Walmart to Wolf House: Sonoma County Essays
Rob Loughran
Copyright Rob Loughran, 2015
BUBBA CAXTON BOOKS
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction
A Big Box of Hope
Confessions of a Househusband
Talking to Children About Death
What’s in Ophelia’s Garland?
The 118 Minute Bonsai
A “Groundbreaking” Harvest for the Dry Creek Harvest
The Bench
“The Jung and the Restless”: Writing Necessary Things
American Idyll
How to Cheat at the Publishing Game…and Win
Apples and Oranges: Adapting Your Novel for the Screen
Go To Your God Like a Soldier
Silent Lives
Blue Collar
NASCAR and the Art of Human Sacrifice
Two Bicycles
Walking Windsor: “Ahhhhhh!”
First Day
Borrowed
Martha Stewart is Homebrewing
Beercabulary
A Modest Drinktionary
How to Run a Marathon and Still Have Time for Sex
How to Write a Novel and Still Have Time for Sex
Homer Simpson and the Art of Proofreading
The Best View in Santa Rosa
This Stuff We Write
Twice as Fast
The Saga of Gentleman Jack London
About the Author
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INTRODUCTION
Like most people, I began my life as a small child.
I attended schools and birthday parties and family functions. I had broken bones and good grades; triumphs and failures, and life swirled around me. But the first time I ever felt that I was truly myself is when we moved to Sonoma County.
I was fourteen.
Perhaps that was just the timing of geography and hormones. Perhaps if we’d moved to Portland or Denver or Chicago I’d feel the same—and written—about those places. I don’t know, can’t say, and don’t care: for better or worse my life has unfolded in Sonoma County and I’ve written about it.
What follows is this resultant grab bag of essays; mostly about Sonoma
County but all written by a Sonoma County boy.
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I went for a walk one day and ended up at Walmart. This essay ended up in the Press Democrat:
A BIG BOX OF HOPE
Their little world is self-contained, distinctive, and unlike any other. Although it draws customers from all walks of American life—across any and all conceivable demographic—its core consumers are cult-like and truly fanatical. This Sonoma County business provides not only goods and services but something more important.
Hope.
Is it an upscale restaurant in Sonoma, an organic gardening center in
Petaluma, or an environmentally responsible winery in Healdsburg?
No, it is on Hembree Lane in Windsor.
It is Walmart.
Yes, that big-box symbol of rapacious American greed, consumerism, and worker exploitation resides in Windsor just a few hundred yards from the tasteful, grape-festooned sign on 101 North that reads: “Russian River Valley Winegrowers”.
The crass and gauche and materialistic Walmart, the store that looks like the box the space shuttle came in, provides convenient and ironic one-stop shopping for: bulk discount candy and exercise equipment; McDonald’s Big Macs and prescription cholesterol medication; true red- white-and-blue American flags made in China.
And of course, ammo and alcohol.
The place is packed to the rafters with stuff that is essential because it is discounted. It is discounted because that’s what Walmart shoppers expect. And the place is always busy, check it out at 10:30 PM, any weeknight, the parking lot is always full. That’s when I shop (after my PM shift at work) for the discounted essentials that are crucial to modern existence: windshield wipers, lentils, toilet paper, kitty litter, Tabasco sauce, potting soil, Cheerios, vitamins, M&Ms, AA batteries, masking tape, Band-Aids, five-dollar DVDs....
Admit it or not, we all enjoy shopping at Walmart. Don’t lie, I see all our identification/status symbols in the parking lot as I walk through: new Volvos and rusty Ford Aerostars; trucks old and new; Nissans and Chevys and Hyundais in varying stages of nurture or neglect. Today as I walked through the parking lot I saw, parked in the same long, packed row, bumper stickers that read: Obama/Biden 2012 and NRA Forever; Planned Parenthood and Focus on the Family; Give Peace a Chance and Go Army. It seems as if the always busy Walmart is the one place we all can get along: our one-stop price-slashing melting-pot. But Walmart isn’t just incidentally busy. It thrives because it has what Sonoma County (and America) really wants.
Lower prices.
Whether it is Halloween candy in early September, a Christmas tree in mid October, or swimming suits in blustery November Walmart has it cheaper. But comestibles, video games, tools, clothing, and electronics aren’t why people shop at Walmart. The most important product the folks from Bentonville, Arkansas peddle is, again, Hope.
No matter how bad the economy might get we know that we will always be able to afford something useless-and-indulgent or tasty-and- fattening at the local Walmart. No matter how terrible the job market is we know we can always sign on as a Walmart greeter in an effort to make ends meet. No matter how badly you feel about yourself you will always see someone shopping at Walmart who will make you feel better about your weight, grooming, or manners.
Or perhaps all three.
Yes, Hope is always stocked and available at Walmart. And today I provided some for my fellow Walmart shoppers who stared at the crazy white haired guy (me) in the parking lot talking to himself and jotting down pithy fragmentary examples of Bumper Sticker Wisdom. Then this wingnut (me again) went inside and sat down on a bench next to Ronald MacDonald and just watched people, again, occasionally writing things down. It turns out I’m the wit who shows up at Walmart and doesn’t buy anything, but by doing so makes my fellow Walmart shoppers feel better about themselves: because they are shopping and buying and keeping America solvent and free.
That’s Hope.
That’s Walmart. Windsor, California.
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First piece published in a national magazine, Ladies Circle, 1983:
CONFESSIONS OF A HOUSEHUSBAND
“Dad, Nathan won’t stop hitting me.”
“Hit him back.”
“Dad, Addy’s feeding the baby dogfood.”
“But we don’t have a dog.”
“Maybe it’s that meatloaf you made. It sure looks like dogfood.” “Dad, is it lunchtime yet?”
“It’s nine-thirty A.M.”
“Dad, what does A.M. mean?” “Dad, Nathan’s still hitting me.” “Dad, the television is fuzzy.” “Dad, the baby is out front.”
At this point the househusband expl
odes: “Go to your rooms and
do NOT come out until you’re eighteen!”
“But dad, we all won’t be eighteen at the same time. When the baby’s eighteen I’ll probably be almost forty,” said Danni.
Danni’s addition was a little off. When Elisa (the baby) is eighteen, she’ll be twenty-five. Rachel will be twenty-three. Addy will be twenty- two. Nathan (if he lives that long) will be twenty. That will be in 2001.
I can’t wait.
I’m the househusband.
My wife Luanne works as a bookkeeper during the day. I’m a waiter who doesn’t have to be at work until 5:30 PM. The kids are all mine during the day, five days a week.
The oldest is Danielle Nichol, eight. Alias Danni or Danni-girl. When she was four she marched down the aisle as a flower girl in my sister-in-law’s wedding. After a long day of compliments and attention, it was time to drive home from the reception. It was after midnight but Danni couldn’t sleep. Lu sat in the backseat with Danni, Lu’s grandmother and an aunt. Lu’s grandfather was in the front seat with me. Danni leaned over the seat, “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“I have a great idea.” “What’s that?”
“When we get home, let’s make some popcorn and stay up all night watching movies!”
“Danni-girl I think you’d better go to bed when we get home.”
Danni sighed, sat down and said, “Son of a bitch!”
I stopped swearing (around the kids) shortly after that.
Next in line is Rachel Anne, six. Alias Rachie, Rocket, or Rocky. The kids and I were strolling by some road workers. One of the workers was 5’4” and close to 300 pounds. Addy said, “Look! It’s a baby whale!” Rachel, who is very considerate of other people’s feelings said (loudly enough for the baby whale to hear), “Addy, it’s not nice to tell fat people they’re fat!”
Adrienne Lee, the middle of the five, is five. Alias is Addy or Little Miss Blue Eyes. The first word she ever uttered was “armpit”. My father (gray-haired, 70+) was helping us move. The plan was to put up the swingset first, keeping the kids out of the way. The slide had been erected and the rest of the swings were being set up by dad and me. Addy was sitting on the slide and pointed her finger at me, “Hey you, work faster!” My dad stopped and laughed at her when she pointed to him and said, “What are you laughing at old man?”
Nathaniel James, three-and-a-half is the only boy. Alias Nathan or Nay-Nay. I’m certain he’s the only person in the history of the world to have worn out Velcro. One day he was out front fighting with a five- year-old who had pushed Addy. Since he was winning I didn’t break it up. Nathan had him down on the lawn and screamed into his face, “YOU PIG!”
“Nathan,” I said, “it’s not nice to call people pigs.”
Nathan turned to the vanquished bully and screamed, “YOU LAMB!”
The youngest is Elisa Rene, eighteen months. Alias Ellie or “The Baby”. She hasn’t been alive long enough to do anything funny. Her favorite word is “doggy”.
Every morning, Monday through Friday, my task is to dress, feed, play with, and scream at these little people. Danni and Rachel are in first and second grades so I don’t have to worry about them once their lunches are made and they’re out the door.
My morning usually starts with two or more children pulling me out of bed:
“Mom says it’s time to get up.” “The baby has dirty diapers.” “We want hot chocolate.”
But the other morning Rachel comes into my bedroom, “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s a big giant rat in our backyard.”
“That’s nice, Rachel.”
Next comes Addy, Dad?” “Yeah?”
“There’s a guinea pig in our backyard.”
“That’s nice, Addy.”
Next comes Nathan, “Dad?” “Yeah?”
“There’s a kangaroo in our backyard.”
“Sure, Nathan.”
Next comes Elisa, “Doggy-doggy-doggy.”
I decided to find out exactly what was in our backyard. I noticed Danni was calmly eating Cheerios in the kitchen. The rest of the kids were hovering around my legs (for protection I suppose) as I walked out into the backyard. A possum was sniffing around the yard. Looking for possum food. (Maybe it would like my meatloaf?)
I guess a possum does look remotely like a giant rat, a guinea pig, a kangaroo or a doggy-doggy-doggy. “It’s a possum,” I said.
“I told them that,” said Danni, “but they wouldn’t believe me. We learned all about them at school. They’re not even poisonous.”
Second graders are too cool.
After all the strange creatures are identified and the eldest two are off to school I sit down at the typewriter while the remaining three watch cartoons, color, or play. Addy stood very still and quiet one day, watching me type for almost fifteen minutes. “Addy,” I said, “what are you doing?”
“I’m waiting for you to make a mistake.”
“Why?”
“I need some paper.”
If the weather is nice, a morning walk is included on our agenda. On these walks I tell Nathan the Latin names of all the plants and we laugh when he tries to say Juniperus procumbens or Chamecyperis psifera nana. One day when I denied Addy a privilege that her mother generally grants her, she said, “Boys are dumb. Girls are better. The only thing boys are good for is naming trees.”
Househusbands are used to sarcasm.
After breakfast and a walk it’s usually time for the kids to start fighting. If they don’t have anything to fight about, they’ll fight about who has less to fight about. The other day I was eavesdropping at the door of the TV room. Nathan was playing with his cars while Addy was clubbing him on the head with her doll. Elisa was laughing. Nathan tried to stand up, but couldn’t because the blows were coming too rapidly. Now, Addy was laughing. Nathan wasn’t crying, but tried crawling away from Addy. She kept bopping him, to Elisa’s delight. Finally, Nathan ripped the doll away from Addy. Immediately Addy’s eyes filled with tears and she screamed, “Nathan took my doll!”
“That’s because you were whipping him with it,” I said.
“Oh well,” her smile seemed to say, “you can’t blame me for trying.” She helped Nathan to his feet and they ran outside to swing. The baby started crying.
That kid loves action.
After lunch it’s naptime for Elisa. Nathan and Addy help me mow the lawn or do laundry or vacuum. Addy and I have been teaching Nathan how to dress himself and what colors match. (My wife says as soon as Addy teaches me, I should show Nathan.) He continually puts his shoes on the wrong feet. The other day I flew into a rage, “How many times do I have to show you how to put your shoes on! They are on the wrong feet! The wrong feet! You have your shoes on the wrong feet! Those are the wrong feet!”
Nathan started crying. (An unusual circumstance. He has fallen off tables and sliced himself on rain gutters without so much as an “Ow”.)
“What’s the matter, Nathan?”
He wiped his nose on his sleeve, “These are the only feet I have.”
Sometimes three year olds act just like children.
Househusbands like to go for walks. LONG walks. After Danni and Rachel get home we usually walk up to Sonoma State University to feed the ducks and play on the monkey bars.
Househusbands love monkey bars.
When Luanne finally comes home I’m usually ready to go to work. A seven hour shift in a restaurant is nothing compared to caring for five little people.
But I wouldn’t trade these long hectic days for anything. Even the days when Addy and Nathan jump through the window screen playing “A-Team”. Even when Danni rips the antenna off my Volkswagen as she skates by. There are days when gallons of milk are spilled, quarts of blood flow from skinned knees and knuckles, and a truckload of Kleenex is needed to wipe all the runny noses. But I wouldn’t trade these long hectic days for anything.
Why?
Be
cause househusbands are about three bricks shy of a load.
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Tearing up the national ladies’ magazine circuit, unfortunately. This appeared in Mothering, 1994:
TALKING TO CHILDREN ABOUT DEATH
At 2 A.M. in the morning my youngest daughter, five-year-old Elisa, woke me up. She stood in front of me in the half light of the bedroom. Her hair was mussed and her Flintstones pajamas were ruffled. She had been crying. In a voice that barely trembled she said, “I can’t remember what mommy look like.”
I didn’t say a word. At that moment her grief was irreconcilable. At that moment the world had snatched another thing from Elisa: her mother’s face no longer existed as a ready and reliable memory. For Elisa the time to cry and say goodbye to her mother was not at the official funeral, but in her pajamas on a warm August night thirteen months later.
What about my four other children? Did they, like Elisa, have “unofficial” moments in which they felt the permanent loss of their mother? They certainly seemed to. The main dilemma for me was: how do you talk to children about death? On this night with Elisa I did the only thing a father can do in such a situation.