The Golfer & the Poet

Lawrence Ferlinghetti in front of his iconic SF bookstore in North Beach

"You are Whitman, you are Poe, you are Mark Twain, you are Emily Dickinson... You can conquer the conqueror with words" -- Lawrence Ferlinghetti (1919-2021)

Two guys made big news this week

They weren't politicians

They didn't use Twitter 

They came from two different worlds:

Our cultural obsession and our oldest confession

Their names shared the same news cycle

Likely for the first time 

One crashed in LA but survived

The other died in SF

Fifty-six years apart in life years

One was a golfer the other a poet

One question remains: Will the golfer

play again?

The poet will have his poems

read again, following a century

of thinking

Poets think, their tools are words

Golfers swing, their tools are clubs

Eldrick and Lawrence 

Tiger and Larry

Larry put inspired thoughts on paper, made books

for writers called Beats, like Kerouac, Ginsberg and Snyder

He made a bookstore into a hangout in San Francisco

City Lights

He took a lifetime of hard knocks, war and study

found himself a pacifist insurrectionist

Became poet laureate of the city

Expressed lovely words that broke hearts 

Struck nerves with simple twists of phrasing

Called writers to arm 

Last year his adopted city by the bay cheered him

at 100 

This week the national press revered him 

an orphan, a captain, a publisher, painter and poet

Tiger makes his comeback at the Riviera Country  Club in  Pacific Palisades, 2018.  PHOTO:KCS

Tiger has traveled a different road, no less bumpy

still farther to go, he's being watched, every move

A prodigy so young, a star so bright, invincible 

at his game

A man of color, beloved by the wide world

who knows him by name, the best ever 

who's paid the price of fame, greatness and pain

Into the dumps he went yet came back again

Now deja vu 

Another accident, another pin and screw to hold

together muscle, nerve and sinew

His adoring, hungry fans ask, can he, will he play once more?

Why can't he just be a man?  Be himself?

He cannot because he's more than mere mortal

He is Tiger

Peace, Love and Fire

On Valentine's Day a group of unmasked marauders barged into Trader Joe's market in Santa Cruz proving that ignorance and disruption are their calling card while shouting "peace and love." 

The above video captures this event and speaks for itself. I have a few thoughts about it below.

I believe it's a very mild version of what happened at our nation's Capitol on January 6. The connection is clear and I believe this kind of thing will happen again and is potentially very dangerous.

One obvious similarity between the two events is that members of the mob recorded videos of their activity. The above video was uploaded on YouTube faster than you can say "Operation Money Drop," the name of their "peace and love" caper.

Welcome to the age of social media, the age of Trump twitters and unruly mobs storming capitol buildings while snapping photos of themselves. We are in the midst of fake realities where anyone can make up their own lie, their own grievance or conspiracy to justify their actions, however disrespectful they may be of the rights and health of others.

I shop at this Trader Joe's store, and wait in line just like the folks who were waiting their turn to enter the store on this day. The store is careful to count how many people enter, ensuring that it does not become crowded with shoppers. The emphasis is on safety and they do a good job of it.

The unmasked gang cut in front of the line of people who follow the safety rules set by the store.

Boiled down to its essence, this is a blatant act of selfishness. It's all about me and what I believe. F-you! It's the F-you mentality. They call it "freedom" and pretend they're spreading "peace and love." This group claims that TJ employees and shoppers are victims of a mass scam. And they are here to save us! 

That is a lie, somebody's false narrative that gullible people have fallen for.

We know who the models of this kind of thinking and behavior are, or more precisely who spread the popular anti-government lies and conspiracies: Fox News, (the late) Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Glen Beck, Sara Palin, Ted Cruz and the gang of Dividers. They foment hate and claim that you and they are the victims. They say those who disagree with them are the haters. They make a ton of money doing this.

Social media has enabled them and the conspirators we see here to spread their lies into the homes of people everywhere, people who may feel lonely, aggrieved, depressed. They go to Social Media for comfort and answers. It gives them someone to blame. It riles them up. 

"Why am I supposed to wear a mask everywhere I go?"

"It's the government's fault!"

"Everything's a scam!"

When I last checked, this YouTube video had received 984 "likes" and 994 "not likes." 

I clicked "not like."

What's in a Photograph?

PHOTO:FCS

I'm guessing that this photograph of me was taken in 1958 shortly after I turned 11-years-old. That's between being a little guy and a teenager, when everything begins to change, preadolescence. The picture was taken in our driveway on Hennepin Street in Kellogg Park, a housing tract in west Pomona. Today this very spot is where LA County freeways, "10" and "57" intersect.

It was a fun time because my greatest worries were about things like, will I get a new bike for Christmas?

This green Schwinn Corvette three-speed with chrome fenders was that bike. I don't think I had ever seen a more beautiful sight than when I woke up that December morning and found this bicycle in my living room, gleaming like a star from heaven and ready to be ridden.

My parents had taken me to Coates Bicycle Shop in Pomona where we had checked out bicycles and I had fallen in love with this green one when I took it for a test ride. I wasn't sure if it would be my Christmas present.

"We'll see," said my mother, not making any promises.

"I don't know," added my father. "It's up to Santa Claus."

I wanted to believe in Santa Claus because I didn't want to let go of my childhood, but deep down I had serious doubts. The night before Christmas I snuck out to the garage to snoop around and see if there was a bike hidden among my father's tools and boxes. His car took up most of the space. It was a black and turquoise 1957 Studebaker Silver Hawk with that lingering new-car smell inside. Many new cars of the mid-Fifties were two-toned with art-deco colors.

In those days, middle-class families bought new cars every three or so years. It was an annual ritual to go downtown to see the new models when they came out, especially the Chevrolets, Fords and Chryslers, the "top three" manufacturers of automobiles.  My dad and I enjoyed viewing the latest designs with cool fins, chrome embellishments and V8 engines that rumbled with power. My father preferred Studebakers, mainly I think, because of his childhood association with Studebaker horse-drawn wagons while growing up on a farm in North Dakota. 

Frank Samson with his 1957 Silver Hawk. Mt. Baldy in the background, upper right. PHOTO:KCS

Thanks to famed industrial designer Raymond Loewy, Studebakers were unique in several ways, both in design and technology. Loewy's principle of cleanlining "reduced the look of a product to its essence." He also designed household appliances including refrigerators, part of the mid-century modern look. 

In the early Fifties, Loewy gave Studebakers a modern cleanlining style with a series of Starliner Coupes which included the Golden and Silver Hawks. They were later credited for influencing Chevrolet's Corvette and Ford's Thunderbird and Mustang. Most American cars of that era were large tank-like vehicles made of steel that handled the road like boats floating on water.

Although only a two-door couple, the Silver Hawk was our family car. And it was an eye-catcher. I remember friends clamoring to ride in it. My dad was not a flashy guy but his streamlined black and turquoise car belied his everyman mien. He purchased it at Fletcher Jones' Studebaker in Pomona.

My new Schwinn Corvette was every bit as cool as my dad's Silver Hawk. That Christmas morning, I jumped on it and rode around the block, feeling a sense of pride and independence. I had never owned anything so precious and useful. I was able to shift into three different speeds with the flick of a lever attached to my handle bar. I would have to get used to the hand brakes, front and back. I was only familiar with pedal coaster brakes.

It was easy. I quickly adapted.

Before long I was riding all over the place, to school, Little League, St Joseph's church and plunge. I lived on my bike. I rode it across town to see my friends from school, including Steve Koski and Mike Mullin, who lived in south Pomona.

To make my bike even cooler, I replaced the stock handle bars with "risers," the popular "in" look handlebars that resembled deer antlers. I also added a "goose neck" to raise the bars even higher. I put "mud flaps" on the fenders. Eventually, I began to put decals on the chrome fenders, like some people put decals on their car windows.

I wanted to be cool, and I felt that my bike represented my coolness. Many of the older teenagers I knew who owned cars customized their vehicles, giving them names painted on the doors and fenders, like "Little Darling" and "Rockin Robbin." They also added pinstriping, lowered and "raked" their cars, making the rear-end higher than the front. Cruising was big in my valley town. 

I made sure my bicycle wheel hubs and chain were well oiled while I continued to "customize" its style. My dad, who appreciated the "stock" design of appliances and vehicles never said anything to me about what I was doing to my bike. I can't believe that he found it appealing. I would learn to appreciate the  "mint" stock design of a car, or bike, the hard way.

One hot summer day, when I had nothing else to do but seek shade in the garage, I surveyed my bike whose once pristine chrome fenders were covered with tacky decals. I realized that I had spoiled its beauty. I attempted to remove the decals yet only made matters worse by scratching the chrome. So I decided to paint the fenders. At the hardware store I bought a can of gold spray paint.

Upon finishing my paint job, I stood back and made a quick appraisal of my labor. My beautiful green and chrome bicycle looked hideous with gold fenders. The gold was a flat color with no shine or sparkle. It was not at all cool. I felt sick whenever I allowed my eyes to focus on my bike. 

I turned 13 during this period. Other parts of my life were looking up, especially in track and field where I was excelling in running and jumping. My parents were wrapped up in the seriousness of my mother having been diagnosed with breast cancer, which they spared me and my sister, Mary, by not letting us know, which I later regretted.

My father traded in his sporty Silver Hawk for a family-friendly light blue Studebaker Lark station wagon.

They decided that we would leave Pomona and relocate near my mother's sister, my Aunt Cecelia, and her brother, Ronald, a Jesuit priest who was teaching at Gonzaga Prep in Spokane, Washington.

Before we left for Spokane, I rid myself of a green and gold bike. I painted my entire Schwinn black. It still performed well and I would soon be riding it on the streets of a new to me, yet old Pacific Northwestern railroad town, while making new friends.

The guys I met in Spokane were curious about someone from the Golden State. They checked my clothes and even my bike, looking for clues to the latest trends.

"Flat black," one remarked upon inspecting my bike and its unique color. "So that's what they're doing in California." 

I just nodded.

© Kevin Samson,  from Silence of the Oranges, a working title memoir.

Sunday Morning Ecology

PHOTO: KCS

On a recent Sunday morning a small white car traveled along West Cliff Drive, a popular and scenic roadway in Santa Cruz that winds along the bluffs overlooking the Monterey Bay. Faint light in a muted purple sky foretold the advancing morning. It was the period of dawn before sunrise when tiny wrens, barely visible, dart among bushes looking for seeds and worms, and crafty raccoons, following a night of scavenging, quietly make their way back home among the cliff rocks and into storm drains.

The pedestrian-bike path that runs along the side of the road was dotted with a few joggers, people walking their dogs and a scattering of surfers toting their boards heading toward the water, dark silhouettes getting a jump on a new day.

The white car hugged the cliff-road at a medium speed, neither too fast nor too slow, hardly noticeable save for a half-opened rear window through which a large dog poked its head, seemingly observing the inland side of the road marked by private residences, cypress trees and an open field where a predator bird perched atop the highest branch, scanning the ground for scooting rodents.

It was just another slowly evolving Sunday morning in Da Cruz.

The car rolled along, winding its way to the end of the road where the entry gate to Natural Bridges State Park had already been opened by a Park Ranger, allowing vehicles access to a circular parking lot with views of the coastline and bay. The white car pulled into the empty lot and parked briefly. The driver, a male bundled in warm clothing, got out of the vehicle and with his iPhone captured a photograph of the rising sun on the horizon. 

Then the car moved on, turning back onto the road, heading easterly in the opposite direction. It found a parking space in a pull-out public lot. The car faced the ocean. The headlights went dark but the radio continued to play, not music but the sound of a man with a British accent speaking in an erudite yet comical manner about ecological awareness.

The driver sat motionless, like a storefront mannequin with eyes fixed on a distant horizon, his head and ears covered with a cap.  He was alone except for the dog, who curled into a comfortable position on a car bed. A seagull cried and waves rolled in. The sea rocked to and fro. A dolphin fanned the water’s surface.

The man lazily shifted his gaze from the ocean to his side view mirror and fell upon a strange and potentially troublesome sight: a black and white police vehicle. He turned the other way, to his right, and was surprised to see a second, large black-and-white.

His small white car was cornered by the police.

A uniformed officer approached him on the driver's side, a second officer stood behind.

"What's going on?" said the officer.

"I'm listening to the radio," the man answered.

"Just you and your dog?"

"That's right."

Faint tension rose from the man's stomach. The situation might have easily been laughed off, after all, he had been here a thousand times before. This was his neighborhood. For years, this had been his Sunday morning ritual. 

"Can I see your license?" said the officer, a young man roughly 20-30 years old.

He presented his California Driver's License.

"We received a call that someone in this car, with your license plate, got out of the car and tagged that sign." 

The man in the car noted the sign, which was smudged with black paint, as if one tag had been painted over another.

"Well, that's not true officer. I don't like tags."

"Can I have your license, please."

The young officer took the man's license and went back to his vehicle while the second officer approached the man.

"Do you live around here?" the second officer asked. He, too, was young.

"Yes, right around the corner. How about you?"

"No, I can't afford to live here, and I wouldn't want to live in the same community where I work," mentioning something about the safety of his children.

"Lift your hands in front of you, palms down," the young officer continued. "Now turn them over." He was looking for signs of spray paint.

The man in the car was Caucasian not Black, yet he considered the possibility if he were, or if he were Latino. How near violence would he be? Would he feel more threatened?  Did he appear to be a gangbanger?

He understood that if he were to show any sign of resistance things could get worse. He could be the victim of mistaken identity.

After a short period during which the man engaged the officer in small talk, the first officer returned and handed over the man's driver license, apparently satisfied.

"The caller had identified the tagger to be 30-years-old. No offense, but you don't look thirty."

The man, in his early seventies, shrugged, amused by the idea of a 74-year-old tagger. But then, he thought, why not, the country suffered a 74-year-old tweeter.

"Sorry for interrupting your morning," said the officer.

"You're just doing your job," the man replied. He caught himself saying, "thank you." 

He was thankful that the neighborhood was being patrolled, especially if gang members were marking boundaries. Yet the protocol seemed overly formal. He found it unfortunate that the officers were not part of the community. He recalled that it wasn't always this way, although even then young officers often seemed overly zealous, oblivious to the greater reality of shared community. It's a tough job, especially since our small town is a destination for recreation with a transient population of day visitors and others who stick around.

The police drove away and he resumed listening to the voice on the radio. We want to control our world, said the voice, yet in reality it is beyond our control. It's not a matter of letting go, it's more like not holding on. 

The man thought about holding on to the past in an ever-changing world, the need to continually adapt, not to be rigid and allow himself to trust his instincts, as if he were riding a wave on a surfboard.

He stepped out of his white vehicle. He let his brindle-colored dog out as well. Having broken a sweat while sitting in the hot seat, he removed his jacket and cap. It was chilly outside. The air smelled fresh. A golden light cast across the pale brown cliffs covered with green ice plant. The dog sniffed the shrubbery.