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IN MY HUMBLE OPINION ROkie White FEATURED COLUMNIST R Ray Collins FICTION |
"All right! OK, we won." We were yelling and
jumping up and down with the rest of the crowd as the Giants
got three base hits in the bottom of the ninth and won over the
hated Dodgers. The perfect punctuation point to a beautiful afternoon.
So far the day had been perfect. The morning had started with
you in my arms, your hand gently stroking my back, me kissing
the soft rounded bulge of a breast, the excitement of matching
libido’s, and a refreshing shower together after our passions
had subsided. We had brunched on English muffins and smoked salmon knowing
that hot dogs and beer at the game would fill the hunger void
later. The sun was out and the sky was a clear powder blue with
just a few of those fluffy types of clouds passing overhead.
Harbingers, I knew, of an evening fog that would blanket The
City, leaving it clean and fresh once again. Now, in late afternoon,
I knew it would be building up in great gray cotton candy balls
on top of the San Bruno hills, just waiting for the temperature
to drop a few degrees so it could start falling in on The City
with feet that resembled tiger paws rather than cat’s feet.
Also, it would be moving through the Golden Gate like an ancient
schooner with full canvas flying from its yards, sliding up to
the wharves and slipping up over the streets of the Embarcadero. "That was fun, I’m so glad that we won; even
if you thought we were dead." You said, chiding me about
my pessimism over the prospect of a win as we made our slow way
out of Candlestick to the waiting Muni Bus that would take us
back into the heart of The City. "Simply my way of cheering on the home team, my dear.
After all, if I had your incurable optimism, then the gods of
fate would have worked against me and we would have lost. Its
a little like reverse psychology on a child. You know how child-like
the gods are? I think a guy named Murphy made some rules along
the same line. Never wish for what you want for its sure to disappear;
or something like that" "Be careful of what you wish for because you might
get it - is more to the point sweetie. Besides, you’re just
saying that so you will look wise and all-knowing. Now, where
are we going for dinner my prince?" I thought for a moment; should I try to hit the strike
zone with my first pitch or throw a curve to see if you would
swing away. I settled for the curve, "Why don’t we
go to Hooter’s and grab a beer and some of their great Buffalo
wings?" "We are not going to Hooter’s, even if they do
have superior Buffalo wings." You laid down a perfect bunt
into no-man’s land! "If you want to stare at the buxom
babes you can go with Marty at lunch time, not with me. I don’t
appreciate the competition. But if you want to stare at something,
we can go home, you can employ all of those great culinary skills
that you seem to have acquired and cook us a scrumptious dinner.
I’ll sit in the kitchen, drink a glass of wine, and watch
you and you can stare at me. I wouldn’t mind that a bit." "Neither would I baby. But to tell the truth, I don’t
feel like cooking. Besides we would have to hit the Safeway first
and I’m not up to that experience at the moment." Now
it was time for a nice fat pitch down the middle, "I know,
let’s go to the Edinburgh Castle and have the fish &
chips and a couple of pints of Guinness. And after we can stroll
up Polk Street through the fog, hit a couple of book stores,
and then stop at Haagen Daz for dessert." "Didn’t you get enough beer here at the ballgame?" "I only had two, and this stuff is so weak and thin
that all it does is make you have to run to the john at a crucial
point in the game. I’m in the mood for something with a
bit more body to it." "I’ll give you all the body you can handle lover.
But OK, let’s go to the Castle. I like those thick fries
with salt & pepper and the malt vinegar drizzled all over
them. And the waiters are cute too." The wait to get on the Muni was predictably long, but it
was still a better way of dealing with getting to and from the
ballpark than driving yourself. Leave that to the yuppies who
live in Redwood City and Palo Alto. With the Muni you don’t
have that long walk to your car and all of the clowns trying
to hit you up for spare change. I help the homeless, but privately,
not publicly. Help one where others can see and they all descend
on you like locusts. Beside the Muni would drop us off at Fifth
and Market and it’s just a cheap cab ride from there to
the Castle on Geary Street where we would be within walking distance
of our little hideaway on Hyde Street.. Once we were settled in one of the high backed wooden booths
at the Castle and each had a perfect pint of Guinness, all dark
brown and thick and rich and without bubbles on the creamy white
head, I asked you again if you had given any thought to my idea
of driving up to Bodega Bay on Sunday. "We can get an early
start and head over to Stinson Beach, have breakfast at that
little place you like that looks out over the ocean and then
drive up the coast until we get to Bodega. It will be Sunday
and all of the antique stores will be open and we can go prowling.
You always love that. You might even find that perfect mirror
for the hallway that you’ve been hoping to find for the
past couple of years." Actually, I thought, anything would
be an improvement over that narrow thing we have now that constricts
a decent reflection. "Well I don’t mind going if we just look for
a mirror but not if you’re going to try and talk me into
another useless piece of junk that you insist on buying." "Hey honey, some of those items are authentic early
California artifacts and have a long history to them. I bet they
could tell some pretty fantastic stories if they could only talk."
"Yeah, early California junk. I seriously doubt the
artifact part. They made junk in those days too you know and
that’s all you’re buying. And they do talk honey. They
may be silent pieces of wood but you make them come alive and
tell their own tale in your stories. That’s why I let you
get away with buying them. I look at them as pieces of research
and necessary to your job. But art they ain’t" "I suppose. But I get a kick out of it. And you may
have a point. I mean one placer mining rocker box looks very
much like the other. But most of the stuff I buy is all handmade
and that gives them character. Ah, here’s the fish, dig
in." We sat there eating our fish and chips, sprinkling generous
amounts of malt vinegar on both. I started thinking of what you
had just said and you were right as usual. I would take some
piece of handmade ‘junk’ and give it form and dimension
and character in a story. I used the stuff I bought as a catalyst
for a story. Like that placer mining rocker box that I had picked up. I really didn’t know where it came from, or its origin except that it was exceptionally well made, had endured countless shovelfuls of gravel and dirt and was inscribed with the initials PL, and the date 1849, on the underside; all faint and well worn and barely legible. That alone made it marginally valuable in the antique stores, but to me it was priceless. And in my story..... # # #
There were three ways a miner, or Argonaut as they were
called in those days, could separate, or wash, gold from river
gravel. The pan, a finely woven Indian basket, or the cradle.
The cradle was the difference between economy and efficiency.
In a brand new game without rules, panning alone was damn hard
work for very little return; plus running the added risk from
claim jumpers, thieves, and other assorted scoundrels that proliferated
the gold fields. It helped to have someone to protect your back.
As a result, Peter, Jacob Rennsalear, Tobe Andrews and George
Laskine had formed a confederation, or strike company, to work
their claim on the American River. They had all arrived at about
the same time and had met while scouting along the American. They had all been eyeing the same piece of river frontage
at the same time. By combining they could extend their 25 feet
of river frontage per man to 100 feet, use a cradle, and hopefully,
leave the river with pockets filled with gold dust and the occasional
nugget. As a company they shared their equipment, food, and the
body numbing tasks of taking the gold from the river. The cradle was the bond that brought men together who would
otherwise have remained separated for the simple reason that
one man could not work it half so profitably alone. It took four
miners to operate it efficiently. The first dug the gravel from
the riverbank or dry streambed; the second carried the gravel
to the cradle and emptied it into the grate; the third poured
water or directed water from the stream itself through the machine,
and the fourth agitated a handle to produce the rocking motion
that propelled the gravel through the machinery and out the lower
end while it trapped the heavier gold nuggets or flakes in a
series of cleats on the bottom. The pan and the cradle both relied
on the washing action of water to separate, or wash, the gold
from the gravel. This was placer mining. The first cradle had been hastily constructed by Tobe and
had fallen apart after two weeks of use. Peter, a former carpenter,
quickly assumed the task of building a new one. He wasn’t
sure he could improve on the principle of the cradle but he was
damn sure he could make one that would last and do the job. The
cradle was a rather simple affair that looked like a long baby
cradle, hence the name. "How much longer will you be working on the cradle,
Peter?" Jacob asked in his formal and accented way of speaking.
He was from the Dutch country of Pennsylvania and lent an air
of authority with his large six foot, two inch body. He had left
a wife and two children on his parents farm near Harrisburg to
come to California and find enough gold to buy his own farm.
"I want it to last Jacob, not fall apart with the
first shovelful of gravel you dump into it. And anything built
correctly takes a little bit longer. That’s why I used the
stronger oak rather than the softer pine. It will be ready for
tomorrow when we start digging, don’t worry. In fact, we
may be able to give it a test late this evening." "Well the sooner you get it finished, the sooner George
will quit beating his gums about how bad a job I did on the other
box," Tobe chimed in with his flat, nasal, mid-western twang.
After a series of menial jobs in the Kansas Territory, he figured
he was halfway to California and had noting to lose and everything
to gain by going the distance and try his luck. "All George
does is complain about having to pan because the box broke." "Yeah, well I noticed that George just likes to complain,"
Peter answered, "no matter what the subject. Tomorrow it
will be about carrying the heavy gravel, or how hot the sun is,
or that my new box doesn’t rock properly. Right George?" "Humph, you say what you want to say Peter, but there
is a right way and a wrong way of doing things, and this isn’t
how we did things in New York." "Ya, that might be right George," Jacob said.
"But vhen did you go digging for gold in New York, hum.
You grew apples and we are not growing apples now." "Well I just know what I know," George grumped.
He wasn’t a bad sort actually and worked as hard as the
other men. He just like to point out that, "This isn’t
how we did it back home." It was agreed by the other three
that George was homesick and would return very soon, gold or
no gold. "Ya, vell I vill cook the dinner for tonight. It is
my turn. Peter is finishing the cradle and you George and you
Tobe, you still have more daylight to pan. This venison we get
from the hunter, cost us almost a third of what we get this morning.
Too damn expensive. We can’t waste time," Jacob pronounced
and turned to the tent that the four men shared for storage.
Sleeping was done outside the tent to be closer to the claim
should anyone stumble over their diggings during the night, whether
by accident or on purpose. All of the miners lived in temporary and makeshift shelters
that reflected their attitude of get the gold and get back home.
Canvas and lean-to shanties were the order of the day in any
of the camps with an occasional log-cabin; usually the home of
the camp trader who made his gold off of the miners rather than
breaking his back digging for it. Amid this jumble of living and working arrangements, miners
worked with great intensity. Whether digging or washing, carrying
dirt and gravel, or scouting out another mining site, they were
in constant motion. This frenzy reflected the random and quixotic
character of the mining experience. Where was gold to be found
in the largest quantities? How long would it be available to
everyone? When and how might the rules of the game be modified
to limit the access of individuals? The miners reacted as opportunities
presented themselves, for it was not clear how long such extraordinary
opportunities would last. So the response was intense, and the streams along the
foothills of Mother Sierra were centers of activity, resounding
from first light to dusk with the clang of picks and shovels
against rock all set before a background of the roar of rushing
water and the intense glare of sunlight. And the miners worked
with a single-minded concentration, disliking any form of interruption
from visitors, observers or newcomers. In such a tumult of work
and noise and attention to the job at hand. Peter fashioned the
new cradle rocker that would allow the four men to strike it
rich. Just as the sun was sinking into the distant flood plain of the Sacramento River delta area, Peter finished carving his initials and the date to the bottom of the cradle box. He sat examining his handiwork and thinking that here was a cradle that certainly wouldn’t fall apart. He turned to scrape his knife along the bottom of the rockers once again to smooth them so George wouldn’t have any complaints, when Jacob shouted that dinner was ready. George and Tobe put the equipment away and all four men fell on the food with equal vigor. Working the gold fields required a great deal of strength, stamina, and nourishment...... # # #
"Oh nothing. Just something you said got me to thinking
about a new story. I was up in the Sierras. Not too far." "Your always up in the Sierras. And don’t tell
not too far. You were a 150 years away for a moment or two. Now
finish your dinner and let’s just go home. We don’t
need another book tonight and we have ice cream in the freezer.
And maybe I can hold your interest and keep you from wandering
away from me." "But sweetie, no matter where I go I always come home
to you. But you’re right, let’s go home and I will
regale your lovely bod with kisses and unflagging attention.
And as we walk home through the fog, I’ll tell you another
little story about four guys who busted their asses off up in
the Sierra." "The Big Four again?" "No, those clowns didn’t work hard. They made
others work hard for them building their damn railroad over the
Sierras. No this is about four guys who came from far and distant
parts of our great country as immigrant miners to California.
Each with hope in their hearts and the dream of shouting, Eureka
with a nugget the size of a marble, amidst the clang and clatter
of a hundred or so other immigrants. And you know, I doubt if
the poor bastards ever did. © Copyright 1998 by Ron Samuel Ron Samuel, -- actor/writer grew up in San Francisco and If you want to know more about Ron, you can check out his
web site by clicking the icon: If you like the story, send him an e-mail and let him know. He'll even answer you. If you don't, well, keep it to yourself. And remember: that life is serious' |
