Sunday, March 29, 2015

Orvis Hatch



     Thursday evening, I made my version of my grandma's beef stew*, left it to simmer and headed east into the foothills for the PED hatch.  PEDs  (Pale Evening Duns) are blonde mayflies about an inch long from tip to tail with bright abdomens, the colors of which are the subject of much debate among the hard core locals - the stragglers - who, well after dark, trudge up the hill under the Parks Bar Bridge, most nights to the only car still parked there besides mine, with pictures and stories and intel. Occasionally, while I'm effusing or commiserating or debating with one of these hardy souls, fresh off the river, from the lawn chairs or grill of an overnighting RV or camper, one or two day trippers will angle over, hoping to glean some info or to hold forth with their own generally under-inflated narratives but, strangely, never with pictures.

~ ~ ~

     Around quarter to seven I found a spot among the fifteen or twenty assorted vehicles parked under the bridge and down both sides of the road to the west. I got out and opened the door for the dog. Looking down to the river, I could see six or seven guys flogging the water on both sides of the bridge, having driven hundreds of miles to, essentially, fish the parking lot.

~ ~ ~

     I've only ever had one real fishing buddy. She's in music school back east now so fishing has gone back to being what it was before; a solitary pursuit. Seeing another fisherman on any stream I fished used to ruin my whole day.  Those were the younger times of long hikes to remote drainages, skirting crumbly cliffs and wading dicey rapids in pursuit of the local knowledge in the form of a creel full of wild, ten-inch fish for dinner.  In those days I used to drive over this bridge on the way to those more pristine, lesser-known places knowing, with the zealot's cross-eyed certainty, that it was too close to town to be any good.
     Now any guidebook on the great western waters will have a chapter on the Lower Yuba.  It's a classic freestone tailwater and even though, until the last half of the nineteenth century, most of its stones rested in the mountainsides east of Nevada City, about forty miles upstream, and most of its water is the outflow from the salmon and steelhead blocking Englebright Dam, about two miles up from the bridge, it still reads as a natural wonder. The water is usually as clear as vodka, and the river bottom features all of the bright and dark variations of granite, for which its alpine upper forks have been beloved by generations of hikers and skinnydippers.  In these lower foothills, though, cottonwoods soften the banks, bare purple and orange in the winter, lush and green in late spring when they suddenly drop an underlayment of snowy white down, six inches deep, onto the sand and stones they shade.
     The Lower Yuba's population of wild rainbow trout is also celebrated ad nauseum in all the current trade literature.  These March afternoons, they have sex on their minds as much as food and you can often tell by the color of a rise whether a fish is a dusky golden male or a bright silver female.
     I am happy walking the trail past all the trout tourists fishing the wrong spots in the wrong directions; happy that almost none of them will ever see one. It's not their failure and frustration I take pleasure in. The Yuba is notoriously difficult to fish well. Only very specific techniques and patterns work there and even they only work at certain times.
I'm sure many of them are wonderful people. It's just that I don't find them sympathetic. Their obvious assumption that, first time seeing it, they should able to figure out this water and fool its fish, Is an innocent enough folly.  The posturing about it afterwards to locals who obviously know the river just makes it awkward and sad,  No, the happiness I feel passing them is strictly about knowing the fish are safe and will be there some other day when I don't have the time to walk in very far.  A few of these spots are actually as good as anything upstream and just as fun if you find them empty.  Once I waded out into a gap in a crowded run and hooked seven fish, one after the other.  It was just one of those nights. I don't recommend it. Unless you want to be an asshole when everybody starts asking you what you're throwing, you're essentially giving a free group lesson - bad for the fish.
     Years ago, I taught golf. I gave it up only partly because I got a fat writing gig and had to travel.  I probably wouldn't have lasted much longer anyway because of, well, certain white people, and their incredible sense of entitlement to possess skills they haven't earned.  Golf and fly-fishing share this demographic as well as an almost identical potential for self-delusion.  It's easy to totally suck but be convinced that excellence is just around the corner.  That all one needs is "a couple of tweaks" or "some inside dope" and you'll be breaking par or killing it on the river like the homies.  The truth is that a shit foundation is worse than nothing to build on. In the immortal words of Ben Hogan, "The secret is in the dirt".  I get skunked all the time on the Yuba.  Unless you're in a drift boat covering miles of water and dragging multiple nymphs, some days you'll never see or feel a fish and never have a clue what they're eating.  Chatting up the locals on a stream that's kicking your ass is never a bad idea. But, instead of trying to act like the reincarnation of E.C. Powell**, just admit you had a rough day and ask for help. Invariably, in my experience, when you do that any decent local will try to set you up.
     The move, though, if you're planning a first trip to the Yuba and only have a day or two, and you can raise the dough from your party, is to get into a drift boat with a good guide. There's a kid named Ryan Johnston out of Chico. Hired him when my old fishing buddy and her boyfriend were out last summer. He put us on A TON of fish nymphing down three miles of river below the bridge through midday into the afternoon and we still had time to drive to Grass Valley for pasties and a movie, then drive back to the bridge to hike in and throw dries in the evening.  On an afternoon booking, he will teach you what, where and how to present both wet and dry flies to these picky fish and his remarkable stream-of-consciousness verbal ejaculations at the slightest twitch of an indicator will keep you in stitches all day.

~ ~ ~ 

     It was late and I had to tie on a leader so I didn't stop to watch any water on the way upstream. From the top of the first red dirt rise, I could see that there was nobody on the river for a good half-mile: More happiness. The dog walked ahead on the well-worn trail past the lone fig tree, over the black slabs, past the rock walls, across the driftwood bridge, through the cottonwood chute and onto the rockbar just below the slick I was going to fish. Feeling in my vest pocket for the the thin wheel of 5x leader, I started to look around.  The blonde mayflies were everywhere and out in the water at the downstream end of the slick, a couple of fish rose to take them.  Then, a couple more, then a couple more. The river is maybe a hundred yards wide there and as I reached the edge and spun off four arm lengths of leader, fish were rising from one bank to the other. This was going to be good.  I cut the leader and started tying it to my floating line.
     That's when I saw him.
     On the other side of river and ten yards upstream, stumbling out of the cottonwoods - brand new neoprene waders (it was 85 in the shade and the river was running really low), spools of leader, assorted hemostats, clippers, boxes, and fly indexes hanging everywhere, some silly Australian looking hat, huge polarized bifocals and a wading staff - was a non-native fisherman and he he was going to cross the river right there.
     "How you doing?" I shouted.  "Hey there's a better spot to cross downstream!  It's at the big ninety-degree bend to the right, about half a mile down!"
     Not slowing down, he tromped into the water.
    "Seriously!" I yelled, "You'll know it because there are six guys standing out there in the middle of the river in water up to their knees!"
     "No!" he said,  "I'm going to cross here!"
     "I really wish you wouldn't!" I said, "It's really easy down there.  Swear to God!"  I'm not sure why I invoked the deity there.  I'm not religious and for all I knew, he wasn't either - for emphasis, possibly.
     "No!" he repeated, "I'm going to cross here!"
     "Seriously?"  At this, he started stomping downstream toward the tail of the slick where all the fish were rising.
     "Bro, do me a favor then and cross upstream of me, ok?", I offered.
     "No!" he said, "when you're fly fishing, you cross downstream of people because they fish upstream! Everybody knows that!" and with that he looped around and walked though the smooth, boily water just above the downstream riffle which, just seconds ago, had been full of rising fish.
    "You poor dumb bastard, what part of L.A. are you from?" That isn't the last thing I said.  It's just the last thing I remember saying.  The instantaneous transition from near bliss to blind rage had been to much for my once-proud mind.  I smelled burning metal.  My eyesockets got sweaty. If he had come close enough, I could have bashed in his head with a rock.  I stared at him as he climbed out of the water, now thirty yards downstream, finished tying on my leader and sat down.  I had a stress hangover.  My head hurt. My heart was pounding in my ears.
     I washed my face, splashed some water on the back of my neck, tied on a fly and waited, watching the water, to see if the fish would resume feeding.  Eventually, they started rising again, all across the river. I waded out.  It was starting to get dark.
     I have never caught a fish on the Lower Yuba casting upstream.  The water's too clear and the fish are too smart for that.  They sense the leader hitting the water over their heads and that's it.  You have no shot.  I cast across, did a flip mend upstream and let the fly drift down ahead of the leader.  A fish rolled - golden - a big male.  I set the hook and felt him through the rod.  Heavy throbs. "Ten seconds", I said to myself, "just keep him on for ten seconds".  Then I felt a slippy kind of event and he was gone.  It didn't feel like he broke me off or spit the hook.  It felt, weird.
     Hand over hand, I pulled in line to check for my fly and when I got to the end there was nothing but a green squiggle. My entire leader was gone.  Now that beautiful fish is swimming around out there with twelve feet of my fluorescent monofilament stuck to his face.  Things had progressed from "so happy" to "so angry" to "pissed off but dealing" to a full-blown ecological disaster in about twenty minutes.  Disgusted, I reached back into my pocket for the leader spool, fish rising all around me. The dog was making his fifth or sixth crossing of the river, each time having tried to swim out to me by starting directly across and quickly being swept through the riffle to emerge a couple hundred yards downstream.  I started stripping leader off the spool wondering whether the dog will figure out to start swimming upstream of his target before or after our new friend learns river etiquette.
     It was then that I realized why he'd come.  Any old hand at anything will tell you that the lessons never stop, no matter how many decades you have in.  Thursday's might have seemed trivial in another context, but even then as I smiled and committed it to memory, I knew it wouldn't be forgotten.

Never tie a nail knot angry.

~ ~ ~

* Very similar to Emeril's but substituting a healthy sprinkling of curry for the paprika and cayenne in the dry rub and adding a small can of tomato soup after pouring the stock over the meat and veggies.

**My Grandfather fished with E.C. when he had his shop on C Street in Marysville and had him build rods for himself, my uncle and my dad.  He always said E.C. could catch fish between your legs.  And yes, looking at that sentence all these years later does make me a little curious about what kind of trout they were after up there.
   

   





Saturday, October 18, 2014

Yeah, I know the way to San Jose and it's f#@king FAR!!

~ I've been finding it hard to root for the 49ers this year.  There have been moments (in the Chiefs and Eagles games) where I found myself hoping the other team would score.

Thinking about this, I've come to the realization that this new ambivalence could be geopolitically based.  I've lived on the peninsula.  That's a red state, brothers and sisters.  Go to a basketball game at Maples sometime and look around in the non-student sections.  You'll see what I mean.

The auslander owners of the Niners abandoning our fair city but still attempting to leverage its visual and cultural cache as their franchise's identity and mystique is a grubby little ruse and adds infuriating insult to the injury.  Obviously, the Dumbarton Bridge is not the Golden Gate, we get it, but that's kind of the point, isn't it?

There is a distinct and unquestionable cultural boost to playing professional sports in San Francisco. We've seen it again and again with both the 49ers and, more recently, with the Giants. Huey Lewis and the News singing the anthem, Robin Williams, RIP, gassing up the crowd, Steve Perry hanging off a railing pantomiming "When the Lights Go Down in the CIty" and Tony Bennett describing precisely what the Niners have done with their heart as an organization are all as intimately "San Francisco", the cultural borders of which, arguably, extend through Marin Country to the north, as Rice-A-Roni and assless chaps.  SF also boasts a fan base that won't flee their seats during a close game to avoid a sunburn.

Remember when Josh Hamilton complained about all the weed he was smelling in the outfield during the Giants march to the title in the 2010 Series? Admit it, we all took that, and the championship, as a cultural victory over all Texans, but especially the followers of those demagogues of ignorance and bad pants the Bushies and Rick Perry and Ted Cruz, right?  Try bustin' out your green at Levi's Stadium sometime. Those South Bay cops don't fool around, trust me.

It's easy to blame Gavin Newsome for losing the Niners by linking the new stadium to his crack-addled scheme to turn Hunter's Point into a yuppie Shangri-La, but the truth of the matter is that the Youngstown mob either didn't have a Larry Baer figure in the mix, or didn't want one.  Had anyone with one tenth of Larry's resolve to keep the franchise in the city had any Yorky ears back then, the team would still be playing in town.

So, in the spirit of the great Mr. Baer, I've been thinking about putting together a kickstarter campaign to raise one million dollars, which would fund a committee of San Francisco civic and business leaders researching,drafting and campaigning for a bond issue to make San Francisco the second U.S. city, after Green Bay Wisconsin to own it's own NFL franchise, the profits from which, would go to making the public schoolchildren of San Francisco the best-fed, best-taught and most supported public students in the world and to guarantee that every graduate of every public high school in the city would have the tuition money she or he needed to attend college.
(see Tangelo Park, Fla.)

The team could play in ATT park or a restored Kezar (how cool would that be?) while a new stadium was built.  The numbers don't lie.  NFL franchises are one of the best investments on earth even with the expense of a stadium factored in.

 San Francisco's children would be reaping the benefits for generations to come, and any left over money could be used to address other civic issues - homelessness, mental health, affordable housing.  You know, blue state stuff.

This committee could also look into whether it's possible for the city to claw back the name and colors from the current Ohio ownership group since their move makes them the NFL franchise playing the farthest, by twenty miles, from their name city, and the only one that actually plays and practices closer to another, larger, metropolitan area.  San Jose Raiders, anyone?  Is there any doubt that Marc Davis and his kin should sell that franchise for the good of all mankind?

The Doobie Brothers, Smashmouth, Asbestos Death and, on special occasions, the fabulous Miss Dionne Warwick should be firing up the South Bay crowd on game days, not Huey and Tony and Steve.

With all due respect to the great Alfred Korzybsky, sometimes the map IS the territory.

Thursday, August 28, 2014

It's Not Playing Hooky if the Giants Win

 
It’s nine o’clock on a warm, bright spring Thursday morning in Fairfax, California. The dew has already dried off the shady spots in the yard and two blue jays and a mockingbird are putting up a squawky production of West Side Story on the back patio. I’m getting ready to call my daughter’s elementary school. As she eyeballs me archly over her grapefruit, I'm thinking up an excuse.
   Last night, Lily and I watched the Cincinnati Reds beat the Giants 7-5. We’d had fun. It had been a balmy night. We caught a ball at batting practice. She made her first solo trip to the Coke bottle slide. She’s seven. I know, it sounds crazy, and I was nervous, but she was firm about it, and earlier this year she went to the hot dog stand by herself and she knows each level of the ballpark well, so I told her that if she even thought she was lost to show her ticket to an usher, wrote our sect. and row on her hand, took a deep breath, and watched her go. I thought I saw her roll her eyes as she started up the stairs.
   An inning later, she sidled down our row accepting high fives and sat down next to me with a prideful smirk. “How was it?” I asked her.
   “Fine,” she said, “Can I have a malt now?” 
   I pulled her glove out of the backpack. “In a bit. Watch the game.”
   

Taking Lily to a ballgame had once been mainly an exercise in snack management. That all changed last year during game two of the divisional series with the Mets. Literally as I watched, that October evening, my little girl became a baseball fan. Over the course of those ten innings her conversation evolved from “Where’s the cotton candy guy?” to “Oh my God Dad! How many times does Marvin Benard get to bat?” The drama of that game completely overtook her, and when J.T. Snow homered in the bottom of the ninth to tie the game, like everyone else in the park, she went completely berserk. On the way out of the park that night, she had even given me a small lecture about being too hard on Armando Rios for getting thrown out at third with two out. “He was only trying to win Dad”.
  So it was that when Eric Davis grounded to third Wednesday night to seal the Cincinnati victory, she sat down with an impressive thud and her glove over her face. “That guy is such a slow runner.”  
  We had also been at the ballpark Tuesday night to watch Sean Casey single-handedly dismantle Livan Hernandez and the Giants 9-5. That made three losses in a row for us dating back to the Mets playoff. We were beginning to feel like a jinx.
   I was finishing up my scorecard when they announced that the series ender would be played at twelve thirty-five on Thursday. “Why are they playing so early tomorrow?” Lily asked.
  “It’s getaway day
  “What’s that?”
  “That’s the day the Reds leave town. They

play the game early so they can catch an early flight.”
  “Who’s pitching?” 
  “Ortiz.”
  “Are the Giants going to win?” 

  “I don’t’ know. I hope so.” 
  “Can we go?”
  “What about school?”
  “I wanna see the Giants win.” 

  “Yeah, me too.”
  We drove quietly up Third Street to Kearny, turned left on Broadway and then traffic held us up at Columbus. Lily noticed the girls mincing around outside the Garden of Eden. “Wow dad, look at her shoes.”
  “Oh yeah.” They were eight-inch plexiglas platforms.
  “Who is she?”
  “I don’t know, honey.” 

  “Does she work there?” 
  “I guess, poor kid.” 
  “Why do you say that?” 
  “I don’t know.”
  “She looks happy, dad.”


  I dial the phone. “Brookside School.”
  “Hi Marilyn. It’s Dave Burns, Lily’s dad”
  “Hello.”
  “Lily has a dentist appointment in The City today.” If I tell the truth, the school loses funding on her for the day.
  Thirty-five minutes later we’re parking on Townsend down past the train station. I get our scooters out of the back, strap on the backpack and we’re off. We cruise to the stadium working the scalpers on each corner 'til we arrive in Willie Mays Plaza, still without tickets. There's a guy leaning on a palm tree I recognize as the partner of one of the scalpers we'd passed on the way in.  He's there buying tickets from fans who've made it all the way to the ballpark without selling and are about to go into the park, the absolute bottom of any ticket's theoretical pre-game price curve. “What’ve you got?”, I ask.
  “How many you need?”
  “Two. Good ones.”
  “I got clubs.” He means the AAA Club section. Thirty-eight bucks face value, but he paid way less. This is the second level, below the luxury boxes and broadcast booths. You get a nice perspective on the game from that level, and if you’re on the first base side (sec. 211 and up) you get that great view of the Bay Bridge and the East Bay hills.

  “What section?”
  “Two-ten, Row B.” They’re nice seats, second row right above the Visitors’ on deck circle.
  “How much?”
  “Seventy-five each”
  “I’ll give you forty.” The game Wednesday

night was the first non-sellout ever at Pac Bell. The Reds aren’t exactly tearing up the league this year, and Griffey’s on the DL.
  “Gimme a hundred and they’re yours.” I look at Lily. She looks up at me.
  “Whaddya think?” I ask her. She shrugs and looks at the guy. What a gamer she is. You really can’t coach that. “I think we’ll cruise up the street,” I offer.
  “Look, you got your little girl here and all...gimme ninety.”
  “Thanks, we’ll be back.”  Lily and I roll to the other side of the plaza. I stop and hand her seventy-five bucks. She folds it up, palms it and skates back over to the guy. As they talk, he keeps looking around for me, but I’m hiding behind the program stand. Lily’s just standing there, squinting up at the guy. He laughs and hands her the tickets. She passes him the dough and skates back over with a big smile on her little mug. 
  It’s now ten twenty-five. The gates open two hours before game time. We’ve got ten minutes. We push off for the second street gate. The line’s always shorter there.

  The average fan today thinks ticket prices have, like player salaries, spiraled out of control. In our world, two choice seats for a big league game for less than the cost of a dinner date is a sweet deal.

  The gates open and the herd heads for the ramp. I’m not sure about the design theory behind them but, essentially, the ramps are a way to make thirty thousand people walk a half-mile to go up one floor. At each switchback, you become more incredulous that you haven’t arrived anywhere yet, and there are a lot of switchbacks. Lily and I duck into the stairwell just past the turnstile, climb two flights of stairs, and we’re in the ballpark.  “Dad, where’s my glove?” I fish it out of the backpack and she’s off, running down the stairs toward the left field corner.
  That moment when you’re standing in the shadows of the arcade and first see the field is visual drama of the very best kind. I used to think it was one of those perfect things, and I guess it still is, but, when your small child comes bouncing into frame, glove held high, running down to the field to be the first one on the wall for batting practice, well, it’s even better, trust me.
  A seven-year-old girl in Gigantes swag standing alone behind the short left field sidewall in Pac Bell Park is a serious ball magnet. Our single day record is four balls. We come away from BP today with one from the Giants and one from the Reds. People are generally amazed at how many balls Lily and I get. It’s no big mystery. Anybody following a few simple rules should be able to do almost as well as we do:
1. Get there first. There’s really no substitute for good positioning when it comes to shagging batted balls, and being the first fans on the wall not only means you get the most productive spot, but also gives you a strong chance on any ball given up by a player in your area until it starts to get crowded.
2. Dress for success. Kids, especially girls, wearing team colors get most of the balls handed over by players, especially early on before the wall fills up. Once the home team finishes batting practice, there is no shame in changing into a hat or jacket featuring the visiting team’s colors and logo. A lone Padres hat in a sea of orange and black is a compelling sight for any San Diego player, and there is certainly no dishonor in, after getting a ball from an opposing player, switching your kid back into her Giants hat and giving him a “Hey Giles, PSYCH!!” That is some serious fun for the whole family.  
  Lily got her first ball from Mark Gardner of the Giants before a game when she was about 20 months old because her old man had on a worn out Giants lid at Dodger Stadium.  Gardy placed the horsehide gently in her tiny hands and when he turned back to the field, she threw it back at him.  Like I said, gamer.
3. Don’t beg. There are few things more annoying than the terrible puling racket made by kids begging and pleading for every ball hit to any player within fifty yards of them. “Over HEERE!! PLEEEEASE!! FEEEEELIX!! Hey, it just doesn’t work, ok? Lily has been handed balls by players in the middle of a bunch of screaming kids simply by keeping her mouth shut and smiling at the dude. This rule applies to parents also. I remember a guy who, after showing up well after the wall was crowded, found a place to jam his small kids, and then complained every time somebody else caught a ball around them. “Aw, give the kids a chance”, he would whine. Then, whenever anybody on the wall got a ball, he tried to get his or her spot. “C’mon, you got one, give somebody else a chance”, he’d wail. Finally, a ball came his way. He was standing up the steps a few feet and a soft liner came right at him. He totally flinched, made a short-armed flail at the ball, and one of the guys on the wall reached back and made a nice barehanded catch. “You took it right out of my glove”, the guy says.
  First of all, these kids had no business on the wall by themselves. They were like, six or seven. They had more chance of catching a ball in the eye than making any kind of play on one. Secondly, there is no rule of ballpark etiquette that says you can’t get two (or more) balls at batting practice. If you are in the park early enough to get a great spot, it’s yours. If you’re late, tough beans, better luck next time. Thirdly, make a play, meat, or pipe down.
4. Back your kid(s) up. Stay close to them, and keep your eye on the cage. A good Pac Bell rule of thumb is; if they can reach the dirt inside the wall with their feet on the ground in the stands, they’ve got a shot. Otherwise, stand next to them (preferably inside them) so you can catch or knock down any dangerous balls. Obviously this applies to the sidewalls, not necessarily the bleachers. In the bleachers, athletic ten-year-olds might be cool by themselves, but it’s really a judgement call.
  If there are two adults in your party, bracket the kids in the middle. That way, other ballhawks won’t reach in front of them. I’ve seen balls soft- tossed to little kids intercepted gleefully by reasonably well-balanced middle-agers, and since most everybody’s about six when a major league baseball’s coming at them (look at the faces sometime) it’s tough to complain about it especially if your kid’s the one who lost out. That would be whining.

  When the grounds crew starts dismantling the cage and the Reds run off the field, it’s time to eat. We walk up the aisle into the Second Street corner. Lily prefers the polish dog from Doggie Diner, with ketchup. I go for the Sheboygan Bratwurst across the hall. It comes grilled to a crisp on the same flat grill that caramelizes its kraut and onions. Truly a magnificent dog.  Alternatively, I'll go for a Cha Cha Bowl at Orlando's in the Center Field Arcade and a combination of the six or seven kinds of hot and barbecue sauces they feature, and we usually grab a mid-innings strawberry shortcake from the vendor behind home plate on the club level.

  We occasionally find empty seats close by to occupy while we eat but, usually, we eat standing up, and more often than not, walking. There is something uniquely ballpark about stuffing a huge wiener into your face while you saunter through a crowd. No one looks at you twice, and the debris falls at your feet, not in your lap.
  We walk over to the Coke machines between the kids’ Baseball Park and the slide. There, you can buy for a dollar-fifty, the sodas that cost four- fifty at the concession stands. Batting practice usually ends forty-five minutes to an hour before the game.
  Giants fans are a late-arriving crowd, but to their credit, they are not, for the most part, an early-leaving crowd like their counterparts in Los Angeles. I will never understand the urge to beat the traffic away from a stadium at the cost of missing the end of a close ballgame, especially when just sitting for ten minutes listening to Tony Bennett and watching the place empty out while your kids comb the section for cell phones and folding money accomplishes the same thing.

  But, I digress. Lily hasn’t missed a beat. She has completed her fifth or sixth trip down the slide, and now it’s time to play ball. The little park for the kids (it’s in left field next to the slide) is really cool. It’s fantasy whiffle ball like you always imagined it. After a short wait in line, Lily picks out a bat and strides to the plate. The pitcher is a lanky kid about thirteen. He’s shown good control but a limited repertoire. His only pitch is an underhand fastball, but he gets it over most of the time. Lily looks at me for a sign. I give her the “swing-away” and she steps into the box.

  The first pitch is a belt-high lob on the inside corner. Lily cranks it off the left field wall for a double. She runs through my “hold up” sign, passes the kid on third and scores standing up as there’s nobody catching at the moment. I give her a high-five and her soda, and we head for our seats. “Good job”, I say.
  “Home run”, she counters.  I put my hands on her shoulders and walk her into the stream of fans heading back toward the infield. She moves ahead of me through the thickening crowd back toward the third base sections, half skipping, half dancing, and I feel this goony smile take over my face. The goony thing about it is that I can’t seem to make it go away.

  I follow her into another empty stairway and up to the club level. The crowd seems much less interesting and San Francisco up here, but it could be me. Lily doesn’t seem to notice and as we cut in front of the broadcast booths and into the first base side of the park, I see that same goony smile on each usher she skips past.  The seats are truly great. Lily settles in finishing her dog and checking for dessert vendors and I get my folder out of the backpack and pull out a blank scorecard.

  I never kept score before Lily. She was born in Los Angeles, and before she was a year old, she had been to a dozen games at Chavez Ravine. It’s a great place to see a ballgame. You can almost always scalp very reasonable tickets right outside the park on Sunset Blvd, and the balmy summer night games there are a true treat for the senses. Also, they sing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" twice and everybody really jumps on that second chorus. Major goosebumps time.  
  I always felt like I was behind enemy lines there, but Lily was a true blue Dodger fan. She loved Mike Piazza like a big brother, up until the moment he walked right past her on picture day. Still, when they traded him to the Marlins, she was the most outraged three-year-old in Southern California.
  I never worried about the affiliation because: A.) It’s a free country. She can root for whomever she wants, and B.) A Dodger fan can always turn into a Giant fan, even if no Giant fan has or will ever become a Dodger fan.
  My scorekeeping made its initial awkward evolutions during those years in L.A. Most fans consider scorekeeping an arcane practice. “I don’t know how you do that and keep track of the game” is something I’ve heard more than a few times. Well, actually, the whole point of keeping score is to keep track of the game. Unless you’re keeping score, you probably don’t know what the current batter did last time up, or how many strikeouts the pitcher has, unless you’re wearing a headset, which is cool, I guess, but a real conversation killer.
  “You should try it with a two-year-old”, I usually say with a smirk at Lily. When she was really small, our rule was that we would sit wherever in Dodger Stadium she wanted, but we could only change three times per game, and we would always come back to the lower level by the top of the eighth. Some of my favorite memories of those years are of craning to see a TV as I carried her and our refreshments up or down a Dodger Stadium escalator and marked a scorecard with an (in memory) inexplicably free hand.
  My scoring has by now, of course, evolved to the ridiculous. Using red, blue, green yellow orange, purple and black pens I keep track of every pitch, red dots for strikes, blue for balls, gold for fouls, black lines of varying lengths according to the base thrown to for pick-off attempts. I catalog everything Lily eats, and I color in all runs scored with a the remaining colors sequentially, beginning with orange. Multiple double-switches are never a problem.
  It’s 12:15. Twenty minutes ‘til game time. We have water, sunflower seeds, which we will spend long sections of the game spitting at each other, and an Abba Zabba each. The midday sun has bleached and hardened with equal effect the East Bay hills and the vendors barking up and down the aisles. The grounds crew fastidiously connects the third base line with the batter’s box. I sideways spitrocket a sunflower shell off the brim of Lily’s hat and reach into the backpack for my pens. The fog has burned off the bay.  What a great day for a ballgame. 

Saturday, May 31, 2014

Lower Yuba River Fishing Report

      I've been out on the river 6 of the last 10 evenings and it's been dry fly heaven.  The fish have been devouring Pink Lady #16's and then caddis patterns late in the dusk, and I can honestly say it has been the best sustained stretch of dry fly fishing I've ever had. Not even close really. This fish pictured is from earlier in the spring, during the spawn before daylight savings time when I was getting out more midday and swinging nymphs. I've caught bigger fish recently, but none so pretty.  The males pimp up real solid when it's time to get down. I'm out away from the banks fishing now and it's harder to take good pictures of netted fish.  Especially when you're by yourself.
     Although I'm curious, I haven't been inclined lately to get out early and swing any nymphs or soft hackles to see what's working during the day. I'm already feeling guilty about hooking so many fish in the same spot in so few days fishing just the evening hatches.  I'm going to go exploring tomorrow.  Seems like it's the boily slicks where they're spread out to feed at the moment, and that probably won't change through the summer and early fall until the Salmon come in October/November and the trout push up under the riffles to eat eggs - another great time to fish. Damn. It's a embarrassment of slimy riches up here.
    I've recently returned to Sutter County to care for my uncle, Mr. Jack Swift. Jack is a prince of a guy and was a big influence for me coming up.  Hung with The Diggers in the Haight pre-summer of love, and he and his friends were my first inkling that there was another, better, more beautiful and funny way to live than the one I was getting shoved into by my folks.  By the time I was 15, he had turned me onto Freddy King, Albert King, Taj Mahal, Otis Redding, John Coltrane, Albert Collins, Jimi Hendrix, Cream and much much more essential roots groove music while we got BAKED at his spot in Sutter, ca. 1970.
    My dad (who had some Count Basie and Ray Charles, Ella, Louis, Nancy Wilson and Stan Getz records laced in with the Streisand and Walter Wonderly, Andy Wiulliams and Tijuana Brass) thinks the weed is what made me a goofy late teen.  I think it was the 15-20 concussions I gave myself playing football.  We'll never agree, but the science is on my side. Anyway, Jack made me promise that if I came up here to look after him, I'd go fishing every chance I got. Even loaned me his 9' Powell Rod. Like I said, a prince.
   It's ridiculous to me that there is such a top flight fishery so close - 19 miles -  to where I grew up and I'm only getting to know it now, forty years later.  As teenagers, we figured it was too close to town to be any good and we'd drive by it on our way to the high country small streams.  I wouldn't trade my creek decades for anything, especially the last couple with the evil spawn girl (aka the best fishing buddy EVER!), and I've been big river scared a couple times in there, but right now I like it even better than the Pit and the McCloud and the Upper Sac when it's bangin', and those have been my favorite NorCal rivers forever.  Never been a big fan of boat fishing so, although it's unquestionably top western water, the Lower Sac never appealed to me that much.
    My routine is, I see if Lance (Uncle Jack's Aussie Shepard) wants to get in the car around 6 or 6:30, stop by Johnson's bait and tackle over on Garden Highway for leader or flies, if needed, and I'm usually hiking in by 6:30 or 7.  It's a bit of a walk to the spot, but I'm usually in the water by 7 or 7:30 and often have a fish on right away, even before I've seen any rises. By 8:45, I've been through the PED and caddis hatches and there are trout jumping all around me as I fish my way back across to the rockbar where I hit the river.
    I make long casts 45 degrees upstream and do a couple of flip mends to fix the drift until the fly starts throwing a wake and I have as much line out as I want. Then I skate the fly back toward me by raising the rod and pulling in line. I let it dead drift downstream, throwing stack mends as I watch it bounce, fly first, away from me downstream, then I raise the rod, skate it back and drift it down 3 or 4 times through different feeding lanes and then I make another long cast 45 degrees upstream, starting the whole process over.
    Most of the rises happen straight across or downstream, with many coming during the successive skates and dead drifts more or less straight downstream from wherever I'm standing.  It's a pretty simple technique once you get used to handling a as much line as you need.
    It's a big river. Often I'm surprised at how big a fish is when I get it to the net. They don't look that big when they're jumping at the end of a long line hookup in that big water.  If they look like they have any size at all when they're making their runs and jumps, you know they're in the 18 to 22 inch range.  They all fight like crazy though.  I've had 13, 14 inch fish get the really curly line off the bottom of the reel and onto the water two or three times in a couple of minutes. Chrome Dynamite is what they are, no joke, and they're all indigenous, wild fish.
   I haven't caught a hatchery fish yet, although I've heard there are some in there. There's a zero limit on the natives and the wild andronomous (seagoing) fish, so they all go right back in the river, which probably has a lot to do with why it's so good.  The smaller ones look so tasty though, it's hard not to think about eating 'em. There are got plenty of places up higher in the mountains to find pan-sized non-native species (German Browns) for the frying pan.  Hit one last weekend.  It was still high. Probably will be for another month or so. I guess that last snowstorm did more good than I heard. We're still deep in a drought though. We just had our driest winter since 1976-77!
   If the evenings stay this good down here through the summer, I'm going to have to scout out a lot of new spots to keep 'em all fresh. I figure I've hooked 40 or 50 fish in the last 10 days (6 trips) fishing for, on the average, about an hour and a half per evening.  Easily two thirds of those fish have been 14" and above.  Like I said, best dry fly action ever.
   Truth be told, though, that's probably too many. 3 nice fish broke me off tonight. On the first one I kept casting with a knot in my leader. I feel horrible about that one in particular.  The other 2 made long runs and broke off while I was giving them line.  There's a popular myth that hooks rust and fall out in a couple days. Not true. Studies have shown that even barbless hooks left in stripers took a from a week to several months to come out on their own. Sobering.  I'm switching to 4x tomorrow.

Friday, December 16, 2011

FILTHY RICH BEGGARS

How 'bout we just lay out the facts on this one.

1.  America's most profitable multi-nationals have $1.4 TRILLION (that they're admitting to - there is most likely scads more) sitting offshore in tax havens from Ireland to the Caymans.

2.  These companies (mainly tech and pharmaceutical companies, including Google, Apple, Cisco Systems, Merck, etc.) would like to "repatriate" this money.  This means, they'd like to bring it into the United States.

3.   The companies have banded together as the "Win America Coalition" and hired 160 lobbyists to convince congress to give them a one time "Tax Holiday" so that they may bring this money into the U.S. at a 5% rate of taxation instead of the 35% the law currently says they will have to pay.

4.  The Win America Coalition has recruited top economists, including UC Berkeley Professor Laura Tyson, a former Clinton administration economist, and Douglas Holtz-Eakin, past director of the Congressional Budget Office and adviser to McCain during his 2008 presidential run, to show Senators and Members of Congress how a tax holiday would inject hundreds of billions of dollars into the economy and create jobs. (Carolyn Lockhhead - SF Chronicle 10.15.11)

5.  Senators John McCain (R-AZ) and Kay Hagan (D-SC) have introduced the "Foreign Earnings Reinvestment Act", sponsored by, among others, our own Barbara Boxer.  The McCain/Hagans position paper on the bill bemoans the fact that this poor, unfortunate money is "trapped" in offshore banks, shell companies, and tax havens.

6.  These "Win America" tax dodgers are the same companies that received the "Boxer Tax Holiday" (Go Barb!) in 2004, which coincidentally dropped their effective tax rates on repatriated money to the very same 5% they are asking for today and "gifted" them $315 BILLION (17% of Total US 2004 Tax Revenue).  So it's not really a one time thing, more like a two times in 7 years thing.

7.  Independent tax analysts have widely panned the idea. Numerous academic studies of the 2004 tax holiday showed that the companies spent most of the money they brought back on shareholder dividends, stock buybacks and executive pay. (ibid)

8.   Interest groups as disparate as the conservative Heritage Foundation and the liberal Citizens for Tax Justice strongly oppose another tax holiday, in part because of evidence that the last one encouraged multinationals to SEND more of their earnings overseas, in anticipation of another tax holiday. (ibid)  This means that a lot of this money is actually domestic profits that have been DEPATRIATED through tax evasions such as the "Double Irish" and the "Dutch Sandwich".

9.  Senator Carl Levin published a study this week, which shows that companies receiving the 2004 Tax Holiday actually eliminated over 20,000 U.S. jobs between 2004 & 2007. For those of you who don't remember, that was when the economy was "good".

10.  The difference in tax revenue to the federal government between the 35% tax rate currently required by law and the 5% tax rate sought by the "Win America Coalition" (lord), is $416 BILLION.

11.  The total federal tax revenue for the U.S. in 2010 was $2.3 TRILLION, which means that "Win America" wants the federal government to gift them monies that would represent an 18% addition to total tax revenue collected in 2010.

12.   The total federal deficit for 2011 is $1.3 TRILLION, which means that "Win America" wants the federal government to gift them monies that if collected would cut 32% off the 2011 federal deficit.

13.  The fact that this money is only now being brought forward means that our national accounting systems and the figures they produce, Gross National Product, for example, are pretty much meaningless.  For example, our 2010 Gross National Product, which includes the foreign revenue of domestic corporations was actually LESS than our Gross Domestic Product, which doesn't include foreign revenue (15.27 TRILLION to $15.35 TRILLION)!

If we can't trust that our most basic barometers of economic performance are accurate, then what are we to make of the decisions being made on the basis of those barometers?

The inequities and loopholes in our tax system have created this ridiculous scenario. We've got to pretty much toss that thing and start from scratch, but for now, let's send these home-grown, double-reverse carpetbaggers a loud and lusty "Oh HELL no!"

This bill is still in committee. The only petition we can find is one asking Apple Computer to "Think Responsibly" and end it's involvement in this lobbying effort.  As the bill nears a vote, we will post links.




Monday, December 5, 2011

Part 4 - PSYCHE!

In case you missed the latest chapter in the Obamacare saga, it is a doozy.

We all sighed and moaned when the sketches of the particulars were released after the bill was signed into law.  Having to buy private insurance.  Having to?  That's was the answer?  We all expected some concessions to the insurance industry, but this was ridiculous.

What wasn't included in those sketches, perhaps intentionally, perhaps not, was a provision that the insurance companies spend at least 80% of their premium revenue from individual plans and 85% of premium revenue from large group policies on medical expenses.

This week, the government defined what could be classified as a "medical expense".  Insurers wished to remove commissions paid to salespeople from the equation altogether.  The Department of Health and Human Services this week issued its ruling on how the insurers must account for their expenses, and sales commissions will be classified as administrative costs and will count against the 15% or 20% of non-medical expenses allowed under the bill.

Mr. Rick Unger immediately published an article in Forbes calling this ruling the death knell for the for profit insurance industry as the level of profit that would result from this new metric would not be enough to sustain the interest of shareholders and officers of the big insurance companies.  Then, Sara Kliff published an article at the Washington Post questioning Mr. Unger's conclusions.  Then, Mr. Unger published another article saying "Nuh UHH!"  LOVE this stuff.

Whatever the outcome, this development, coming the same week the results of the Obama-engineered FIRST EVER audit of the Federal Reserve - you know, the one that discovered that $16 TRILLION in under the table cash payouts to all those banks and brokerages? - has got me thinking maybe I ought not to have been impuning Mr. Obama's testicles quite so vehemently over the past year.  Cat may actually have some moves!

We'll see....


Part 3 - SINGING BACKUP TO THE SUPREMES

We've been beating this drum for a while.

There is no precedent in American history which gives the Supreme Court final say on Constitutional issues.  This is a 200-year-old Fedralist argument which has been repeatedly rejected by every branch of government INCLUDING the Supreme Court since the days of Jefferson and Burr.  Still somehow today we find ourselves throwing our hands up in resignation as the current court issues blatantly biased ruling after ruling.

Here's an extremely important read from Larry Kramer, the dean of the Stanford Law School on this development, and what the Constitution and the settled law really say on the subject.

The idea of the other branches of government and/or the people taking on the Supremes is a time-honored one.  Teddy Roosevelt and FDR famously, and successfully, did it last century.  The most famous, and aggressive assault on a Supreme Court and their image of themselves as a sovereign entity, though, is Abraham Lincoln's speech on the Dred Scot decision by Chief Justice Taney's court which ruled that escaped slaves could not claim freedom by moving to free states, that they must still be considered the property of the slave owners from which they had escaped, and in fact did not even have standing to use the courts to sue for their freedom.

The speech follows in it's entirety below. I think it's time that Mr. Obama made one of these regarding the recent Supreme Court decisions on the 2000 Presidential vote in Florida, on the anti-lobbying legislation passed by Congress, and by the campaign finance regulations they struck down in Citizen United vs. The Federal Election Commission.

President Obama, as our first African-American president is the first Commander-in-Chief who could actually reference slavery or any of the arguments made against it in comparison to any other problem in America without worrying about being lambasted for it.

Remember that President Lincoln is going after not only his vanquished opponent, Stephen Douglas with this speech, but also against a sitting Supreme Court  It's a textbook example of how to rip someone a new one using logic, poetry, conviction, B**LS, and his own arguments.

Also, Don't be confused by this quote:
"We believe, as much as Judge Douglas, (perhaps more) in obedience to, and respect for the judicial department of government. We think its decisions on Constitutional questions, when fully settled, should control, not only the particular cases decided, but the general policy of the country, subject to be disturbed only by amendments of the Constitution as provided in that instrument itself."
By "settled" he means that the rulings have gone around the circuits and no one has screamed bloody murder, and there have been no POPULAR UPRISINGS, ect. Citizens United and all the freedoms granted and corporations ownership since 1980 are most definitely NOT even remotely well-settled, not to mention the The Fed's dumping $16 trillion down the gullet of the credit-swap beast to cover about 30 acres of fat banker ass.

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Abraham Lincoln:

June 26, 1857
Fellow citizens,
I am here tonight, partly by the invitation of some of you and partly by my own inclination. Two weeks ago Judge Douglas spoke here on the several subjects of Kansas, the Dred Scott decision and Utah. I listened to the speech at the time, and have read the report of it since. It was intended to controvert opinions which I think just, and to assail (politically, not personally,) those men who, in common with me, entertain those opinions. For this reason I wished then, and still wish, to make some answer to it, which I now take the opportunity of doing

And now as to the Dred Scott decision. That decision declares two propositions—first, that a negro cannot sue in the U.S. Courts; and secondly, that Congress cannot prohibit slavery in the Territories. It was made by a divided court, dividing differently on the different points. Judge Douglas does not discuss the merits of the decision and, in that respect, I shall follow his example believing I could no more improve on McLean and Curtis, than he could on Taney.

He denounces all who question the correctness of that decision, as offering violent resistance to it. But who resists it? Who has, in spite of the decision, declared Dred Scott free and resisted the authority of his master over him?

Judicial decisions have two uses: First, to absolutely determine the case decided and secondly, to indicate to the public how other similar cases will be decided when they arise. For the latter use they are called "precedents" and "authorities."

We believe, as much as Judge Douglas, (perhaps more) in obedience to and respect for the judicial department of government. We think its decisions on Constitutional questions, when fully settled, should control not only the particular cases decided but the general policy of the country subject to be disturbed only by amendments of the Constitution as provided in that instrument itself. More than this would be revolution. But we think the Dred Scott decision is erroneous. We know the court that made it has often over-ruled its own decisions and we shall do what we can to have it to over-rule this. We offer no resistance to it.

I have said, in substance, that the Dred Scott decision was, in part, based on assumed historical facts which were not really true and I ought not to leave the subject without giving some reasons for saying this. I therefore give an instance or two, which I think fully sustain me. Chief Justice Taney, in delivering the opinion of the majority of the Court, insists at great length that negroes were no part of the people who made, or for whom was made, the Declaration of Independence, or the Constitution of the United States.
On the contrary, Judge Curtis, in his dissenting opinion, shows that in five of the then thirteen states, to wit, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, New York, New Jersey and North Carolina, free negroes were voters and, in proportion to their numbers, had the same part in making the Constitution that the white people had. He shows this with so much particularity as to leave no doubt of its truth; and, as a sort of conclusion on that point, holds the following language:
"The Constitution was ordained and established by the people of the United States, through the action, in each State, of those persons who were qualified by its laws to act thereon in behalf of themselves and all other citizens of the State. In some of the States, as we have seen, colored persons were among those qualified by law to act on the subject. These colored persons were not only included in the body of ‘the people of the United States,’ by whom the Constitution was ordained and established; but in at least five of the States they had the power to act and, doubtless, did act by their suffrages upon the question of its adoption."
Again, Chief Justice Taney says:
"It is difficult, at this day, to realize the state of public opinion in relation to that unfortunate race, which prevailed in the civilized and enlightened portions of the world at the time of the Declaration of Independence and when the Constitution of the United States was framed and adopted." 
And again, after quoting from the Declaration, he says:
"The general words above quoted would seem to include the whole human family, and if they were used in a similar instrument at this day, would be so understood."
In these the Chief Justice does not directly assert but plainly assumes,as a fact that the public estimate of the black man is more favorable now than it was in the days of the Revolution. This assumption is a mistake. In some trifling particulars, the condition of that race has been ameliorated but, as a whole, in this country, the change between then and now is decidedly the other way and their ultimate destiny has never appeared so hopeless as in the last three or four years. In two of the five States, New Jersey and North Carolina, that then gave the free negro the right of voting, the right has since been taken away and in a third, New York, it has been greatly abridged, while it has not been extended, so far as I know, to a single additional State, though the number of the States has more than doubled. In those days, as I understand, masters could, at their own pleasure, emancipate their slaves but since then, such legal restraints have been made upon emancipation, as to amount almost to prohibition. In those days, Legislatures held the unquestioned power to abolish slavery, in their respective States but now it is becoming quite fashionable for State Constitutions to withhold that power from the Legislatures.

In those days, by common consent, the spread of the black man’s bondage to new countries was prohibited but now Congress decides that it will not continue the prohibition and the Supreme Court decides that it could not if it would. In those days our Declaration of Independence was held sacred by all, and thought to include all but now, to aid in making the bondage of the negro universal and eternal, it is assailed and sneered at and construed and hawked at, and torn, 'til if its framers could rise from their graves they could not at all recognize it. All the powers of earth seem rapidly combining against him. Mammon is after him; ambition follows, and philosophy follows, and the Theology of the day is fast joining the cry. They have him in his prison house; they have searched his person, and left no prying instrument with him. One after another they have closed the heavy iron doors upon him, and now they have him, as it were, bolted in with a lock of a hundred keys, which can never be unlocked without the concurrent of every key; the keys in the hands of a hundred different men, and they scattered to a hundred different and distant places; and they stand musing as to what invention, in all the dominions of mind and matter, can be produced to make the impossibility of his escape more complete than it is.

It is grossly incorrect to say or assume, that the public estimate of the negro is more favorable now than it was at the origin of the government.

Three years and a half ago, Judge Douglas brought forward his famous Nebraska bill. The country was at once in a blaze. He scorned all opposition, and carried it through Congress. Since then he has seen himself superseded in a Presidential nomination, by one indorsing the general doctrine of his measure, but at the same time standing clear of the odium of its untimely agitation and its gross breach of national faith and he has seen that successful rival Constitutionally elected not by the strength of friends but by the division of adversaries, being in a popular minority of nearly four hundred thousand votes. He has seen his chief aids in his own State, Shields and Richardson, politically speaking, successively tried, convicted and executed for an offense not their own, but his. And now he sees his own case standing next on the docket for trial.

There is a natural disgust in the minds of nearly all white people, to the idea of an indiscriminate amalgamation of the white and black races and Judge Douglas evidently is basing his chief hope, upon the chances of being able to appropriate the benefit of this disgust to himself. If he can, by much drumming and repeating, fasten the odium of that idea upon his adversaries, he thinks he can struggle through the storm. He therefore clings to this hope as a drowning man to the last plank. He makes an occasion for lugging it in from the opposition to the Dred Scott decision. He finds the Republicans insisting that the Declaration of Independence includes ALL men, black as well as white and forthwith he boldly denies that it includes negroes at all and proceeds to argue gravely that all who contend it does do so only because they want to vote and eat and sleep and marry with negroes! He will have it that they cannot be consistent else. Now I protest against that counterfeit logic which concludes that, because I do not want a black woman for a slave I must necessarily want her for a wife. I need not have her for either, I can just leave her alone. In some respects she certainly is not my equal; but in her natural right to eat the bread she earns with her own hands without asking leave of any one else, she is my equal and the equal of all others.

Chief Justice Taney, in his opinion in the Dred Scott case, admits that the language of the Declaration is broad enough to include the whole human family, but he and Judge Douglas argue that the authors of that instrument did not intend to include negroes, by the fact that they did not at once actually place them on an equality with the whites. Now this grave argument comes to just nothing at all by the other fact that they did not at once, or ever afterwards, actually place all white people on an equality with one or another. And this is the staple argument of both the Chief Justice and the Senator for doing this obvious violence to the plain unmistakable language of the Declaration.

I think the authors of that notable instrument intended to include all men but they did not intend to declare all men equal in all respects. They did not mean to say all were equal in color, size, intellect, moral developments or social capacity. They defined with tolerable distinctness, in what respects they did consider all men created equal—equal in "certain inalienable rights, among which are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." This they said, and this meant. They did not mean to assert the obvious untruth, that all were then actually enjoying that equality, nor yet, that they were about to confer it immediately upon them. In fact they had no power to confer such a boon. They meant simply to declare the right, so that the enforcement of it might follow as fast as circumstances should permit. They meant to set up a standard maxim for free society, which should be familiar to all, and revered by all; constantly looked to, constantly labored for, and even though never perfectly attained, constantly approximated, and thereby constantly spreading and deepening its influence, and augmenting the happiness and value of life to all people of all colors everywhere.

The assertion that "all men are created equal" was of no practical use in effecting our separation from Great Britain; and it was placed in the Declaration, not for that, but for future use. Its authors meant it to be, thank God, it is now proving itself a stumbling block to those who in after times might seek to turn a free people back into the hateful paths of despotism. They knew the proneness of prosperity to breed tyrants and they meant when such should re-appear in this fair land and commence their vocation they should find left for them at least one hard nut to crack.

I have now briefly expressed my view of the meaning and objects of that part of the Declaration of Independence which declares that "all men are created equal."
Now let us hear Judge Douglas’ view of the same subject, as I find it in the printed report of his late speech. Here it is:
"No man can vindicate the character, motives and conduct of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, except upon the hypothesis that they referred to the white race alone, and not to the African, when they declared all men to have been created equal—that they were speaking of British subjects on this continent being equal to British subjects born and residing in Great Britain—that they were entitled to the same inalienable rights, and among them were enumerated life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. The Declaration was adopted for the purpose of justifying the colonists in the eyes of the civilized world in withdrawing their allegiance from the British crown, and dissolving their connection with the mother country."
My good friends, read that carefully over some leisure hour, and ponder well upon it. See what a mere wreck, mangled ruin, it makes of our once glorious Declaration.
"They were speaking of British subjects on this continent being equal to British subjects born and residing in Great Britain!" Why, according to this, not only negroes but white people outside of Great Britain and America are not spoken of in that instrument. The English, Irish and Scotch, along with white Americans, were included, to be sure, but the French, Germans and other white people of the world are all gone to pot along with the Judge’s inferior races.

I had thought the Declaration promised something better than the condition of British subjects but, no, it only meant that we should be equal to them in their own oppressed and unequal condition. According to that, it gave no promise that having kicked off the King and Lords of Great Britain we should not at once be saddled with a King and Lords of our own.
I had thought the Declaration contemplated the progressive improvement in the condition of all men everywhere but, no, it merely "was adopted for the purpose of justifying the colonists in the eyes of the civilized world in withdrawing their allegiance from the British crown and dissolving their connection with the mother country." Why, that object having been effected some eighty years ago, the Declaration is of no practical use now—mere rubbish—old wadding left to rot on the battle-field after the victory is won.

I understand you are preparing to celebrate the "Fourth" tomorrow week. What for? The doings of that day had no reference to the present and quite half of you are not even descendants of those who were referred to at that day. But I suppose you will celebrate and will even go so far as to read the Declaration. Suppose after you read it once in the old fashioned way you read it once more with Judge Douglas’ version. It will then run thus: "We hold these truths to be self-evident that all British subjects who were on this continent eighty-one years ago were created equal to all British subjects born and then residing in Great Britain."

And now I appeal to all Democrats as well as others; are you really willing that the Declaration shall be thus frittered away, thus left no more at most, than an interesting memorial of the dead past, thus shorn of its vitality, and practical value; and left without the germ or even the suggestion of the individual rights of man in it?

But Judge Douglas is especially horrified at the thought of the mixing blood by the white and black races: agreed for once—a thousand times agreed. There are white men enough to marry all the white women, and black men enough to marry all the black women; and so let them be married. On this point we fully agree with the Judge; and when he shall show that his policy is better adapted to prevent amalgamation than ours we shall drop ours, and adopt his. Let us see. In 1850 there were in the United States, 405,751, mulattoes. Very few of these are the offspring of whites and free blacks; nearly all have sprung from black slaves and white masters. A separation of the races is the only perfect preventive of amalgamation but as all immediate separation is impossible the next best thing is to keep them apart where they are not already together.

If white and black people never get together in Kansas, they will never mix blood in Kansas. That is at least one self-evident truth. A few free colored persons may get into the free States, in any event; but their number is too insignificant to amount to much in the way of mixing blood. In 1850 there were in the free states, 56,649 mulattoes; but for the most part they were not born there—they came from the slave States, ready made up. In the same year the slave States had 348,874 mulattoes all of home production. The proportion of free mulattoes to free blacks—the only colored classes in the free states—is much greater in the slave than in the free states. It is worthy of note too, that among the free states those which make the colored man the nearest to equal the white, have, proportionally the fewest mulattoes the least of amalgamation. In New Hampshire, the State which goes farthest towards equality between the races, there are just 184 Mulattoes while there are in Virginia—how many do you think? 79,775, being 23,126 more than in all the free States together.

These statistics show that slavery is the greatest source of amalgamation; and next to it, not the elevation, but the degeneration of the free blacks. Yet Judge Douglas dreads the slightest restraints on the spread of slavery, and the slightest human recognition of the negro, as tending horribly to amalgamation.

This very Dred Scott case affords a strong test as to which party most favors amalgamation, the Republicans or the dear union-saving Democracy. Dred Scott, his wife and two daughters were all involved in the suit. We desired the court to have held that they were citizens so far at least as to entitle them to a hearing as to whether they were free or not; and then, also, that they were in fact and in law really free. Could we have had our way, the chances of these black girls, ever mixing their blood with that of white people, would have been diminished at least to the extent that it could not have been without their consent. But Judge Douglas is delighted to have them decided to be slaves, and not human enough to have a hearing, even if they were free, and thus left subject to the forced concubinage of their masters, and liable to become the mothers of mulattoes in spite of themselves—the very state of case that produces nine tenths of all the mulattoes—all the mixing of blood in the nation.

Of course, I state this case as an illustration only, not meaning to say or intimate that the master of Dred Scott and his family, or any more than a per centage of masters generally, are inclined to exercise this particular power which they hold over their female slaves.
I have said that the separation of the races is the only perfect preventive of amalgamation. I have no right to say all the members of the Republican party are in favor of this, nor to say that as a party they are in favor of it. There is nothing in their platform directly on the subject. But I can say a very large proportion of its members are for it, and that the chief plank in their platform—opposition to the spread of slavery—is most favorable to that separation.

Such separation, if ever effected at all, must be effected by colonization; and no political party, as such, is now doing anything directly for colonization. Party operations at present only favor or retard colonization incidentally. The enterprise is a difficult one; but "when there is a will there is a way;" and what colonization needs most is a hearty will. Will springs from the two elements of moral sense and self-interest. Let us be brought to believe it is morally right, and, at the same time, favorable to, or, at least, not against, our interest, to transfer the African to his native clime, and we shall find a way to do it, however great the task may be. The children of Israel, to such numbers as to include four hundred thousand fighting men, went out of Egyptian bondage in a body.

How differently the respective courses of the Democratic and Republican parties incidentally bear on the question of forming a will—a public sentiment—for colonization, is easy to see. The Republicans inculcate, with whatever of ability—they can, that the negro is a man; that his bondage is cruelly wrong, and that the field of his oppression ought not to be enlarged.
The Democrats deny his manhood; deny, or dwarf to insignificance, the wrong of his bondage; so far as possible, crush all sympathy for him, and cultivate and excite hatred and disgust against him; compliment themselves as Union-savers for doing so; and call the indefinite outspreading of his bondage "a sacred right of self-government."

The plainest print cannot be read through a gold eagle; and it will be ever hard to find many men who will send a slave to Liberia, and pay his passage while they can send him to a new country, Kansas for instance, and sell him for fifteen hundred dollars, and the rise.

Next - Part 4 - PSYCHE!