When I tell people I’m originally from California, the usual reaction is “oh that’s nice,” but their body language and facial expression tell another story. It’s the same look you get when you discover that missing package of hamburger meat a week after you left it in the trunk of your car. In the Summer.
I understand why. I live in a very Red town, in a very Red county, in a very Red state, in a very Red part of the country. During COVID, there was a big influx of Californians, Chicagoans, and New Yorkers, down south. It was at a BBQ contest in 2021 that I saw the first sign of trouble, a beer-bellied man sporting a tight T-shirt warning “Don’t California My Tennessee.” I wonder if he understood most of the Californians came to Tennessee BECAUSE it was “that” California?
“That” California is the exaggerated version we see parodied in movies, and on reality TV and FOX News. Certainly, there are Californians who do and are these things, much like there are some Southerners who watch NASCAR and fly the stars and bars. Some. Certainly not all. But I can attest that the California I grew up in was nothing like it is today.
I left California 42 years ago when I joined the Navy. I returned for a four-year tour in the late 1980s but left for good after that. I’ve visited a few times over the years but never think of it as “home.”
Growing up though, it was my home. My earliest memories are growing up in then somewhat rural Santa Ana. There were orange groves and strawberry fields everywhere. Orange County was new and clean and open. We lived on a street on a massive .10 of an acre lot. Massive by California neighborhood standards anyway. You could drive out 10 minutes and be in the local hills. The area was untouched. And just behind those hills, about 15 miles from home, was my happy place. The dump.
Because we lived on a .10 acre spread and had a big garage, my dad tended to collect a lot of shit. He worked in the salvage yard at Hughes Aircraft for a time and managed to bring stuff home every week. Desks, chairs, storage bins, racks, tools, and any other castoffs he could abscond with. Then, with .10 acres, there were always tree branches and other yard debris to collect. All of this piled up and so ever so often, dad would have my brother and I help him load up the truck and we headed off to the dump.
If the truck wasn’t totally full, he’d let us ride in the back. Most of the time, it was full, so we crowded in the cab with him, trying to breathe through a cloud of his cigarette smoke. Radio station KLAC would play old country hits from Merle Haggard and George Jones, and we’d be off.
The dump was located off a gravel road. A small sign marked its location. There were no scales or booths to check in. You just drove up a small hill to a plateau. On the edges were large piles of trash. You waited for a guy in a hard hat to point you to where to park with a small swagger stick he carried. I wanted to be that guy when I grew up. More than anything. I couldn’t imagine a better job at a better place. Dad backed the truck in and it was time to unload.
Besides the man with the stick, there was another guy who ran a bulldozer. It would dart in and out, pushing piles of trash away from the edge and down a hill. When the bulldozer was near, the ground would shake. My brother and I always thought that was fun.
Unloading was fun too, especially if we backed up where somebody left a bunch of windows. Then we could throw whatever was in the truck through them. Once the truck was emptied, my dad would look around to make sure the man with the stick was out of sight and then the real fun began.
The three of us would pilfer through the piles of yard waste, construction debris, and household garbage. It was a treasure hunt, and we’d often strike gold. When I was younger, it was old toys. As I got older, it was bicycle parts or even whole bikes. When my friend Buzz and I were 13, we found the score of a lifetime, a box of Playboy magazines. We couldn’t have been happier if we found the Holy Grail. We managed to sneak two of them past my dad and hid them in secret compartment we created using a false bottom in my sock drawer. A skill I still might need someday if I’m a prison inmate and want to hide contraband from the guards.
When we’d gone through enough trash, we’d load it up our haul and head home. Often, we left with as much stuff as brought. Once we went on the Monday of a three-day weekend. The dump was open, but nobody was working. We unloaded and then went on an hour-long treasure hunt. I remember thinking that this must be what Heaven is like. Or so I hoped.
It was on one of those trips home from the dump that my brother asked my dad what would happen when the dump was completely filled up.
“It will never be full,” he said. “It’s big enough to never get filled up.”
My brother was irritatingly curious though. He kept asking what would happen.
With building irritation in his voice, dad replied.
“Ok, well when the dump gets full, they’ll just fill it in and level it off and build houses on it. Then, one day when someone is digging a hole in the yard they’re gonna think they discovered buried treasure!”
But you know what? The dump eventually filled up. And just like all those orange groves and strawberry fields, it was covered over and replaced by homes. The California I grew up in is long gone as is that boy who scored those two Hugh Hefner treasures that contain articles I’m convinced nobody ever reads.
I’m also convinced that my dad’s prediction will one day come true. Maybe not in my lifetime, but perhaps 100 or so years from now. Somebody will do an excavation over what used to be residential neighborhoods.
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Bulldozers clear the thick, overgrown brush that covers the worksite. Scoops of brush are piled up and burned. Heavy equipment digs and grades the soil. It’s a chaotic scene.
Shortly before the whistle blows, ending the workday, the foreman guiding the backhoe driver yells loudly for the driver to stop. He sees something in the ground. The driver jumps down to see what the fuss is about. As he glances into the muddy hole, he sees it.
It appears to be a relic. Another one. You can’t dig for 10 minutes without finding these fucking things. The place is littered with them.
It’s about a foot long and on one end, there is an array of bird feathers. The other end has a small leather loop.
“What is it?” asks the driver.
“Dunno. Looks like some ceremonial gizmo. I’m sure these humans used these in one of their spiritual practices or something.”
“Damn shame about those humans. But I always had my money on them doing themselves in. I thought it would be nuclear weapons, but who knew those fuckers were smart enough to rig a giant magnifying glass up in space to burn each other like a bunch of ants.”
“I dunno,” he shrugs. “I lost my ass back in 2020 betting COVID was going to wipe them out. It was the odds-on favorite anyway.”
“Who knows. Who cares anyway? But I’ll tell you what, the museum people might want to see this.
“Why take it there? Stow it until we get back and then take it to one of those teleport souvenir shops. Tourists pay good money for shit like this.”
“Speaking of that, I hope this contract doesn’t get extended. I signed onto this Colonization Construction Crew for some adventure, but this place is boring. I can’t believe anyone ever wanted to live here.”
“You ain’t kidding,” his partner replies, wiping the sweat out of his lone yellow eye with his left index claw. “I can’t wait to get off this rock.”
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I’m sure that’s not exactly how dad imagined it, but I didn’t get my creativity from him. Makes for an interesting story though.
Our stories are a little like buried treasure. Just like the treasures I discovered buried underneath old tires, broken furniture, and maggot infested food, our life stories and their lessons learned are valuable. I’ve spent the better part of two years mining for stories long buried and forgotten. Stories that built my foundation and made me the person I am today, or at least are helping me be a better version of that for whatever time I have left.
Doing this requires you to dig deep though. It’s hard work. I started excavation after doing a Positive Intelligence exploration a couple of years ago. Doing it required me to mine deeply into my past. As I went down each layer, I found buried treasure. It was small at first, sort of like that feather duster those two space creatures found in my story. Those are the easy finds. The deeper you go though, the more heavy and painful the treasure gets. That’s your sign to keep digging. The best stuff lies just below that layer.
That’s where I am now. Finding things I’d long forgotten, even though the lessons those things taught have shaped me today. Even more reason to go back to the source to discover the origins, especially if it’s something you’d like to change.
This week, start your excavation. Start your personal, archeological dig. I’ll be excited to see what you find!