The Price of a Pair of Shoes

 An American working man’s story as told to the author

These shoes. Whence all the scratches, tears, wrinkles, grime and rundown appearance?  I came up in a time when good shoes were hard to come by and were to be treated with care and respect in hopes that one could maximize the mileage from them. “Keep ‘em polished, son — maybe impress somebody enough to get a good job.” Shoes definitely spoke in former days about the wearer’s quality — “good upbringin’, personal pride” and all that.  But things happen along the way.

Take that old supporting chair, for instance.  It sits as a bedraggled, faded and sweat-stained pedestal, mute testimony to the years shared with those shoes.  There’s a back story, and I know it well … all too well. The knowin’ quiets many of my questions as I think about the shoes, the chair, and the implications softly spoken, and sometimes wept, by that scarred, stained leather and the hours of labor put in – and risks taken – by one man’s feet on an assembly line.

These shoes, and the chair that supports them, bear a common-but-remarkable and oft-unnoticed story of the so-called “blue collar worker” in America.  Cut by cut, step by step, drop by sweaty drop.

I can just hear him, the man who wore these shoes for twenty-five years, arrivin’ home still sweaty and grimy at the end of a late-night swelter of a summer shift – or the bitter cold of winter – after drivin’ the fifteen or so sleepy miles down that dark, all-but-deserted two-lane Highway 45. “Clump, clump” the shoes numbly protest as he takes the wooden steps, unlocks the door to the trailer, and sits down in the dim light in his chair – this chair – emits a deep but almost-silent sigh, then wearily stoops to pull off these shoes. “My feet are so tired they could cry.”  He blinks back a tear and quickly glances over his shoulder, half-embarrassed and feelin’ like he weakened though he knows nobody’s awake and watchin’.  Leanin’ gingerly back in the old chair, he stretches legs and wiggles toes, still sweaty in heavy cotton socks, and takes stock. “Man, shore glad I have these steel-toed shoes! That part that fell off the line would’ve cut off some toes – and durned-near did anyhow!”  Fresh cuts in the shoe-leather and bruised toes silently confirm.

Mind and body return to the present: “Do I eat somethin’ first? Take a shower first, then eat? Or just pull off my dirty work clothes and climb into bed?  I’m wore out, so tired I cain’t see straight.”  The pull of bed and rest are irresistible.

Six hours of rest pass quickly, then yesterday’s re-run begins again with feedin’ the few animals kept in a small patch of pasture behind the trailer and openin’ yesterday’s mail to add to the stack of bills to be paid. There’s a bowl of cereal with fresh milk and a cinnamon roll waitin’ for his silent daughter when she shambles from her bedroom with school books in arm.  As he pours a mug of steamin’ black coffee from the old percolator, he asks how her special-ed classes are goin’ and gets no answers, only shrugs. The school bus pulls up, and out the door she dashes with sudden energy. He’s left alone to ponder.

Cold sandwich, a glass of milk and a couple of cookies for lunch precede a dozin’ nap as he tries to watch the noon news with its daily stories of continuin’ high unemployment and climbin’ national debt. Then he’s back in the old truck and off up the highway for his shift at the plant. A note is left for his daughter, “See you tonight, hon.  Call your mom and say hello.”

I know for a fact that these shoes are owned by a man – a smart but simple, unsophisticated man with simple needs. A member of the backbone of the American workforce.  Finishin’ high school with a talent for mechanics and a set of trade skills, he got married and spent twenty-five years doin’ his job well, pride of quality and dedication intact, on an American assembly line. Tryin’ to make a way for his family.  Any number of circumstances foreclosed college or advancement beyond crew lead.  And there were some losses along the way.  But that’s natural, isn’t it?

Then one day as he sat in the plant break room eatin’ another cold sandwich from his black lunchbox, he and a thousand-or-so fellow employees were called from their places and told their plant would be closed and their jobs shipped to a place near Saltillo in northeastern Mexico.  “Lower wages, less overhead for the company.”  As he listened to the speech, a set of burnin’, practical questions assaulted his mind like incomin’ fire from an all-out air attack. “Bills to pay. Did my union help me by constantly pushin’ for higher wages? [While they constantly pushed for higher dues from me?]  With my high-school education, I assumed the leaders were smarter than me, knew what they were doin’, cared about me.  Did they?  How’d they let all these jobs go south across the border, while at the same time, hundreds of thousands are crossin’ the river into our country and takin’ even more of our  jobs for lesser wages?”

Turmoil rose up in the pit of his stomach like a churnin’ tide. He looked down at his feet. “I wonder who’ll fill these beat-up, wore-out old shoes of mine?”

When he got home from work that night and sat down in the old chair, he unlaced those shoes for the last time and sat there lookin’ at ‘em between his tired feet, knucklin’ under toes with feet arched, then fannin’ ‘em out as if to let ‘em breathe. Lookin’ at those old shoes as though they were twenty-five years away, old friends and ghosts rolled into one package. Pickin’ ‘em up with one hand, he slowly rubbed the leather with his rough, shopworn hands, rememberin’ by touch every cut, nibble and tear in the rugged leather. No patina here.  Just scars and a tale wrought in leather, rubber and steel, blood, sweat and tears.  Settin’ ‘em on the old chair, he snapped a photo for remembrance.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis.

© 2012 by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights to my original work reserved.  Photo © 2012 by Dwayne Eacret, published by permission.

Fifties Space

The fallen rain gathers itself like large shards of broken mirror on the flat street, reflecting silver-blue rays from the sun that hides behind a thin, high cloud of rising steam as it races down its late afternoon arc.  The street is mostly deserted except for a couple of young boys down the block who are standing, mouths open and gaping up, under the electrical lines near a pole’s crossbar, listening to the singing and sizzling of the wet wires, hoping to see a spark.  Further away, a tired, old, unseen hound bugles his presence, probably for no more reason than his irritation at the sound of water dripping on dry things that follows the sudden storm’s torrential downpour, a dripping sound that has not been heard in the drought months now ended but which triggers his internal instinct to sound an alarm – even if only a half-hearted one.

Windows in our neighborhood are thrown open with the rain’s end, and from those windows all up and down the block one can hear the comforting sounds of meal preparations being made – metal pots being set on stoves, stirred with hefty spoons whose shallow bowls are emptied with a rapid staccato of taps on the pots’ edges at the end of the stirrings.  Corning Ware serving dishes being set out; tables being set with china or ceramic plates, silverware, glasses; chairs being scooted into place; refrigerator doors being opened and closed; and the occasional whistling or humming that signals a happiness with the basics of life.  It’s suppertime in my neighborhood, and the buttery smell of baking cornbread wafts from somewhere down the street. Spirits elevated by the coming of the rain, a grinding chokehold on life has been broken.  There’s hope.  One rain often spawns another, and the promise of renewed life that springs from the thirst just ended does its subconscious work with happy results.

After family meals are over, my neighborhood transforms itself, as if in the most natural progression, back into the softer, gentler, easy-going personality that characterizes its approach to life in all but the hardest of times, times like the long, debilitating drought just ended.  The grime and dust have been washed away; the trees and shrubs have already seemed to lift their arms and chins in celebration.  While mothers attend to cleaning up the supper dishes, well-fed and exuberant children rush out of doors and down front steps to play in the street.  Kick the Can, Blind Man’s Bluff, Hide-and-Seek and other yard games break out spontaneously.  Dads mosey out onto their front porches with newspapers in hand, settle onto the porch swings, wave at each other across the way, then set about their relaxed quietness as a few light pipes or cigars for evening pleasure.  Wives soon join them and soft family conversations begin as a contrast to the rising din of the playing children.  A few lightning bugs begin to flash their evening signals.

One old-timer abandons front-porch solitude and the news — “Nuthin’ new there!” he mumbles to himself — as he drops the newspaper, ambles down the steps, crosses his yard and the street and with a familiar greeting mounts his neighbor’s steps to offer a warm, sturdy, work-hardened hand.

“Mighty good rain we got, huh?” says the old-timer.

“Yep!” says the friend. “I can’t recall for certain when we last had such a drought, but I know I was just a young sprout.  Pop was worried sick that we weren’t gonna make any crops that year and he’d have to go back to work in the mines. But just in the nick of time, along came a good soaking rain and we made enough harvest to eke by.”

“Ain’t that just the way of it?” chuckles the oldtimer.  “And I hear there’s more comin’.”

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

© March 2011, Michael Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.

Yokohl Valley Killer

Yokohl Valley Killer

[NOTE:  Double-click the photos for a larger view]

When our group of ten riders parted Exeter that February Saturday noon, it was still foggy and gray, as is usual that time of year in the flat farmlands of Central California, but about three-quarters the way up the mile-long Rocky Hill climb, we broke into unabated, welcomed sunshine that continued as we zipped down the backside through the two 90-degree turns and into Yokohl Valley.  Forming our paceline, we turned and pedaled eastward out through this spectacular rolling valley toward Blue Ridge and Springville.  The remote area is dotted with a few working cattle ranches, lots of hills and increasing forest as we neared the steep Blue Ridge climb with its switchbacks.  Normally, this road is little traveled by automobiles other than the ranchers’ trucks and stock trailers and the occasional adventurer.  But this day we saw quite a few scattered cars (four or more — unusual) parked along the roadside, their occupants standing along the shoulders gazing at the greening hills, cattle, and birds.  Clearly, humans needed a break from the fog and gloom of the San Joaquin ag-lands in winter. 

Bird songs were plenteous in this beautiful upland retreat, and the chill air that brought them to us was stimulating.  As we passed the old dynamite shack before the sharp curves and climbs begin, some of us stopped to watch a high-soaring Bald Eagle.  It was hypnotic to watch as it soared, its white head and tail clear in the brilliant sun.

We pedaled on up the valley to the Blue Ridge crest, rested a little with our pocket snacks of Power Bars and bananas and our water bottles as we exchanged friendly cycle-banter, then turned and headed toward home via the same route.  There was still one car remaining in the valley as the sun began to drop – its apparent owner a father with a large, professional-looking camera and zoom lens, accompanied by a small son who was very enthusiastic about the outdoors.  We exchanged greetings as we rolled past, then settled into our usual routine of breaking the pace line and taking our own individual speeds home. 

A friend and I broke off the front and gained a quarter mile or so, maintaining that pace as we entered the last long straightaway to the “T” where Yokohl Drive meets Myers Road to take us up the backside of Rocky Hill, the last barrier and endurance challenge between us and home.  My buddy was about thirty feet in front of me, tracking safely down the yellow centerline, and we were cruising at about 23 mph when my peripheral vision picked up sudden movement from the right.  As a rabbit darted out to the middle of the road from the grass on the right shoulder and sat down in the paralysis of fear and watchfulness, I saw a diving raptor close in with a short, ear-piercing “keeee” as it just barely cleared the top of the barbwire fence at high speed.  I yelled to my friend, “Watch out!” because it looked like the bird was going to take him out, but it was closing on him rapidly at a diagonal from his right rear and only about four feet above the ground – almost a certain collision course – and my warning appeared to be too little, too late.  The attacker was a big bird – a Golden Eagle – with a wingspan of over six feet.  And in an amazing show of agility, its talons snatched the coney from the middle of the road just a few feet in front of my buddy’s path, then the hunter climbed and turned right in front and flew back over us.

What a stunning and exhilarating sight!  It wasn’t the natural killing that was exhilarating; it was the adrenalin rush of near collision combined with the startling aggression, precision and speed of the eagle on its hunt.  A timeless display of the basic course of nature, untrammeled by mankind and our late-breaking, politically-correct queasiness about anything killing anything.  But this was the fine art of hunting, natural-style, and performed with facility and urgency born of a core need.  All creatures have to eat, and we all kill to do so — even if it’s only a leaf stalked by an aphid.  I’ve seen raptors successfully hunt before, but not from such a close and unexpected vantage point.  I won’t soon forget the experience and regretted not having a video camera with me.  But not many cyclists I know carry them.

The Yokohl Valley is a beautiful treasure-trove of raw, rugged nature and abundant wildlife.  I’ve frequently had coyotes cross the road right in front of me (ho-hum by comparison to the hunting eagle), and I’ve often stopped to watch the work of keen-eyed, smaller raptors such as Red-Tail Hawks, Prairie Falcons, and others.  Members of my riding group have twice seen bobcats cross the road.

But even without such spectacular evidences of wildlife, Yokohl Valley — albeit a “killing field” of sorts — is one of the most peaceful places on earth.  Very often there’s nothing but the sound of the wind, abundant lark songs and chirping ground squirrels, the occasional lowing of cattle, and the gurgle of the streams as one climbs up through the golden summer hills toward Blue Ridge.  I’ve moved away now and miss the privilege of my frequent rides there. But Yokohl Valley is about far more than just a wonderful place for a relatively few bicycle and photography enthusiasts to enjoy nature, along with the differing enjoyment and perspective of the few cattle ranchers who make their living there and whose compatible presence I especially appreciate as another last bastion against the dying of the old west.  These are not feedlot operations, but open rangelands grazed by sturdy beef cattle and often dotted with beehives for harvesting the abundance of wildflower honeys produced.  Another of those retreats that’s a rapidly vanishing part of the American landscape and the west, a place where parents can take their kids to introduce them to the sights, sounds, smells, feels and life cycles of largely-undisturbed nature.  Oh sure, kids can watch the Discovery Channel and other sources of wildlife film footage, but those are paltry substitutes for the firsthand experience.  “Nature-behind-a-zoo-fence” is little better than soup in a can.

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

© February, 2006.  Michael Stubblefield

All But Gone

“If I could go down now, whole town is sleepin’,

See the sun creepin’ up on the hill, yeah,

You know the river and the railroad would run through the valley still.

Well, it never was much to look at, just a one-horse town,

Kinda place young people wanta leave today;

Storefronts pretty much boarded up,

Main street pretty much closed down.

***

“I might go down, come the weekend, go on my own,

Drop off Annie and the baby, maybe drive alone.

Pay my last respects to a time that has all but gone.

Little by little, light after light, that’s how it died.

Say you’ll never go home again, now that’s no lie.

It’s like a letter in the mail to my brother in jail,

‘It’s just a matter of time, and you can do a little bit better time.’”

- from “Letter in the Mail” on James Taylor’s Never Die Young CD

Headed downtown early this morning.  Had coffee and breakfast on my mind, needed to do some ‘thankin’ (as one of my longtime Arkansas buddies says).  Also wanted to beat the tourist crowds that, every summer, routinely conquer and occupy this little Carpinteria, a quaint but mostly-sleepy beach town of approximately 14,000 nestled on the Pacific strand where the Golden State turns southeastward about two-thirds down the coastline from its northern boundary with Oregon.  According to Wikipedia, “The Spanish named the area Carpinteria because the Chumash tribe, which lived in the area, had a large seagoing canoe-building enterprise, or ‘carpentry shop’ there; this was due to the availability of naturally-occurring surface tar which was used to seal the boats. You can still see the tar oozing out of the bluffs at Tar Pits Park, on the beach just south of the campground.”  I’ve been to the beach many times and can affirm the veracity of the statement about tar oozing out of the bluffs.  But back to the throng of every summer’s tourists.

While these crowds are generally pretty laid back and serene, they come here from all over the world to enjoy “The World’s Safest Beach,” as the town has officially styled it. So there’s an expected level of pandemonium from the large number of young children with their families, the confusion of diverse languages, cultures and expectations that converge in a small space. The other day in the same coffee shop I’m headed for this morning, I conversed with a German couple who’ve been coming here every summer for 18 years, they like it so much; and in front of us, there was a large Italian family who could not efficiently communicate to the baristas what they wanted. But fortunately, they came with their Italian hands and arms, prepared (and well trained!) to gesticulate with sufficient exuberance to, along with their many and rapid words, eventually get the point across. I like these folk — I like the spontaneous encounters and light conversations with people from around the world. But sometimes there are just too many of them at once, particularly on Saturday mornings that should, by rights, quietly ramp up to energetic levels only after 11 a.m., when I tend to recover and “come back to ground” from a hard week at the office. I work in Carpinteria; hence, I live here for the convenience of avoiding daily Highway 101 gridlock as thousands of commuters cram the one highway that snakes along the coast between Oxnard-Ventura and north through Santa Barbara to Atascadero before splitting into several routes that open the congestion.

As usual, I was afoot on this morning’s quest.  I walk the same route every early morning (as contrasted with late mornings), stopping at the coffee shop for my usual double cappuccino-slightly-on-the-dry-side.  Today, though, I would add a warm cranberry oat breakfast bar and ask Aubrey for my cappuccino in a ceramic mug instead of the usual to-go cup with sleeve.  I always liked the name “Aubrey.”  It was my paternal grandma’s name (may she rest in peace), and she was as fun a person as I’ve ever known — a short, sturdy little Scottish woman full of vigor who, though deeply religious, was never hesitant to tease and laugh in her inimitable style. And she could render “Amazing Grace” in an alto, Celtic style, that made my arms stand up with goose bumps.  By contrast, Aubrey the barista is a quiet young person. Very kind, but shy and unassuming.  And my grandma didn’t have a tattoo on her left arm.  But that’s beside the point.  The first time I saw Aubrey working behind the counter, I noticed her name tag and complimented her on her name, adding that it was my grandma’s name as well.  She looked at me with a poker face and uttered not a word. But I could hear her internal question: “What’s his point?”  She’s softened up since then and makes a mean double cappuccino for me with a shy grin as she hands it off.

With frothy mug and warm plate in hand, I ambled to a seat facing outward toward the coastal range to the east so that I could watch the marine layer gradually lift to expose the mountains. Sliding my camera bag off my shoulder – it was along just in case I happened across any great low-light photo ops – I settled into the comfortable armchair. From my position I would also catch sight of those intrepid early morning cyclists who beat the crowds on the road, especially those cyclists who, along with my great friend Buzz, were riding the Cool Breeze Century today. I’d normally be out there with them, but lots of factors have prevented my participation this go-round. This is a bustling time of year on this paradise of a coast with its shirt-sleeves-shorts-and-flip-flops weather. Cyclists, surfers, and motorists clog the coastal highway headed for weekend R & R, and skateboarders and hundreds of pedestrians add to the crowds in the local streets throughout the day. So early is better for the cyclists as well as seekers of robust coffee and “slow-mo” morning solitude.

The “regulars” were mostly there as I arrived – the guy who sits by the front door reading a Grisham novel, whom I’ve never seen smile or speak to anyone, even when spoken to. He was into the novel of the day, and I respected his purpose – similar to mine. Funny; he doesn’t look like the Grisham sort – whatever that is. Just something about him. But he seems intent on Grisham; this is the third JG novel I’ve seen him with in as many weeks. Maybe he’s on a mission to read all of Grisham’s production. Anyway, he sports a salt-and-pepper Van Dyke under dark eyes set behind frameless glasses and an even darker, shiny, thick-and-slick crop of hair combed at a forty-five across his head. Across from me on the window side sat a guy with a gray-haired spike, the “newspaper man” I call him, with Blue-Tooth in his ear and newspaper in his hands. Today, though, he was frequently picking up his cell phone and looking at it as if to say, “Why the hell isn’t this thing ringing?!” I took it that someone wasn’t meeting his schedule and expectations, since he looked a little grumpy, evidenced even in his perfunctory nod that acknowledged my “good morning.” I didn’t bother him with further conversation today. Mutual respect. There were a couple others outside on the patio area despite the chill of the marine layer. Shorts and flip-flops with fleece pullovers and ball caps.

I like this place. When I walk in every morning, the staff sees me coming and usually knows what I want, regardless of which team members are there. We exchange pleasantries at the counter and I always get a smile or two, though it took me a few weeks to cultivate that when I came to town. Sometimes Southern Californians can be pretty stand-offish if you don’t nudge ‘em out of their aloof comfort zone. But as I entered the door to a minor crowd one recent morning, I heard one of the baristas yell over her shoulder, “Mike’s here!” followed by an immediate, minor scramble as two began making my cappuccino even before I paid – one frothing the milk and the other pulling the shots – while the observant sentry rang up the sale and tendered my change. Into the tip box it went as a warm smile of familiarity rose to the surface. When I complimented them on their prompt attention, their white teeth flashed in brilliant smiles contrasted against dark beach tans and their pleasant banter bubbled forth.

This morning, as usual, my cappuccino was robust but smooth, and the warm breakfast bar went down well with its mildly sweet-tart grainy taste. Didn’t bring a book and there was no conversation stirring beyond the working patter behind the counter between Aubrey and Gabe, the very crisp, short, spunky Latino who had just joined her for his shift. Another regular, “Spike Two” I call him, walked in as I finished. With his sunbleached blonde hair and dark tan, he was in his usual style of bright red sweatshirt and dark pants with Ugh boots, rolled newspaper under his arm and his half-lens readers already astride his nose. But our eyes met as he headed to an outdoor table with his java and news and we exchanged enthusiastic morning “hey, how ya doin?” My dishes now emptied, I delivered them to the bussing area and walked out the front door to the pleasant farewells: “Have a great day, Mike.”
“You, too, Aubrey and Gabe. See ya tomorrow.” As I said, I like this place.

The marine layer still hung fairly thick over the town. It’s been an unusual ten days just passed – weather-wise, more like the familiar “June Gloom” of our coastal region’s early summer micro-climates. By this time of year, the sky is usually bright and clear and a comfortable warmth is rising to meet the day. But not today. Nonetheless, something bright caught the corner of my eye as I reached the street. There was no movement – quite the contrary. There she sat across the street in total stillness, appearing against the backdrop of storefronts to belong there quite naturally. My eye was immediately riveted. To get a closer look, I immediately cut a diagonal across the sleepy street. What a beaut! Curves in all the right places, smooth lines and obviously quite well cared for. With a quick turn of my head, I looked around to see if anyone was watching me, almost embarrassed by my own unchecked admiration for this thing of beauty. She was a ’51 Ford V-8 “Woody” wearing several deep layers of a familiar, vintage Ford turquoise paint plus the dark-and-light woods used for the side panels, and she looked – at least to my non-expert eye – to be in totally-stock condition except for the special wheels that were not yet conceived when she rolled off the Detroit assembly line 58 years ago. For this babe, atypical tires of lower profile and smaller sidewalls mounted the more modern wheels as compared with the standard big wheels, wide white-sidewall tires, and small, plain hubcaps that I remember from that era. In 1951 I was a big-eared, bony kid of six, but even then was quite excited about cool cars. They were much less ubiquitous then.

Out came my camera for a lengthy series of admiring shots from every angle – the auto paparazzi! – and when I looked up I had been joined by a slightly younger guy who was as into the moment as I, him with cell-phone camera clicking shots. “Is she yours?” he asked. “I just shot the hell out of her with my camera.” Grin. 
“No, but I’d sure like to claim ‘er.”
“Wouldncha?!” he chuckled. “Whaddya think,” he said, “$180 grand into her?”
My eyes got big. “Are you kiddin’?” I had no idea how someone could spend that much on an old Ford. A Rolls maybe, but not a Ford.
“No,” he said. “I watched these for quite a while, wanted to buy one, but decided I couldn’t afford it.”
“I reckon not!” my mind silently affirmed. We stood staring in adoring silence for a few moments, made a couple comments about particular features of the car, then parted company, both surely personally enriched by the experience.

Still feeling a flush of excitement, I bagged my camera and headed down the street toward the beach to do my walking and “thankin,” but caught myself turning back a couple of times to get one more look at the Woody. Warm nostalgia had rushed in and filled all the blank spaces of my quiet Saturday reverie. Whatever I had needed to think about had been totally supplanted by remembrances of slower days, quieter days, days of long, white-hot summers in the lower Midwest of my Arkansas childhood. Days with dark sweat-beads around our youthful necks. Days when neighbor Peggy would team with my mom to load her three kids and mom’s three younger kids along with a picnic lunch into Peggy’s burgundy ‘51 Ford two-door coupe and we’d all head to Rudy Creek or Twin Bridges or Silver Bridge to hit the swimming hole and forestall the sun’s ravages. Riding home afterward in that heavy Ford as the lowering sun shot its more benign rays into our faces, we’d wearily take turns hanging our heads or towels out the windows to dry. Exhausted but happy little kids. Seatbelts were unheard of then.

As I reflected this morning, my mind, in keeping with my lifelong propensity, called up the lyrics of a song from the past.  This time it was James Taylor’s “Letter in the Mail.”  I began to sing the words quietly as I walked.  I like this about Carpinteria – this little “one-horse” town “peaceful and serene” in its morning yawns and stretches, “the sun creepin’ up on the hill,” – I like this exposure to relics of the past.  They are welcome relics, at least in my world, and the car I’ve just ogled and admired has triggered a small but packed volume of memories for me.  Likely, it would hardly have been noticed in a bigger city where life moves way too fast.  At most, it would have gotten a fleeting glance as the hustle of the street demanded greater attention.  Almost certainly, the conversation between two rank strangers would not have occurred on a big city’s sidewalk.  And without doubt, I couldn’t have stood in the middle of a larger city’s main thoroughfare to shoot a series of photos of a beautiful antique car.  But this serene little town, the “carpentry shop” of California’s lower coast, is a throwback “to a time that is all but gone.”  A pleasant throwback, where the simple pleasures are still to be found in abundance if one takes the time to look.   Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

Michael

© 2009 by Michael E. Stubblefield – all rights reserved