It was an epic day in Southern California heading east on the 126 from Ventura County over to Santa Clarita and the Golden State Freeway (The 5). It had rained several days before and the mountains to the north and east were still sporting a fresh coat of snow. To add to the scene, a burgeoning high-pressure system forced a gentle eastern Santa Ana breeze to blow through the canyon giving the air a crystal-clear look and feel. The sky was cloudless and bright blue…and the glistening palm trees swayed in the warming offshore wind.
As I made my way through towns like Fillmore, Piru and by passed fruit stands and the location for the old Baa, Baa Black sheep TV series (Indian Dunes Airport), I was stuck at how pretty this part of California can be…especially on a perfect day. Willie’s Roadhouse blared on the Avis Impala’s Bose stero system, and as I cruised through orange groves, lemon orchards and Avocado trees, songs like Buck Owens’ “The keys in the mailbox come on in” and Bobby Bare’s “Tequila Shelia” serenaded me from channel 56 of the car’s XM radio.
It had been a good visit as these California trips go. The previous days were spent doing chores around my mom’s house (repairing sprinklers, cleaning rain gutters, fixing a rotted gate and cleaning up the back yard) and for some reason, I didn’t let the little things ( like the fact that we had to leave for dinner at 4:30 each afternoon) aggravate me the way they often do. I suppose it could have been the afternoon exercise…or the cigar breaks I’d take while sitting in the sun when returning from the six-mile orchard runs, but for some reason, I was just more relaxed and actually enjoyed the time. Even eating dinner in the later afternoon didn’t bother me…and I actually found myself enjoying the early meals (suppose it could have been the bottles of Pinot I was mainlining).
We ate at several of the town’s gems including the Mupu Grill and Logden’s (the café at the Santa Paula Airport). At each location we were joined by other senior friends of my mother, and they all seemed to enjoy chatting about various subjects including the evils of big government, the Keystone pipeline (no kidding…it was raised by others at every meal) and the rising cost of gasoline. Though this is hardly a deep and extensive sampling, most of the older folks I visited with also appeared to harbor a general discontent with the way things are done (or more not done) in Washington. Several of the people we dined with encouraged me to do what I could to get the leadership in the nation’s capital to wake up (boy…has my mom been lying about my position and influence). It was classic small town Americana…and though it was only miles from the Pacific Ocean, it seemed representative of the way many places in this country look…and the way at least some of its people think.
On the flight back to Philly from LAX, I gazed out the window thinking about the last couple of days in the citrus farming town of Santa Paula. We took off over Playa Del Rey…but made a big left turn over Catalina before heading over the glistening Pacific toward Long Beach and the eastern suburbs of Los Angeles. Before long we were north of the snowcapped San Gabriel and San Bernardino Mountains and the high desert town of Victorville. Soon it was Barstow, Baker, Las Vegas, the Grand Canyon, Colorado Springs, the flatlands of western Nebraska and on and on (it got pretty cloudy so I pulled down the shade and got out my laptop).
Gazing out at all the vastness reminded me of the days I used to drive from Los Angeles to North Dakota. As I’d head north on Interstate 15 and then across Wyoming on 80, the landscape was littered with small towns and charming eateries like the ones described above…all full of local folks that would sit around in overalls and baseball caps and solve the world’s problems. It’s a scene just like the one I’d experienced the last few days…but it is completely antithetical to the country’s glitzier major metropolitan cities. However when you make a cross-country flight (or better yet…if you make the actual drive)…you notice there’s a lot more of places that look like rural Santa Paula then there are cities that resemble New York or San Francisco.
For the most part, the hardworking people that live in these flyover areas see things pretty simply. They’re certainly not always right… but they also don’t unnecessarily confuse straightforward decision making with the perpetual analysis and endless circular discussion that conspire to cause me to deliberate for weeks over an issue a bus driver, teacher, fire fighter, farmer or plumber would figure out in about 10 seconds. As always happens on these now too few occurrences, this trip outside the Beltway and the real-world time spent chatting at the main street coffee klatches was a reminder of my better days…long before the arrogance of affluent DC ivory-tower elitism clouded my North Dakota rooted better judgment. It reminded me I have to talk less and listen more. It also revealed I need to get out more…back to the people…and away from the snobbery that fools me into thinking I know what’s better for folks than they do.
While jamming south on the 405 toward LAX, this song came on courtesy of XM radio. Given my train of thought…it couldn’t have been more apropos (see…before I lived in DC…I would have just used and word like fitting). Have a wonderful weekend…and if you can, try to spend some time with the people that matter. At the end of the day…that is what will count. Most of the other hogwash that takes up our time would vaporize in a nanosecond in the face of a bad diagnosis or the realization that we had a very limited amount of time. Do the stuff that matters…do the stuff that counts…do something you enjoy with the people (and pets) that you love.
As always...sorry for the bad grammar...typos...and poor spelling
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