My House of Memories

I grew up in California's Central Valley. My Dad was a third generation member of this community. My grandfather Manuel (affectionately nicknamed "Babe") was also born in Central California. His kin, as much as I know of it, were native Californians. That's a proud history when it comes to California. It's a relatively young state--unlike New England, there are no Mayflower residents with 300 year family histories and rarefied pedigrees. Anyone who can demonstrate three plus generations in California are, I've found, rare commodities. So it was no wonder my grandfather had more than a modicum of Cherokee blood in him. But that's another story (and the stuff of uncomfortable family history).

I set this background because I am watching a biography of Merle Haggard on "American Masters" on PBS. Merle was also a native of Central California (Bakersfield, specifically), a product of a family migrating from the Dust bowl during the Depression. My father was an enthusiastic fan of Merle's songs when I was growing up and hearing them tonight brought back very vivid memories of my father happily harmonizing along with Merle's songs when they played on the radio. I remembered the words to them all.

My father's favorite song was "Okie From Muskogee." Ironically, the term "okie" was a derogatory term in my house. It was applied to those people who were considered country-folk, essentially non-sophisticated people who wore polyester and ate white bread and Tuna Helper. Growing up, I never made the distinction of this snobbery nor did I recognize the true genus of the term till I was in my late teens.

Native Californians take much pride in their place in the landscape of their state. They resent interlopers. The intrusion of the migrating Midwesterners during the Depression created many generations of resentment.

When I was teenager, I had a bumper sticker on my car. It read: "Welcome to California. Now go home." The message at that time was (for me) my personal protest at the rapidly growing population of the Golden State and the resulting traffic, housing price explosion and the like.

My dad once commented on the sticker and we discussed the population explosion in the state. "The same thing happened during The Depression," he said. It made me realize that one's homestead is never exclusive. I'm living proof. I've since invaded multiple states myself and know the feeling of being initially an interloper, but soon after, part of the natural landscape.

This PBS program is stirring up some strong memories for me tonight. And if you were wondering, "My House of Memories" is a another wonderful Haggard standard.