The Revolution Will Not Be Televised *

San Francisco California - early in 1970 and the magic was gone. Two years had passed since the “Death of the Hippy” ceremony in Haight-Ashbury. The rise of hard drugs and the violence of the Altamont Free Concert had left a bitter taste. The flower children of the ‘60s had matured in the heat of the Long Hot Summer and the jungles of Vietnam. The March on the Pentagon, the Students for a Democratic Society, Peoples Park, the occupation of Alcatraz Island and in a couple of months four students would be killed by National Guard Troops at Kent State. The country was fractured along countless political-ideological lines.

But that’s not the context against which I write this remembrance. The setting on this occasion was the old San Francisco Embarcadero Freeway (State Route 480).

I no longer remember what had C.J. and I walking North along the Embarcadero but the roar of the traffic above and beside us filled our ears even while the view of the San Francisco Bay and the Ferry Building filled our eyes with splendor.
Our discussion ran deep (well deep for this 19 year old) – we were discussing politics. LBJ had been out of office for a year and it was good riddance as far as I was concerned his legacy was the blood of thousands of American boys – boys my age – and I had no desire to follow them off to Vietnam. The new President had given us some pause for hope when he was inaugurated and some of the troops had been called home but recently the draft had been extended two more years and when the president confirmed he had ordered incursions into Cambodia many a college campus ground to a halt under protests and student strikes.

The years of war were beginning to weigh on the economy too and though I was too naive to fully grasp it beyond the Socialist rhetoric of the day; things had become really tough for the working class.

So in the middle of this conversation I asked C.J. to answer the most important question I knew to ask, “When was the revolution going to happen?” (You know; the counterculture/social revolution we all dreamed of in the 1960s.) C.J. looked at me and summoned his great wisdom of some 25 years and said, “It’s already happened and it’s already over” and in an instant I was crushed as all the buoyancy of hope was drained from my being.

“What do you mean?” I challenged as we strode towards the terminus of Market Street. “Nothing has changed! This country still sucks!” He looked at me and said, “The thing about this society is, movement’s are no longer a spring board to change [revolution], given time, they are simply assimilated.” The sound of the cars on the Embarcadero freeway above began to drone louder. I no longer recall the exact words that followed but they were in effect, The ’60s counter culture will be absorbed, commercialized and exploited but hopefully some bits will be adapted and used to improve our lives.

The commercialization was already happening but it has taken the passage of time to see how those heady times improved our lives - particularly socio-economically. We would eventually withdraw from Vietnam, The Clean Air and Water Acts would be adopted, the EPA and OSHA were established, Title IX, the Equal Employment Opportunity Act and the Comprehensive Child Development Act were all enacted (under a Republican administration). And while the ERA was not ratified in time to become a constitutional amendment the right of a women to privacy under due process in how she chooses to best protect her health was codified in Roe v. Wade.

So I jump to my footnote-
Nineteen years later, the 1989 Loma Prieta Quake seriously damaged the Embarcadero Freeway. Caltrans and many merchants and politicians wanted a rebuild of the two-level structure, and the mayor proposed a boulevard and a tunnel option. The state refused to finance the tunnel option so the major scrapped his tunnel plan and almost two years passed; opposition waned the demolition went forward, and the unexpected happened. San Franciscans had rediscovered their waterfront and found other ways to get to where they needed to go. The Embarcadero has become a grand boulevard with beautiful squares and plazas, lined with trees and public art, and has had its historic streetcar brought back. The call for change often seems like an earthquake is shaking us to the core but the act of rebuilding afterwards rarely produces anything as drastic as we anticipated. Conservatives, liberals and all other pundits, do you hear what I’m saying?

The greatest revolution in our generation is that of human beings, who by changing the inner attitudes of their minds can change the outer aspects of their lives. – William James

* Song title by Gil Scott Heron which first appeared on his 1970 album “Small Talk at 125th and Lenox”

An August day in 1963

I no longer remember how the day started nor do I remember what it was that convinced me that I should grab all my pocket money and head off to the bus stop and take the long ride into Washington DC. I had taken the bus into the city a few times with my dad to spend a day at his work, go to museums and once we went to the National Archives. I also used this same bus to get to the local shopping strip and buy candy from Mr. Ayers’ five and dime.

So with all this change and perhaps a few mangled dollars in my pocket and I set out to catch the bus. I had several blocks to consider the complete unknown that I was heading off towards; like the length of the trip and whether I would need a transfer but I was resolved to witness an event unlike any I had ever seen. I was on my way to see the Great March on Washington DC. I was on my way to see Dr. King and stand with thousands of other folks in front of the Lincoln Memorial to listen to music and hear great speeches.

I now know that the trip from my home in Arlington VA to the Lincoln Memorial is barely eight miles but at that young age it seemed more like fifty. As I walked to the bus I thought about the long ride and the thousands of strange people. I had no idea what such a gathering would look like or if I would be afraid in such a crowd. I got to the stop and watched the bus climb the small hill where once, before Route 66 changed the landscape, N. Sycamore St. met Fairfax Drive.

My heart was racing; this was going to be a day of days - I thought about my mom at work, I hadn’t told her of my plans - as a matter of fact nobody knew what I was planning. The bus door opened, I ascended the first step, my knees buckled and I turned and ran home as fast as my 12 year old legs would carry me.

Today is January 17, Martin Luther King Day and almost 48 years have passed since that day in August but I still remember that turning to get off the bus before the door could close like it just happened. I was just twelve and about to embark on an adventure for which I had no permission and perhaps, in hindsight should have had a chaperone (I don’t know). But it has always haunted me that I didn’t allow that bus door to close behind me.

Life's Nectar is to be Drunk

In the very early 1980's, I had an opportunity to interview both my older brother and my mother about their lives and memories of family life.

During the course of the interview my brother, Bruce, told me this short tale of a lesson he learned early in life.

Bruce's Ambrosia Story

The ambrosia [story] had to do with the honeysuckle that was in the back yard, to the left as you went out. You had to go up steps [to get from the back door to the yard].

I had heard of ambrosia so I decided I was going to collect ambrosia and drink it as the gods had done. I didn't discern between nectar and ambrosia - I figured it was about the same thing so nectar would be [just the same as ambrosia].

I took one of those red liquor glasses that I think are still around. The heavy ones. And I gathered, I don't know, I probably stripped the honeysuckle bush. (And this is when maybe I was about nine or ten.) And I squeezed that little third of a drop out of all (the damndest thing I went through all) these flowers. And of course it probably evaporated as fast as I put it in.
After a whole afternoon of I work I had something like a third of an inch or not even a quarter of an inch of liquid at the bottom. I said, "Oh my God, I can't just drink this now. It would be too abrupt, you know, I've got to save this somehow, I've got to preserve this somehow." So I put it in the freezer and I was going to come back later when I was real ready and primed for this and drink ambrosia.

Well I came back to the freezer later, opened it up, and it had evaporated entirely (apparently from freezing). So at a very early age I learned that you can not preserve ambrosia. You've got to drink it right there!

And you can't freeze it!

It was a very valuable lesson!

My brother lost a long battle with kidney cancer in 1997 but even in my last conversations with him I know that he never lost site of that valuable insight he gained so early in life.

23 Skidoo

The history of Death Valley and the history of mining in Mohave Desert are one in the same. The mining history includes gold in Rhyolite, borax and talc in the Valley, and silver in the Panamints. The human part of the history is filled with tales of “varmints, virgins, vandals, and visionaries”. (quotes are subtitle to the book "An Unnatural History of Death Valley", by Paul Bailey)

This past December my wife and I drove into the Panamint Mountains on the West side of Death Valley to the 6,000 plus foot altitude. About six miles off the Emigrant Canyon Road is an overlook called Aguereberry Point. The Point provides a spectacular view of Death Valley to the east, and the very highest peaks of the Sierras to the west. Although there are barely 50 miles between the two points, there is a difference in elevation of almost 3 miles.

Pete Aguereberry, for whom the point was named, was a miner who in the early part of the century claimed the Napoleon Mine. He lived until the early 1940’s and we found old beds, clothes and furniture in the buildings near the mine. Pete led a colorful life. Shortly after the discovery of the mine, his partner shot him in the gut because he was having an affair with the man’s wife. He lived on but the partnership dissolved. In later years, he was often mentioned in the chronicles of the great city of 23 Skidoo.

Skidoo was a large mining town several miles to the north and they used to hold a founders’ day party each year. Part of the celebration was a foot race. Apparently, Pete won the race every year, except the year he was tripped by running the race bare foot.

Skidoo was also famous as the town that hung the same man twice and buried him three times. The man was Joe “Hooch” Simpson, and he was hung for the murder of James Arnold, the local banker. After the inquest, the armed citizenry snatched Hooch from the hands of the sheriff and hung him from a nearby telegraph pole. The event stirred up the big city papers interest, after all, these were civilized times and lynchings just weren’t done anymore. So they dug up Hooch’s body a second time and re-hung it, so the big city papers could capture the moment.

It wasn't over for Hooch and he was dug up a second time. This time to accommodate a visiting doctors in need for an office skull. Hooch should have skedaddled Skidoo, because in the end, it was there he lost his head.

To supply water to Skidoo a 25 mile line was build, at a cost of $200,000+ from the Wildrose Canyon. We drove up that Canyon to see the charcoal kilns. The kilns are at 6,800 feet. It was cold, windy, and there was snow on the ground. The juniper and pine that grow here were burned into charcoal to fire silver smelters, between 1876 and 1879.

The smelters were at the Modoc and Minetta Mines in the Argus Range (one more range to the west) and can be seen in the post card standing below the white capped Sierras. The Modoc Mine was discovered in 1875. With rich deposits of Silver-Lead ore, it was sold to a group of investors which included George Hearst, the famed mining engineer, U.S. Senator, and father of William Randolph Hearst. The Modoc Consolidated Mining Company was formed with the Modoc mine as the principal mine. Together with the discovery of other nearby mines, which included the Minnietta Belle below Lookout Mountain, these mines formed the basis for the Modoc District with the townsite of Lookout located on top of Lookout Mountain.

The kilns stand about 35 feet tall and are almost perfect parabolas. This shape gives them amazing sound acoustic qualities; we could whisper sweet nothings standing back to back at opposite ends of the interiors and hear each other perfectly.

Abandoned Mines in Death Valley Gunsight Breyfogle Garibaldi Lost Burro Keeler Quackenbush Lemoigne Big Four Eagle Harmony Ashfield Monte Blanco Lila C. Skidoo Napoleon Argenta Tucki Widow Chloride Cliff Rhyolite Inyo Keene Greenwater Lead Field

Up the hills from Ballarat some 40 miles or more The Man who made the Panamints, He left a ledge of ore, The Man who made the Panamints, had something on his Mind, He left the ledge of ore in sight for you and me to find. It’s forty miles from Ballarat, the mountains there are blue, The place is numberd 23, they’ve named the camp “Skidoo!” From GOLD by Craig Macdonald

Dad the CCC and the SF Migration

In the summer of 1935 my father (32 years old) took his first family and moved to the Washington DC area so that he could accept a position with the Civilian Conservation Corp as a statistician grade 6 at $1,800/yr. Over the next five years he received regular increases in pay and responsibility. These responsibilities included drafting a "Study of German Labor Services," and writing two presentations which he made to the Senate Budget Committee the second one being titled "The Job Placement Program of the Civilian Conservation Corps."

In the 18 months before the bombing of Pearl Harbor and the end of 1941 his income increased 35%, his first wife died of diabetes, he met and married my mom, lost his daughter to pneumonia (she was in the hospital at the time with complications from her own type 1 diabetes), and saw the birth of his first son. It was in June of that same year that he was appointed to the position of shipping analyst in the Office of Exports a division of the Board of Economic Warfare and received another 9+% pay hike.

The Board of Economic Warfare (BEW) was established by the President on December 17, 1941 and was abolished by Executive Order on July 15, 1943, when its functions were consolidated into the Foreign Economic Administration[1]. As a side story to this one I should note that a number of Americans who worked for the BEW were later discovered to have been secretly members of the Communist Party of America and had established covert liaisons with Soviet intelligence in what was known as the Silvermaster network named for Gregory Silvermaster a Russian immigrant and naturalized citizen who acted as their handler and courier. None of the papers that I possess from my fathers employment in the agency contains any of the names I found associated with the spymaster's ring but one of the persistent and unsubstantiated tales from my fathers years in the government are that he was conscripted to look for spies. Silvermaster himself was detailed to the BEW in 1942 where he was able to obtain and provide the Soviet Union with a large amount of data on arms, aircraft, and shipping production[2]. With the dissolution of the BEW in 1943 my father left for work in the private section and took a job with Bethlehem Steel.

As my Mom tells it, Dad was obsessed with the notion that California was were the opportunity was and he was hell bent on getting out of Washington DC and over to the West Coast to be a part of what my history book referred to as the "West's Second Gold Rush." As to whether the job offer came before or after the train trip to California I don't know but very little time elapsed between his leaving the post at the BEW in April 1943 and starting at Bethlehem Steel's plant near the shipyards in San Francisco. At Bethlehem he worked as a design draftsman and his name appears as draftsman for things like reduction gear dehumidifiers and emergency steering room pumps. Not exactly the big guns that others names are next to on the work rosters I found in his old papers but he does seem to be the one that had to sign off on the overall work schedule and certify its on time completion.

The Bay Area had managed to gather into one small geographic corner the operations of Bethlehem Steel, the Bechtel Corporation, Standard Oil, and the Kaiser Ship works. My parents took a flat way out on Geary Blvd. and Dad continued to work at Bechtel until the end of the war when he was terminated. He garnered several letters of recommendation from supervisors but the termination letter simply says "terminated due to the end of the war."

I found no record of another job for six months. Then in February of 1946 he began working as the San Francisco Office Manager for a Los Angeles based PR company that performed customer surveys and market analysis - but that just starts a whole 'nother story because he was about to leverage the business contacts he had made at Bethlehem, Bechtel and Standard Oil.

[1][1]From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia[2][2] http://www.answers.com/topic/greg-silvermaster