different graves. There are Irish grave sites, two of them. One likely for the poor mine workers, the Hoi-Pallois, the other for the Hoity-Toity They’re all still Irish except for the cost of the stones. There is a section for Mormons another for Cornishmen and still another for Jews and Catholics. They do not abut.

Juliette “Julia” Bulette. 1832-1867. Note the Captain’s fire helmet.

There is a part near the top and outside the fence for the sad Soiled Doves. The exception is Julia Bulette, a madam who famously nursed dying miners during Virginia cities many epidemics. She was also made an honorary fireman by the city’s fire companies. She had many friends, some in high places, some in low.  Bulette had entire fire companies as friends, and interestingly, some of Virginia City’s upper crust women.  Bulette was an accomplished seamstress, and many of her frocks found their way to places like Piper’s Opera House and the International Hotel. You can still see a few in the city’s museum.

Stories today insist that Bulette was murdered for her jewels and money, the problem being, she had little of each.  A Frenchman with little command of the English language, John Millian, 38 years old, was arrested when it was discovered he had some of Bulette’s possessions, including a dress pattern she had ordered.  Millian was judged to be guilty by an impromptu court and quickly hanged for her murder.
Bulette’s remains were buried in a silk lined mahogany casket, at the cost of $149.  Every penny was raised by the people who cared for her. Her funeral procession was said to be the largest funeral in the city’s history. The Virginia and Truckee Railroad named a passenger car after her which still exists at the Nevada state RR museum in Carson city.

There is a headstone and a inside a small fenced area but her actual grave has been lost. You see, the Ladies of the city refused to let her rest with the people who loved her.

People who know the story still make sure there are flowers on the grave 159 years after her death.**

So, it has always been a human practice to celebrate or memorialize lives, to leave a mark that one has existed literally from mankind’s beginnings. Roughly 110 billion people have lived on earth. Most of their stories are unknown to us. The idea that an individual would have a personal marker is only a couple of centuries old. Gravestones, or headstones, evolved from ancient megalithic markers used around 3,000 B.C. to identify communal burial chambers, with individualized markers becoming widespread in the 17th century. While early markers focused on marking family sites, modern inscribed headstones grew popular with churchyard burials and, eventually, in cemeteries for the general population by the 19th century.

In my travels, what had started as just a curiosity has become more than that. A visit to graves has become a prominent feature of anywhere we go. Just the simple inscriptions can trigger a desire to find who and what that person was or what they did.

Somewhere behind the inscription is a life and a history, a story to be told.

In my travels, what had started as just a curiosity has become more than that. A visit to graves has become a prominent feature of anywhere we go. Just the simple inscriptions can trigger a desire to find who and what that person was or what they did.

You don’t have to travel far either. The Odd Fellows cemetery here at home tells a story with every stone and in some cases graves that have no stone.

There are sixteen markers for my family alone. We also have graves in San Luis Obispo, Santa Maria and both cemeteries in Guadalupe.

Mehitabel and John Corbit

One of my favorites are a pair of graves just 50 feet from my parents. John Corbit or Corbett, different spellings from a time when things like spelling and pronunciation were a little more flexible. Next to him is his wife Mehitabel. Now this isn’t some grand story of war or politics though he was a successful businessman, ran for county sheriff and was a mainstay of the horse racing community, which in those days was a major enterprise in the Cow Counties, livestock being the chief economic driver. He owned extensive lands in what is now called Corbett Canyon and was considered not only a very early pioneer, they came here about 1860 when most of the land was still owned by the original Rancheros, but also a fine upstanding citizen. He was a friend of Francis Ziba Branch, Michael Price, David Mallagh and Captain William Dana. They propered in an area of California that was still in a semi-wild state. John Corbit who was from Cavan Ireland by way of upstate New York farmed and ranched in the eponymous canyon populated by many, many Irish families as you can see on a tour of the old graveyard.

The whipped cream on the top of the Corbits story is the inscription at the base of her tombstone. In small script written at the bottom, it says “A charitable and faithful woman” How about that.

It tells you in no uncertain terms who she was and what she meant to her husband. They are both buried in section A just feet from my family in section B along the old Halcyon road.

Drop by sometime and see them. I’m sure they would enjoy the company.

NOTES:

*Rabindranath Thakur FRAS, also known by his pseudonym Bhanusimha was a Bengali polymath of the Bengal Renaissance period. In 1913, Tagore became the first Asian to win a Nobel Prize in any category, and also the first lyricist and non-European to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. B 1861-D 1941

**Julia’s grave has been lost in history. Those who actually knew where it was are long dead. There was a false grave put up years later which is not her real burial spot. It is thought that the original location is based on a mention of the pioneer cemetery known then as Flowery Hill from an old book printed the 1860s just a few years after her death.

The Corbit Photos are from a cherished family album. Bound in faded red velvet, it contains their photos and the printed announcement of her death. The album belonged to Patrick and Sarah Moore who were their contemporaries and were my grandmothers aunt and uncle.

Michael Shannon lives and writes in Arroyo Grande, California.

Michael Shannon

One Decade in America.

Voting Rights Act. March on Washington. Has anybody seen my old friend John, or Martin or Bobby, where have they gone? The Prague Spring. The Mop Tops, Surfin’ USA. The Tet Offensive, Rolling Thunder, The Au Shau Valley, My Lai. Walter Reed, Letterman, Tripler, Balboa, Aiea. The Evacs, 71st, 93rd, 312th, NSA Da Nang. Steppin’ into Darkness. Riots. Cleveland, Miami, Los Angeles. Watts Towers. School Busing. Hippies, Yippies and Nixon Comin’. Last Prince of Camelot takes a girl for a swim. The Silent Majority. Apollo 11. The Hog Farm. The Chicago Seven, Judge Sirica. The Days of Rage. Winterland, Carousel and the Fillmore. Soul on Ice. The Panthers. The Weathermen. I came across a child of God. Monterey Pop. Yagur’s Farm. Altamont, The Grateful Dead, Hells Angels and the end of the The Summer. The Lizard King dies, Janis, Jimi, Cass Elliot. Manson Family, Bugliosi, Squeaky Fromme. Cambodia, Laos. Tin Soldiers. Four dead in Ohio. Angela Davis, Tommie Smith and John Carlos. Apollo 13. Granny glasses. Tie Dye. Attica. Watergate. Nixon Quits, Flees. No gas. Vietnam ends. Welcome Home Boys and Girls.

Just One Decade in America.