It took a few weeks, but Marjorie bought her little cabin in Lagunitas, and sold the large, empty, sheet rock castle on the steep hill in Terra Linda. All three of her kids were excited about moving “to the boonies,” but grieving inwardly for the friends they would leave behind… again. Inevitably, the way hair grows as a sign of freedom, it came time for Moving Day. Marty spent his last morning saying goodbye to Steve and his neighborhood pals, inviting them to come and visit (as usual), and knowing they never would (as usual). One sunny spring day, a convoy of odd vehicles arrived, the likes of which had never been seen on Coast Oak Way before. Three rusty old pickup trucks, a dilapidated VW bug, Jack’s panel truck, and two guys on Harleys parked wherever they could on the steep street. Soon a smiling gang of Bohemian roustabouts was busily swarming all over their house like long-haired army ants, and playing really loud music. Mrs. Peabody couldn’t snoop well enough through her window, so she came out in her front yard, where she was pretending to prune her roses while staring in open astonishment at the raucous freak circus that had invaded her properly landscaped neighborhood.
Suddenly, there was a loud explosion as an enormous, decrepit Army truck lumbered down the hill, backfiring with the impact of mortar rounds. Windows rattled, startled blackbirds flew from the trees, and Mrs. Peabody got water all over her polyester pants. Jimbo showed up out of the blue with a monstrous, olive green relic that looked as if it had been through both world wars. He backed it into the driveway and all their furniture was rapidly hoisted onto its broad deck. The burly redhead stood astride the heap like Alley Oop on his dinosaur, adjusting the thick ropes. Even Marge took some of their stuff, in the small, used Toyota pickup she’d bought with some of the proceeds of the sale. Marty missed the trusty VW bus his mom had wrapped around a traffic light pole. It had been to 32 states while he sat on the toilet the entire trip… but that’s another story. Marge told everyone the little Japanese toy truck with its camper shell would come in very handy in their new rustic digs, and it turned out to be the smartest thing she ever bought.
Thanks to their new friends, all the White family’s furniture was quickly loaded onto the gypsy caravan. Moving as often as they did was always a nuisance, but at least the kids learned some serious packing skills. Everything had been sorted through three times, culling the stuff to donate or put into storage. A child who moves a lot doesn’t keep old toys or hand-me-downs. Things they would need right away were put into suitcases. Boxes were labeled where they should go. Their little cabin in the woods was only a third the size of the living space to which they were accustomed, and for the first time, Marty had to really think about what he would bring (and what he would leave behind). Only his bedroom would be comparable in storage space, but unfortunately, he had to share it with Susie. Julie pulled rank and usurped the tiny corner suite from her little sister, but she paid for it by not having anywhere to put her stuff. The family had way too much closet & bathroom paraphernalia, and wound up throwing most of it away. They didn’t know it then, but they had taken their last hot showers for a while!
Krishna’s cute little kittens were at the pet store, where Pat was hoping to find good homes for them so they would live long and happy lives that required lots of food and pet supplies. The Feline Queen herself was in a cat crate inside Marge’s camper shell, glowering and hating the universe. Heidi the beagle-terrier, or “berrier” as she was called, would ride in the cab with the ladies. Marty got to ride with the men in the behemoth contraption he dubbed the “Ford-o-saurus.” One last look at the fancy house where their old lives ended, and with considerable grinding of gears and exhortations, the tired old truck ground its gears, lurched, and backfired its way over the hill to their new rural existence. The White family left their plastic, privileged suburban lifestyle like the Beverly Hillbillies in reverse.
“We have to approach this as an adventure,” Marge had exhorted her kids the night before, during their last dinner in a real kitchen. “It’ll be like camping all the time,” she added for Marty’s benefit, knowing how much he loved the great outdoors. Little did she know how true that statement would be!
She related to them what the realtor told her: the property had once been an actual campground next to an old hotel near Taylorville, which was a popular resort destination in the late 1800s. Soon the hotel became a “house of ill repute” because after all, it was right next to the North Pacific Coast Railroad that conveniently ran the length of both properties, on its way out to Pt. Reyes. The large, remaining building was now known as the “China House” (probably due to a connection with railroad coolies), and was a separate parcel. Marge’s property used to be part of the resort, where city folks could pitch a tent next to the creek. There was a famous swimming hole nearby, and easy access to the verdant forest wonderland that was now Samuel P. Taylor State Park. Marty couldn’t wait to explore it all, but would prefer to arrive safely with all his furniture first. Jimbo had to stop the Ford-o-saurus twice in Fairfax to readjust its load, because the ornery old combine rumbled and shook like an earthquake on wheels.
Going up a steep grade, Marty thought that rattle-bang contraption wouldn’t make it. White’s Hill was a rugged, twisted ridge that confounded even the railroad engineers for a hundred years. In those days, the convoluted barrier virtually shut off the San Geronimo Valley from the rest of Marin. First the coolies had to build a huge trestle, then a small tunnel. That route had to be abandoned due to an underground aquifer, so they dug a mile-long tunnel under the heart of the mountain. From what Marjorie learned, the tunnel was since closed down, but Marty thought it would be adventurous to explore sometime. All this work was done by Chinese laborers, of course, and the effort they exerted could still be seen on the chiseled rock walls that were now passing slowly by Marty’s window. Jimbo cranked the old Army truck down to the granny gear, and they lumbered up and over the mountain like a tank in slow motion, with passing motorists honking and giving them only half of a victory salute. Even some brightly colored bicyclists cruised past them on the downhill side, with irritated looks on their faces from all the noisy backfiring.
Marty cranked up Kashmir, the new Led Zeppelin song on the radio, to drown out the howling of the gears.
“Oh, let the sun beat down upon my face, and stars fill my dream.
I am a traveler of both time and space, to be where I have been…”
The valley they drove through was beautiful, with a long, straight highway stretching through green, rolling hills studded with copses of oak and fir. It got dark again once they passed the Lagunitas Store and entered the redwoods. When the ancient behemoth finally arrived at the dirt road that turned off Sir Francis Drake Boulevard just before the first bridge over Papermill Creek, Jimbo and Jack were already arguing in advance about whether the Ford-o-saurus could make it around a tight corner where two redwood trees grew about 12 feet apart.
The road took a sharp turn up along a cliff right at the edge, because it had been carved out of a steep hillside. Marty had a disastrous vision of all his stuff being dumped into the creek. Jimbo wanted to go for it, but his more cautious brother advocated taking smaller loads in Jimbo’s ancient Dodge pickup that was already at the cabin. Jimbo was driving and was the oldest, so that’s how they got stuck. He never actually admitted they were stuck, because after a 21-point turn he was able to pivot the huge metal hulk around the trunk of the inside tree, so technically they were never totally immobilized. It took about 15 minutes, a lost side mirror, and several teeth broken off in the gearbox, but they made it. Marty could reach out of the cab and touch the plants on the hillside to the right, it was such a narrow squeeze. Jack leaned over his brother to look down the cliff to the left, and whistled for dramatic effect. They all subconsciously shifted their weight to the right (as if that would make any difference), and Marty prayed he wouldn’t tumble down to the creek.
It took forever to get over that road with their prehistoric contraption, but they survived! There were potholes back there that would have devoured lesser vehicles. For Marty, it was such a thrill to park in the wide spot of the driveway with all the stuff he had in the world on a bright, beautiful April afternoon, knowing this serene redwood parkland was his home! He lived here!! Everyone climbed out and stretched, drinking in the tree-scented, oxygen-rich air. The kids scrambled about on the old railroad bed itself, which stretched away more than 50 yards in both directions. A high, crumbling rock wall rose behind them, chiseled out by those same coolie railroad workers a hundred years ago. The driveway was still quite muddy, and Heidi immediately ran through the middle of one, just to see what would happen. Her coat changed from beagle tricolor into a brown wiener dog, but everything else was green, with many different plants growing wherever they could get a peek of light through the redwoods. She got tied up in a warm, shady spot, and yapped with frustration for about ten minutes, then laid down to watch.
Krishna would also have to stay confined until everything was settled, or she might head for the Himalayas and never come back. She was inconsolable about the turn of events, and the rattling torment in the back of mom’s pickup, and she yowled with urgent displeasure. Marty tied a clothesline in a quiet place in the shade, and hung a big blanket over the crate, so she could recover her senses.
Happy time was over, and they had it to do. Every box, piece of furniture, suitcase, and item of loose junk had to be carried 20 yards down to the house, over that rocky trail. Jack gave Marty and Susie the task of removing the larger rocks from the path to make it safer for the men carrying the furniture. Frank and Frodo pulled up in their VW bug and white smoke billowed out as they opened the doors. “Many hands make quick work,” Marge chirped brightly, channeling her West Virginia roots with a big smile. She and Julie brought the cooler of food down first to prepare a meal on the go for everyone. They stayed down there and directed traffic while Susie played with the dog and watched the men do the work. Marty made many trips up and down that path and got to know it very well. He focused on the endless bags and boxes while brawny men navigated the ridiculous furniture down the path with the grace of elephants carrying palanquins through the jungle.
All three kids had boxy bedroom sets in a multitude of colors. Good Ol’ Dad had bought them cheap and unfinished. He painted them in garish Seventies colors himself, in order to save money for his new golf clubs. Julie’s furniture was pink and green, Susie’s was yellow and orange, and Marty’s was red, white, and blue. They looked okay in the groovy suburbs, but were grossly out of place in the forest. Marge insisted on bringing the scratchy old burlap couch that had been with the family since Wisconsin, a funky upright piano painted orange and yellow, and the Scandinavian melamine table and chairs that would look so ridiculously out of place in a country kitchen. Those were things she had bought, and anyway there wasn’t much furniture left after that asshole took his share.
Thanks to the many hands, a colorful parade of furniture floats soon drifted down to the house and disappeared inside. Even still, the cabin was so small there wasn’t room for the gay piano, and the men decided to leave it in the parking area. There, it projected a cartoonish effect, as if part of the Yellow Submarine had been left at the dock. There was already one large piece in their new family room: an old, U-shaped diner booth, covered with pink and maroon vinyl that was cracked in places. The burly brothers had salvaged that artifact from a restaurant remodel they were working on in the city. At least it was big enough to seat everyone around the fireplace, but it looked even more out of place than the modern kitchen set. The interior decorating of the cabin was beginning to display the whimsy of a Dr. Seuss book. As tacky as that booth was, it would become the most popular spot in the house during those first chilly nights in the redwoods.
The White family discovered that it got dark early in the deep redwood canyon. Thickly forested ridges thrust up nearly 1,000 feet on both sides, with Papermill Creek winding through its depths, still dodging the knobs and burls where the biggest trees used to grow. Tragically, the magnificent canyon had been nearly logged out soon after white people discovered it, and the first paper mill on the West Coast was built at Taylorville a couple of miles downstream… hence the creek’s unglamorous name. What shaded them now were the ubiquitous secondary growth trees, with most of them around 100 feet tall, and some of them pushing 200 feet. Marty noticed the light was fading about the time they got the last of the stuff inside, and Jack plugged in a couple of lamps he’d brought. At least the electricity worked, which they later discovered was not a providence to be taken for granted. Frank, Frodo, and the rest of the scraggly crew of beasts of burden ate a ton of food, drank two cases of beer, and returned “over the hill” to Fairfax.
Later that evening, surrounded by the boxes and storm debris of a lifetime of material possessions, the White family flopped down wearily inside the booth. It was cold and stuffy inside the cabin. Jimbo brought in some firewood, and Jack inspected the damper with a candle. “There isn’t much draft, but it’s clear. The chimney probably needs sweeping.”
Soon the hardy woodsman had a blazing pile of kindling going, but something wasn’t right. It smoked too much, and the logs wouldn’t catch fire. They were a little moist, but still burnable. Jack re-checked the damper with a flashlight. “There’s something about the air inside the house that’s not good for fire,” he muttered, “Most of the heat’s going up the chimney.” It was as if the flames could sense the lower oxygen levels and wanted to escape. He put on more kindling, and tore up some cardboard boxes, but it never became a healthy blaze. It sputtered along for a few hours while everybody held a spoon and passed around a big pot of chili. There was no kitchen sink yet – just a tiny one in the bathroom – so dishes would have to be done in the bathtub. Jack rolled a joint for dessert. Marty looked at his mom to see if the rules were different at home than at a rock concert, but apparently there wasn’t any protocol. She was busy cuddling with Jimbo and paid no attention. So he took a hit, as if it was an ordinary thing for a 13-year-old to do on the first night in his new house, and passed it to his sister.
It soon became pitch dark outside. The light disappeared entirely, and Marty couldn’t fathom such absolute darkness. They had always lived in the suburbs, with ample light posts and ambient outdoor lighting from the neighbors. In that narrow canyon, surrounded by trees over 100 feet high, blackness reigned during the sunless hours. There were only two tiny porch lights from neighbors that twinkled like stars peeking through an overcast sky. On clear nights, there were a few spots where real stars could be seen, but the trees blocked out 95% of the firmament. It was getting colder, too… he could feel it on the back of his head. “Isn’t there a heater in here?” he asked his mom.
Jimbo answered for her. “The barefoot burner in the kitchen doesn’t work. I’m converting it to gas.” Marge gave him an adoring look, then turned and smiled widely at her family, stoned and happy.
Marty shook off the drug-induced image of barbecued feet and began to think about how he would sleep, as he took the flashlight into his room. Krishna was in there, pacing and meowing as if something was wrong (because from her point of view there most definitely was). There were no ceiling lights, so he dug around the boxes until he found a small desk lamp, and plugged it in. It was freezing cold in that room because the door had to be kept closed to keep the cat inside or she might get lost. He could feel the cold fingers of the creek reaching in through the bare windows and stealing his thermal energy. Curiously, he tried the ancient electric heater in the wall for the first time and it buzzed and smelled like burning hair, so he quickly switched it off. The room felt lifeless as a tomb, and he wondered how many people had slept (or died) there. Krishna continued pacing back and forth restlessly. Marty held the cat in his arms for a while to warm them both, where she purred in gentle rebuke for putting her through the worst day of her life. With one arm, he took the junk off his bed and found the trash bag with his Mickey Mouse bed covers in it, but he could tell they weren’t going to be warm enough.
It was getting really cold, so he left Krishna to survive on her own and returned to the fire to restore his body heat. “Where did you put the sleeping bags?” he asked Susie, because they were one of the few things she had carried down. He found them in his mom’s bedroom, and unrolled them on top of their bare mattresses. The room he shared with Susie was shaped like a creekside grotto separated by half a wall. Marty fashioned a hooded bed out of the thin polyester blanket and Krishna crawled inside immediately and was relatively content, but remained alert for a signal that it was time to go home.
“It’s cold in here,” Susie said with a bit too much pathos.
“I’m sleeping in my clothes,” Marty replied bravely, but wound up taking them off later. Those old canvas sleeping bags with the flannel lining and metal zippers were pretty warm! They had accompanied the family around the country in the summer of ’72 when G.O.D. drove the VW bus to New York and back, stopping at every National Park attraction he could find on the road atlas. They were adaptable kids, and used to the rustic rhythms of camping. The exiled Whites would be fine.
The fire burned down, and folks found a place to stretch out wherever they could. Julie and her high school friends called it “crashing,” and by morning the main room certainly had the appearance of a freeway pileup.
By bedtime, everyone was sore and tired, and Marty stayed huddled inside his sleeping bag, beneath the chilly embrace of the silent forest. Occasionally a solitary automobile would trundle through the night, its tires drumming a beat on the segmented road. Thump-thump, Thump-Thump! Thump-thump. After the car moved on, the silence poured back in like warm syrup in his ears, and his last thoughts were of pancakes for breakfast.