It's gone

I was driving home from the weekly bike group ride the other day. I was in my pickup with my neighbor Libby riding shotgun. The group had met at a local pizza place to refuel our bodies, celebrate our twenty mile ride and gab. As is my usual practice, I took the long way home and drove through Hart Park. Libby, having grown up in Bakersfield, always points out landmarks along the way. I love hearing stories about my new hometown and she’s a capable storyteller.
Hart Park is a major landmark, established years ago. The Kern River forms its eastern and northern boundaries. Off of the Kern is a smaller canal type diversion. On that canal is what is commonly called the water wheel house. Or what’s left of it. It’s a wooden log type house with a big water wheel. I’m not sure what purpose it served but it’s in really bad shape having been ignored for years; left own its own to shamefully decay and crumble. It represents government at its worse, hiding their own greed, ineptitude and self interests behind the ever popular excuse of budget restraints. Well, they at least had enough money to surround the house with a chain link fence. Yikes.
As we drove past, I couldn’t help but notice that the house had suffered another collapse, this time along the roofline. Like an old nag now suffering the indignity of a swayed back. But unlike that nag, who might mercifully be put out of its misery, the house remains. Struggling hopelessly against the inevitable surrender to gravity. I slowed and made a comment about the poor condition of the house. Then Libby uttered this: “It’s like watching my youth disappear.” It went in my ears and directly to my heart.
I grew up in a company owned lumber mill town. The homes, the buildings, the land, the mill, all owned by Pickering Lumber. It was considered by many in the county as the other side of the tracks. The far side. But it was home. Where I learned how to ride a bike, went to church (believe it or not), joined Cub Scouts and later Boy Scouts. Where we got our dog “Sparky” and learned about life.
Then ownership of the lumber mill changed hands and the new company, Fiberboard, decided it was time to get out of the landlord business. I was long gone by then, forging my way through life but my parents had stayed. One day they got an eviction notice. Thirty days to get out of town. Thirty days. After nearly thirty years of faithfully paying rent, maintaining their home, raising four children and making countless memories. Hit the road, Jack. Corporate America at its finest.
A petition was circulated, my parents at the forefront. Letters to the editor written. Fiberboard relented. But not on its decision of eviction, but on the number of days given to hit the road. They also gave residents an opportunity to buy the homes. But not the land. The home would have to be moved. Like most of the others, my parents sold the house to a local contractor. Standard, the town where all this happened, by childhood home, would cease to exist.
My parents had a home built and finally lived the American Dream. Now on my visits to that area I always drive through Standard. Sometimes I actually stop, emotions permitting, and walk along the highway that was the main street, memories flooding in. Picking out landmarks, usually trees or remains of an old dirt side street. Remembering where the families of my youth lived. Scattered now like the ashes of the burning lumber from the mill.
Well at least the homes got new families and a new life. Making memories for new generations, providing protection and warmth to body and soul. Hopefully they’re being taken care of in their old age. Not being allowed to crumble and fall which would be like watching my youth disappear.