When I made the decision to step away from writing a weekly column, I was sure my reasons were sound. The Monday deadline loomed larger every week until it seemed every column was less a pleasure and more like a date with the gallows. That dreadful feeling was taking all the fun out of telling stories, and storytelling should not be a burden on the mind but a blessing for the soul. The way out of that weekly demand was to submit a column, which will appear on the second and fourth Wednesdays of the month; alternating with Dana Matthews’ addition to the Valley papers.
With this new twice monthly schedule, I will have more time to garner information about events, groups and people in South County I find interesting. Those columns will lean toward the reportorial with facts and in some cases quotes of people involved. There is a relatively new ballet folklorico group in King City, for instance, that people should know about. And a less demanding schedule will allow me time to peruse old columns to make sure I don’t repeat stories.
In the past two weeks, I scissored out all of my Rustler columns from April 2022 to August of this year and scanning through them I found four columns with repeated stories. I’m not sure they were all that interesting in the first run so doubtful they would improve for a second go round. Also, there is the whole question of partisan rhetoric. Writers must decide what demeanor, or tone, we want to convey to the public with our words. I believe that in the international political climate created by the present American administration, anyone with a public forum should exercise free speech to either support or oppose political actions, which led to the chaos.
And there, sayeth the Bard, is the rub; the abrasion that can potentially bring separations among friends and associates. That may be OK for writers at the Wall Street Journal, Chicago Sun, Miami Herald or the Times of New York and Los Angeles who are known but do not live among their readers. But for small town scribes who work or associate with their readers, it is different. Any political stance can lead to hard feelings, which in turn lead to alienations where friendships once prevailed. I will tread lightly in this area; but I will tread there.
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There are days when, for one reason or other, I don’t get out and about as I should, so the lack of exertion throughout the day builds to the point where sleep will not come easily. When this happens, as it did last night, I take a cruise around the downtown area. There is something calming about Broadway and its cross and parallel streets late in the evening when businesses are closed, most parking spaces are empty and there are but a few cars moving anywhere in the city. It was 11:26 p.m. when I stepped out the door and 11:53 p.m. when I returned, so not a great distance but enough to pedal off pent up energy as I followed a serpentine route down the middle of Broadway from South San Lorenzo to Second Street without encountering one vehicle.
These late-night cruises, if indeed pedaling a bicycle can be called cruising, aren’t regular but do occur, like one not long ago. Two weeks ago, I was on Broadway around 9:40 p.m. and noticed a blue light in front of the Hartnell College building on the corner of Second and Lynn Streets. Upon a closer look, it seemed to illuminate a campus telephone. The next morning, I read where some two-and-a-half hours after my ride, a King City man was found murdered in that same intersection. How would we explain to one completely ignorant of American culture that these seemingly random shootings are fairly commonplace and have been for many years.
And though millions of dollars and countless programs have been instituted, none are successful, so we just live with the occasional murder in the street. Maybe the children in kindergarten today will have the answer.
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While I hope to avoid being one of those people who subject house guests to endless stories, photographs and videos of family members and picnics and vacations to the point where the guests shun all subsequent invitations, I do have a family and I do like talking about them. To get away with this, I promise not to overdo it and will gladly stop to listen to your family stories and look at your images.
As I write this, my daughter Jenny is in North Carolina with my granddaughter Becca. Jenny is, according to a fresh text, “watching her belly grow.” Becca is pregnant with my first great-grandchild and needed mom around for a few days because she is alone in a house on Fort Bragg, while her hubby is stationed on an airfield in Kuwait; hopefully but not guaranteed to be out of harm’s way from Iranian missile attacks. (This is because a man who ran on a platform of no more wars got us into an unwinnable war; but I digress.)
Fort Bragg is the largest Army garrison in America, a city really, with all the modern medical facilities required, so that is not a concern. Her being without her husband and no close family or friends is part of being an Army wife, but it must be especially hard during a first pregnancy. And there is a small coinkidink attached to this coming newborn. The due date is Jan. 25, and while there is no guarantee that will be the actual day, if the child is born on that day and is a boy, I do hope the parents find it appropriate to give him the middle name Weston. That was Becca’s 18-year-old brother who died in a car accident Sept. 8, 2024; two years ago, yesterday.
Take care. Peace.
Columnist Steve Wilson may be reached at sc**********@***oo.com.
