A Humboldt Homecoming

Often I make the long drive back to Humboldt because it is my home; it is where I spent a large portion of my youth, and it is where my family resides. Without the grey fog, murky bay, brick sidewalks of Old Town Eureka, the broken people mumbling their broken responses to a broken world, and the glazed over eyes of half of Eureka’s population (maybe more), my teenage self could not have fully embodied its angst; Eureka was essential in forming me into the cynic I am today, but its salty air also nurtured romance and empathy in my soul. This particular trip home was filled with a diversity of Humboldt’s treasures. There is a nice bike trail that runs along the bay; it is quite scenic, and on some days, one can even see a heroin addict shooting up in the middle of the trail; but if that is too raw of a visual experience, one can always look up and see the synchronized movements of birds flying low over the shimmering blue water. Most of the time people mind their own business on the trail; sometimes one may encounter a slight mumble sputtering from the lips of someone in passing, but there is a general understanding that even though we may share the trail, we exist in our own bubbles. This was not the case on this trip. I was riding along on the portion of the trail where I had to traverse through Old Town to reconnect with the trail, when a clunky red car drives very slowly past me. When the person had finally made it past me, she pulled over, and a woman with long blond hair and a face that had been riddled with years of drug use stepped out, waving for me to stop. There was no way I was going to stop for this person who I obviously did not know, was not displaying a kind demeanor, and was obviously a psycho from my thirty second assessment of her. She saw that I had no intention of stopping, so she ran out into the middle of the street, stood right in front of me, and proceeded to grab the handlebars preventing me from going any further.

“Do I need to call the police?” I said. It was a threat masked as a question. She didn’t need to know that I had not brought my phone with me, a mistake I will not make again.

“Where did you get that bike? How long have you had it?” she asked; a self-appointed inquisitor. “Someone stole my bike.”

“I have had it for a long time.” I responded. She was still holding onto my handlebars. “You need to get away from me.”

She did not respond to the very clear cue that she had overstepped her boundaries and entered into my bubble uninvited. She just continued to hold the handlebars and inspect my bike.

I did not scream; I did not spew the multiple expletives that were exploding in my mind; I very calmly told her in my best teacher disciplinarian voice, “You need to let me go.”

She examined the bike for about ten more seconds and walked away saying, “I don’t believe you.” I rode away saying, “I don’t fucking care.” I would like to say that I made it through the entire encounter without channeling the base side of me that loses any sense of polite language, but I will never be the poster Madonna looking angelic with her savior son. I would be more like the Madonna with disheveled hair, bags under her eyes frowning at the poopy diaper that my savior son had befouled.

I thought a lot about that encounter the next couple mile ride back to my mom’s house. I considered the real possibility that if the woman was truly convinced that I had her bike, she may have felt justified in her mind to physically take the bike from me, and then I considered the value of fighting for the bike which is not a high quality bike (in fact, it might be considered junk), and then if a fight ensued, then I would have surely lost and gone away with a few less teeth and some nasty scars on my face and worst case scenario, been stabbed, and ultimately, I came to the conclusion that my bike simply was not worth it. I also determined that my piece of junk bike was a good match for her piece of junk life, so I could see how she would make the mistake of thinking my purple Schwinn was her prized stolen goods. Most importantly, I came to the deep conclusion that she was the epitome of what is wrong with my home town, and I aptly gave her the name Bitch (Oops...there is my baser side again). I guess I should thank her because now I will not feel safe in my hometown and will always bring a means of protecting myself.

Like I said, Humboldt offers a diversity of treasures, and the real treasures are its hidden places. The next day, I met up with the Cables and their doggies. We drove into Loleta just as the fog was lifting. We started our small walk down the train tracks, chatting it up and enjoying the blue skies and fresh air. Nala, the part wolf dog, and Woody, the sweet but misunderstood dog with problems, walked by our sides. Woody was sure to deposit an obligatory poop at the beginning of the trail. Nala is far too modest to defecate in public. The reason I would not be a good dog owner is because I would not be the conscientious dog owners that the Cables are, and I would leave the half hidden poop; they always pick up the poop. I recognize the lack of civil responsibility on my part, but I feel I am being civilly responsible for recognizing that this would be an issue with me, and therefore, I do not have a dog. I prefer to love on Woody, Nala, and Petunia (who could not handle the excitement of the trip so was not present) and leave the poop picking up to the Cables.

There were a couple other walkers on the trail who also happened to be walking their dogs. It is important to understand that Woody is one of the kindest dogs ever and shares a home with peacocks, goats, two other dogs, rabbits, a stray cat, and a yak; however, when a stranger dog barks or comes into sight, he loses all composure, his heart rate increases, and he loses all sense of his sweet self. As a result when another dog is present, my friend scoops him up, covers his eyes, and hurries past the offensive stranger dog as quickly as possible, so that Woody will not have a panic attack. This was the case today when encountering the outsider dogs. It is a well-oiled routine, and it has worked well in preventing any unwanted encounters. Once we got past the dogs, we met a friendly cow and her calf enjoying a midday meal. Shortly after our wildlife encounter, we arrived at our destination, a dark tunnel which according to Humboldt County lore is haunted because why wouldn’t a place like this be haunted? We walked slowly through the blackness drawn to the light at the end; Nala constantly made sure we were close together. Using our flashlights, we observed the vibrantly covered graffiti covering the sides of the tunnel. I pondered(because that is what I do) the irony of having such color and artistic expression blanketed in the dark; it seemed strangely poetic and appropriate as well. As I had seen the depravity of brokenness the day before on my bike ride, here I was seeing the throbbing art of pain through creative expression. It was bold; it was rebellious; and it was beautiful in its raw vulnerability and anger. There are places like this that exist in the hearts of humans that we never see. I was glad I had a flashlight.

After our foray to the tunnel, we indulged in some cheese tasting at Loleta Cheese Factory. My heart was full. Cheese has always had a special place in my life. When I was a child, my dad worked at a cheese factory, and when we had very little, we always had cheese. Cheese is bounty, good memories, grilled cheese sandwiches, and garlic cheesy fries. Cheese is all good.

Later that evening, my family dined together. We like to do international meals, and this week was Welsh. My brother and his girlfriend brought Welsh cakes, my mom and her husband(Pops) made a potato and onion pie, and an apple pudding with custard. I contributed by making vegetarian sausages that had, guess what, cheese in them. It truly was a carb filled, delectable meal.

While Humboldt’s diversity is bitter sweet, it will always be my home because the people (and dogs) I love dearly are here. I would not have wanted to walk down that dark tunnel alone. I would have if I had to, but the wonderful thing about home is that I never have to walk through any dark tunnel alone. In fact, after I have walked though scary places, I can come to my family’s dinner table, laugh, cry, share truth, and eat the best food in the world.