Epstein is looking for a nice girl with a long mullet. E-mail
him at [email protected].
By Adam Epstein
Mi-Wuk is a throwback, a town you have never heard of and most
likely will never venture into, save for the possibility that you
lose some massive bet or decide to go on a road trip with the
desire to visit as many podunk towns as possible before the keg
runs dry.
Mi-Wuk has an arcade, a general store, two thrift shops, two
liquor stores, a pawn shop, a mildew-filled bar and a population of
37. In Mi-Wuk, you buy your Sunday best at Wal-Mart, you can easily
distinguish between teriyaki and hickory smoked beef jerky (turkey
jerky is for sally-boys), and if something happens in town, chances
are you know about it, because the odds are “that
something” happened to you. Matlock is culture, Wrangler is
high fashion, and mullets are plentiful.
Mi-Wuk is not a Midwestern burg or a Great Plains hole in the
wall ““ it’s in California.
Mi-Wuk is California.
While the majority of the nation is blinded by the brilliance of
California’s beaches and bays, silver screens and surf spots,
Rodeo and redwoods, I have seen past the glare and witnessed first
hand the true nature of the Golden State. The heart, soul and
intoxicated liver of California lies in the trailer communities and
Mi-Wuk clones that make up the bulk of the state.
The forgotten California is the true California.
I spent the majority of this past summer working at a family
camp in the Northern California wilderness. Now when I say
“Northern,” I’m not referring to the San
Francisco, Marin County, Sacramento areas. (Look at a map. These
cities are closer to the middle of the state. Hella closer.) I
resided in a tree-filled, undeveloped land, three-and-a-half hours
north of the Bay, an area that could easily be considered Southern
Oregon.
On a typical day, I could expect to drive through Cold Springs
(pop. 75), Confidence (pop. 50) and Dardanelle (pop. 2).
That’s not a misprint.
The population of Dardanelle, Calif., consists of a husband and
wife who dwell above the post office that they operate for the
town. Well, technically, for their town. Around the holidays, it is
quite difficult to get a successful Secret Santa program up and
running. Rumor has it that crime and adultery are quite low in
Dardanelle, although I’ve heard that everybody in the town
sleeps together. (OK, so maybe it’s not that different from
L.A.)
Tales of these misbegotten hamlets may seem to be little more
than cute portraits of a simpler, more John Cougar
Mellencamp-filled time. Realize though, the sunburned, mesh-hat
wearing, salty old man from Long Barn (pop. 64) is your state mate.
More than that though, he and his cut-off-sleeves-wearing brethren
make up the silent majority of the state, the backbone on which the
rest of us rely on to produce our fruits and vegetables, harvest
lumber for our armoires and provide Jeff Foxworthy with a ready
arsenal of one-liners. (Man, that Foxworthy guy. Hilarious!)
While I may not relate to mesh tank tops or consider Skoal
Wintergreen to be a breath freshener, I found almost every
small-town individual I encountered this summer to be extremely
hospitable, particularly polite and possessing a disposition that
would do Ms. Manners proud.
(Except for one “lady” I stumbled upon outside of a
Pack-and-Save. We almost came to blows over who had the right of
way into a parking space. I told her to take her Oakley Blades and
stick … well, you get the point.)
The majority of the people that I had dialogue with were
comfortable in their rural life, content that most people would
never venture into their neck of the woods. They were at ease with
the knowledge that their business and their town would continue to
remain a “forgotten” part of California.
When all is said and done, these rustic locales serve as a rich
reminder of a time in our state’s history where every town
had a general store and every worker in these general stores knew
not only your name, but what kind of ice cream you typically
ordered. The forgotten California may be full of cows, lack ATMs,
and smell like a combination of garlic, alfalfa and root beer, but
it is a vital tie to our not so distant, not so urban past.
This notion hit me harder than a sun-dried cow pie one early
evening during the last week of my small-town escapades. I sat on a
bench in downtown Sonora (pop. 2,000) and watched an old man
saunter down the street, small radio in hand, listening to an
Oakland A’s game. As he passed by one of the many antique
shops on the avenue, the volume on the radio raised and the old man
lifted his hand in sync. “Great play,” he exclaimed and
looked over at me. “What a night!” he said.
What a night indeed.