With all of the recent news about squalid homeless encampments, mismanaged utilities, gun-grabbing Democrat politicians, a potentially bankrupt public employee pension fund, and wildfires in California, I thought that it would be apropos to post a personal lament. This is a largely autobiographical commentary on the sad fall of the state of my birth, since the 1960s. But first, let me look back a bit further in time:
Our Pioneer Roots
The Rawles family came to California in 1856, via covered wagon. My great-great grandfather, Joseph Rawles, was a fifth generation American of English extraction who was born in Ohio. He was a horse breeder. Seeing that Ohio becoming too populous, he decided to move west, bringing with him 50 head of horses. He settled his family near the tiny hamlets of Philo and Boonville, nestled in the Anderson Valley of the Coast Range, in Mendocino County. There, they first raised horses, and then during the Civil War they transitioned to raising sheep. By the 1870s, his two eldest sons owned more than 6,000 contiguous acres. And by the year 1900, they had flocks numbering more than 5,000 Merino sheep. They made a good living at selling wool and redwood timber. At that time California had a small and unpretentious government, with very little regulation of people’s lives and livelihoods.
By the time I was born, in 1960, various branches of the family had scattered throughout northern California. I was raised in the suburban town of Livermore, at the eastern fringe of the San Francisco Bay Area. In 1960, Livermore’s population was around 16,000. As of 2019, it is now close to 87,000. But in the 1960s, it was quite pleasant small town with some brown smog that crept in from Hayward and Oakland, but very little crime or traffic. The public schools were good and people generally got along very well. My school classmates were mostly the children of Lawrence Radiation Laboratory employees (like me), or the children of ranchers and wine grape growers. (With surnames like Wente and Concannon.)
In the California where I grew up in the 1960s and 1970s, it still very much the traditional conservative bedrock culture, where most people owned guns and went to church on Sundays. Kids like me went out in the hills around town and shot jackrabbits with our .22s. Nobody blinked an eye when they saw 14 year-olds on bikes with .22 rifles slung across our backs. (See the book Suburbia, by Bill Owens. Nearly all of those photos were taken in Livermore, from around 1968 to 1972. The cover photo from that book tops this article.)Continue reading“A Lament for California”
