Eyes the Color of Fog

Some road trips are more memorable than others. One in particular still sticks prominently in my brain. An excursion along the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway) to relive my youthful dreams of ‘California Living’ from the shelter of my midwestern upbringing. A taste of the golden state, if you will, when my imagination ran rampant with ‘what ifs’ and ‘if only.’ The old lady with eyes the color of fog was my first introduction to the West Coast Experience.

She was an old lady, dressed in black, moving slowly along the overlook with her walker. Finding a spot to rest, she slumps down in her chair and looks around. She had sad eyes the color of fog yet brandished a weak smile which seemed to welcome inquiries. I wanted to, at once; call her over to my picnic table and at the same time hoped someone would appear to take care of her.

As she stared blankly across the ocean, her eyes washed over mine several times but never stuck. She seemed lost in her own thoughts…and perhaps dreams of times past. It didn’t seem right to disturb her. Eventually the woman’s daughter came by to retrieve her and they left. A hundred thousand stories and ‘what if’s’ just slowly shuffling away.

I was perched above a three-tiered cluster of multi-million-dollar homes in Dana Point. The last time I visited the overlook there was only one row of homes overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Rumor had it that Arnold Schwarzenegger has/had a home whose front was all glass and showcased his gym equipment. True or not, it made for a good story.

I’m told there was a fire sale back in 2008 during the recession. One could steal an ocean-view lot for only eight to ten million dollars; much less than their pre-recession prices of double that amount. Now those homes were packed tighter than sardines with zero lot lines and a perfectly magnificent view of their neighbor’s roofline. Welcome to the sometimes foggy, always crazy, coast of California.

This coastal sojourn of mine was a two-and-a-half-day meander through old Spanish ruins, art-filled streets of an old Hippie hangout and cleansing my mind with a sunset at Crystal Cove.

Mission San Juan Capistrano has been home to many indigenous and native peoples and now swallows for over 230 years of its storied history. The mission was initially founded in 1775 by Father Lasuen. He and his fellow padres left the mission for San Diego and it was re-founded by Father Serra on All Saint’s Day, November 1^st, 1776.

The mission became the seventh of twenty-one missions to be founded in Alta California. Like the previous six missions, San Juan Capistrano was established to expand the territorial boundaries of Spain and to spread Christianity to the Native Peoples of California.

For over the next 30 years, Mission San Juan Capistrano grew in population, buildings, livestock, and prominence.  By 1806, the mission had a population of over a 1000 people, over 10,000 head of cattle, and a completed architectural gem, the Great Stone Church.

Like all great monuments to the moment, the mission began to decline over the years. By 1821, Mexico had won its independence from Spain and made Alta California a territory of Mexico. There was yet another government takeover when the United States won the Mexican American War in 1848.

Fast-forward a hundred years and the Catholic Church got its mission back; wealthy donors began campaigns for restoration and a clever priest decided to capitalize on a yearly phenomenon of returning swallows to highlight the mission’s fund-raising efforts.

Long before long-limbed nymphs and their bronze counterparts played volleyball on sun-kissed beaches, Laguna Beach has attracted sun-worshipers and visitors as well as those seeking to expand their consciousness.

In the early 1900s Laguna Beach was a magnet for plein air painters, poets and artists interested in expanding their realm of consciousness. In the early sixties LSD was openly manufactured there. Café Frankenstein was a hangout for beat poets and artists. At night after the tourists left, Hare Krishna dancers and chanters came out in force. The air was thick with grass. There was a street scene alive with kaleidoscopic light shows and abstract works which referenced social and political issues of the time and environmental issues.

Some of the old artists are still around although seldom seen on the crowded tourist-lined streets. Instead, they sequester themselves high in the hills overlooking the clear blue pacific and wonder what happened to their quiet little beach town of years past. Up the road, Newport Beach sets the standard even higher.

Newport Pier is a prime spot for watching the Southern California beach scene unfold. Beach Boy wannabes and weekend surfers ride the waves of imagination and salt air. Young women and old ones alike wear little for the imagination and old men with too much imagination hang over the pier railing and wonder ‘what if…a long time ago…’

Crystal Cove State Park is a wilderness wonderland that includes over 2,400 acres of undeveloped woodland and three and a half miles of beaches. There are forty-six old style cottages in the cove being restored to their 1930s – to – 1950s-era designs.

I rolled off the PCH and got there just in time to watch the sun dropping its pedals along the shoreline. Sunsets at Crystal Cove rival that of Malory Pier in Key West and are just as breath-taking. It was quintessential California with all of its clichés and sublime charms combined. A soul-satisfying place to share with someone else if only for those brief moments in time.

And just like the lady with eyes the color of fog, it was a memory basin filled with the sounds of young children tempting the surf, old women wondering where their time had gone and one inquisitive writer looking for another tale to tell.

Media Culpability

I run the risk of being labeled an ‘old curmudgeon’ or ‘fuddy-duddy’ when I proclaim that the media in general has been guilty of culpability in news reporting. I’m old enough to remember when Huntley and Brinkly were the anchors we trusted most and Walter Cronkite was the gold standard for national news reporting. My, how things have changed.

A friend of mine has it right when he commented that in so many cases: “The only two assets a news anchor needs today is a pretty face and the ability to read a teleprompter.” Unlike a cafeteria catholic, no self-analysis needed (or wanted.) Heaven forbid, you should think for yourself. I can’t count the number of times I’ve watched a news anchor read the news and ‘we’ both knew he/she had no idea what they were saying. Gobble, gobble, next paragraph, please.

It would seem that the over-the-airwaves national networks and cable channels sometimes act like New York Tabloids. Perhaps not as agrégés as the National Inquirer but certainly not with any more thought or reasoning than is needed just to get by. It’s as if simply reading press releases from the white house or either political party has eliminated the added stress of venting their validity or authenticity or honesty. It’s just easier that way.

Just as financial literary should be taught in schools, I think media literacy should also be part of the core curriculum in any educational institution. Some classes are already out there under the label: Critical Thinking: A must for anyone on the planet who can still think and reason.

Photo courtesy of Amy LaComb

Full disclosure: The following was lifted from Google:

The Center for Media Literacy (medialit.org) defines media literacy as a 21st-century educational framework designed to help individuals access, analyze, evaluate, and create media messages in various formats. This approach emphasizes essential critical thinking and communication skills for navigating a democratic society.[1]

Core Principles (CML):

• Constructed Nature: Messages are built using specific creative languages and rules.
• Interpretation and Influence: Different people interpret messages uniquely, and these messages often reflect specific values and power structures.
• Purpose: Media is often created for profit or influence. [1, 2]

Goal and Inquiry:
The goal is to foster critical, effective communicators rather than censoring content. Key questions for analysis include identifying the creator, recognizing techniques used, evaluating represented values, and understanding the purpose of the message.

The key here is critical thinking whether you’re still in middle school or have entered adulthood. If folks just took the time to listen and calmly evaluate the information thrown at them each day, they would have a much better grasp on what’s ‘really’ happening here and abroad.

Unfortunately, for some folks, it’s simply easier to let others do their thinking for them. Pontifications from social media, the tabloids, Tik Tock and other channels of dis-information allow these robots to let others rule their lives. For each of us, the responsibility to ‘get it right’  rests between our ears in the gray matter above. And while it can take some hard work, that a lot of folks can’t be bothered with, it’s worth the effort.

When I was a Younger Man

On the surface, it might seem conceited of me writing yet another article about myself. Perhaps it’ll be mistaken as some self-absorbed treatise on the wonderment of youth and the trials (slash) tribulations of growing up in the 50’s in the Midwest. Like some opening act or shadowy prelude to my oft-mentioned ‘Lost Years’ during the Sixties. In reality, it’s a sobering realization that the complexity of youth is often realigned as age and maturity gain some foothold on one’s memory.

My Mother appears in these two pictures; the first on her wedding day and the second with some skittish grade-schooler in her own backyard. Yet her presence can be felt in every picture…one vision then, another now.

I can’t say the pictures unleash a floodgate of fond memories drowning my consciousness with warmth. But nor do they harken back to a darker period in my life. Instead, the photos tell a simple story. It was what it was. That would be defined as growing up in a single parent household and raised by an emotionally-vacant woman who was just trying to survive under some very tough circumstances. And she did it with little to no support from other family members. Boyed by her Catholic faith and the resiliency of her rural upbringing this woman made the best of numerous life-changing events in her life.

My mother came from an agrarian culture, much like the woman I would eventually marry. Beneath that façade of modesty was one tough, hard-working and determined woman. With little more than her own mental smarts and street-learned determination my mother made her way through a hard-scrabble, ever-changing world…with two kids under tow and no husband at her side.

I look back at these pictures of myself now and see them quite differently than I have in the past.

I used to see a scared kid unsure of himself with no father or father figure to guide him along. Now, I see a kid heavily influenced by the work ethic and penny-wise attitudes of his mother. She started working at age five by cleaning out the chicken coop. I started working in seventh grade with my first paper route. We both always had/have side hustles going on.

I used to see a teenager desperate to find love and affection and someone to be close to. Now I see an ordinary kid just like every other kid I knew who was searching for love…only I didn’t know it at the time.

I used to see kid so proud of his ROTC training and the Lieutenants bars pinned on his shoulders even if it was only in high school. Now, I see a kid who got the message early on that education was everything and he was determined to pass that on to his own children and grandchildren.

I used to see a young man in his hippie beads trying to express himself with a mother who never quite understood why. Now, I see that same young man in his hippie beads and understand what she was smiling about.  I think I’d be smiling right there alongside her now.

Age and maturity have finally brought clarity to the reality of those pictures now. It’s too late to tell her now but if I could…..I’d tell my mother:

I’ve never said it before, Mom, but you did good. With very little help and lacking any formal education you managed to pull off what a lot of other married women and single mothers weren’t able to do.

You built your home with your own hands; making sure your kids got a good Catholic education. You even managed to finally find the joy of love later on in life. And near and dear to your heart, you were loved by your grandchildren who still treasure their memories of you long after you left for that Novena in the Sky.

I’m sorry I wasn’t able to see the whole picture when I was growing up there alongside you. It was cloudy and vapid back then…and it’s taken a long time for me to put that puzzle together. I should have told you how very proud I was to have you as my mother. I’ve never said that to you before.

But I’m saying it now.