In 2020, I wrote “Pragmatic Patriot.” Since then, I have lost much of my positivity about the United States of America.
What changed?
So many bonfires continue to burn, with our most sacred and vital principles as fuel. Tribalism has grown worse. Education is abandoned in favor of indoctrination. Books are banned, hard-fought rights revoked. The undefended among us are violently threatened, gleefully attacked, detained, and arrested by armed, masked, and unidentified persons. The United States military is supporting these terrifying acts on American streets, under the guise of a psychotic government position that criminals and terrorists are invading the country. A nation that once soared to the moon now sends people to twenty-first-century concentration camps.
Conspiracy theory is exacerbated by ugliness and amplified by a willingness – even eagerness – to make all manner of accusations against our neighbors. Hate decorates shirts and hats and slobbers out in rants and posts. Many who fuel the rabid bile serve in positions of power in our government.
Still, for every act of aggression, there are acts of generosity and resilience that define the best of what America may again be. In small towns and big cities, millions of Americans rally in protest of a crumbling morality, testifying against the terrible, illegal, and cruel acts directed by our most senior elected officials. Our courts are filled with patriots waging battles for the Constitution against lying madmen and women.
Has the time passed for the dream that is America?
I am disheartened, no longer pragmatic. But I have hope that our better angels will return.
A tinkling bell announces arrivals. Sights, scents lead to temptation, salvation. What to touch, what to taste? Answers lie half-hidden behind the counter, beckoning in tall glass cases.
Give us this day our daily bread A complement of diversity stands in service, ready to meet wants, needs. To the left, day-old offerings, To the right, shining richness. Extravagant decadence? Let them eat cake. Essential sustenance? Let them eat. Feed the hungry. Sate the beast.
Forgive us our trespasses Day passes. Resources dwindle. Redistribute across racks and shelves. Make it seem like more, or at least enough.
As we forgive those who trespass against us Toiling, feeding others so they can feed their own. Family, community, travelers. The lost.
And lead us not into temptation Who will be fulfilled? Who left wanting? Who will be left tomorrow?
I gaped, unbelieving, as the images burned through the screen. Alien flags tore into a solemn ideal in a sacred place. All understanding vaporized before the unforgivable desecration of the nation I sometimes took for granted. If there is a devil, he was front and center.
I raged.
The world crumbled.
And now we are here.
The figurehead rots before our collective eyes while the coven cackles and builds the pyre higher and hotter. Fueled with hate, lies, and ruined lives.
The train of transgressions is long, the sins endless, turning the words of Jesus into a sweatshirt slogan, a bloodied shroud perfumed with snatches of flags of Our Fathers.
I knew you, my friend, my colleague, my neighbor. Why do you choose that side of the moral divide? How can you disdain decency, celebrate insults and threats, and cheer violence? Are you damaged in ways I don’t see?
A visit to the doctor turned into a bout of self-examination.
Appointment Day
The late April Friday was cool and windy. My wife and I headed out to our medical appointments in San Luis Obispo, a reasonable and beautiful drive from our Cambria home.
My session was a follow-up for a recurring problem common to men of a certain age.
I checked in a few minutes before my 3:15 pm appointment and was soon escorted to an exam room. As I started down the hall, I heard a familiar voice prattling away – a voice that caused me to duck my head and turn away quickly. It was a voice of a man I had come to know over the previous few weeks.
And here he was, sharing a confusing explanation for his lateness in getting to the office.
Simon
My first encounter with Simon was not great. He had come into the business center agitated and demanding. It was difficult to figure out what he wanted, and the more I tried, the more combative he became. After a few tense exchanges, it became evident that the whole situation was headed towards the shredder. I’m usually able to work with difficult people, but not that day. Thankfully, a cooler head intervened, defused Simon, and figured out what he wanted.
I later learned that he had a reputation for being aggressively hostile, becoming more disagreeable as he aged. Is he experiencing an acceleration of decline? Perhaps.
Over the ensuing weeks, he came back to the store and was, for the most part, calm and a bit contrite. His confusion seemed more evident with each visit: missing documents, missed appointments, and an inability to explain what he was there to do. My teammates and I were able to help him with a few tasks, but we were always on edge, not knowing which Simon we would face.
Reluctant Helper
With my consultation completed, I headed downstairs to rejoin my wife. Unaccustomed to the parking lot, she headed towards an exit further down the complex, exited, and turned onto the main road leading us back home. As we headed north, I spotted Simon shuffling down the sidewalk, heading away from the office we had just left. It seemed odd since the medical complex had plenty of parking and easy access to public transportation.
So why was he heading further away?
I realized that, like him or not, Simon seemed to need help or a quick check to see if he was in trouble. Should we turn back? A short moment of indecision was soon followed by an aggressive U-turn , and there he was. My wife let me out of the car and pulled into a parking lot to wait.
The Woman
I walked back and met Simon, but he was not alone. His new companion was an older woman walking a bicycle laden with what appeared to be her worldly possessions. They were engaged in conversation, which I couldn’t quite hear. I called out, “Simon, is that you?” He looked at me, but there was no recognition. The woman asked if I knew him, and I responded, ‘Yes, we live in the same town.” Simon then asked my name and how he knew me, clearly struggling to connect the dots. I explained to him where we met, then where I work, and something registered. I asked a few soft questions to ascertain his condition and ability to care for himself.
During this exchange, the woman watched us closely, again asking how I knew Simon. She explained how she was helping him locate his car and would walk with him until he found it. I realized she was trying to help him and was not keen to leave him with another stranger. I assured her I would help Simon find his way and that she didn’t need to worry. She watched warily as Simon and I continued down the road.
A Long Walk
As we walked, Simon kept repeating things to me, explaining, as if talking to a dull student, exactly where we were headed. He was as much a petulant child as a frightened elderly man trying to find his way home. I found myself acting as a caregiver, holding his arm as we navigated rough patches of sidewalk and busy intersections. He shared why, running late, he parked half a mile from the medical offices but couldn’t find the building where he thought he was supposed to be. He was baffled by the nurse he swore he did not know but who knew all about him. I flashed back to an overheard phone conversation with the receptionist, giving directions and encouragement to someone on the other end of the line.
He spoke of a postman who wouldn’t help him and students who didn’t even acknowledge his requests for assistance.
We walked on, Simon confidently describing his car’s year, make, color, and Rotary sticker. He kept saying “404” and “just past the Jack In The Box.” I knew where the fast food place was, so on we trundled: Simon, an old confused fellow, and me, a not-young man, wondering why we were on this path together.
And there it was. Just past the Jack In The Box, a few steps down the side street. A small motel with the number 404 on the front. The car sat at the far end of the lot, just as described. I asked him if that was his car, and he responded by raising the key fob clutched in his hand. The lights blinked, confirming success. As we got closer, I saw the Rotary sticker affixed to the rear passenger window, as he had described. The car sat unlocked, and the driver’s window rolled down. Simon stared at it, then at me, and said, “The window is open. Did I leave it open?” Then, “Tell me your name. How do you know me?”
I was concerned about him getting behind the wheel and driving the thirty miles back to our village. He answered my doubts by describing his route: exit the parking lot, turn right onto Santa Rosa Street, and head straight north until home. And he was right. So I said goodbye and wished him well.
I walked up the short hill to the corner where 404 and Jack In The Box faced each other and waited. After a few minutes, the beige Toyota appeared, turned right, and drove slowly past me. Simon, hands at ten and two, eyes straight ahead, was on his way home. Maybe a guardian angel sat, invisible, helping him navigate the scenic road back to what I think of as heaven on earth. Or perhaps he just had great luck. Either way is fine with me.
Reflection
As I walked back to where my wife was waiting, my mind spun. Why did I avoid Simon at the doctor’s office? Why did we take a different exit from the parking lot? Why was I so reluctant to go back and check on him? What changed on the walk? And how do I reconcile all these questions, doubts, and painful awareness of my bias?
I don’t practice a particular faith, but two parables come to mind. First, was this my road to Damascus moment, where my blindness lifted, and I immediately became a new person with a passion for doing good works? Yeah, no. I was responding to my moral compass.
The second parable rings more true. Though the priest and the businessman were replaced by some callous students and a harried postman, a Good Samaritan did indeed appear, offered aid and comfort, and watched over Simon as he went on his way.
The Parks, Recreation, and Open Space ad hoc team continues to move forward with discussion and action on finding activities to enhance the recreation options in the area of the East Fiscalini Ranch designated for a community park. Though there have been many suggested uses, along with a well-researched Master Plan, not much has happened outside the development of the dog park.
The committee has taken an open and inclusive approach to revisit the possibilities for the land, actively engaging with and seeking input from every corner of the community. Over the past months participation in community meetings has grown, attracting interested and concerned residents into the discussion. The overarching philosophy of the ad hoc is – every voice matters, and every concern or suggestion is captured and discussed. The results, to my eye, have been terrific.
The forum takes on the concerns in a collaborative, positive way, with questions encouraged, responses backed with facts and data, with none of the harshness and pugnacious attitudes often seen in public discourse. I leave the meetings recharged, believing that things can happen without frivolous conflict.
Such was the outcome of the meeting held on Saturday, April 1, at the Chamber of Commerce building. Community members took the lead in further defining three main project opportunities. They presented what the projects are, what they could reasonably cost, and how they would fit into the footprint of the designated area.
Community member Shannon Sutherland led the discussion on exercise stations. Shannon did fantastic research, contacting various manufacturers and providers of such stations. Options discussed included everything from simple, pressure-treated, build-it-yourself stations to powder-coated metal fixtures and extruded, molded resin modules. Each option has plusses and minuses, and as the conversation moves forward within the PROS Commission, it will be refined and shared with the community and the CCSD Board.
Community members Mark and Susan Garman presented their work on the proposed Disc (frisbee) Golf course. The enthusiastic pair have invested a good amount of their time visiting systems around the county and brought a collection of photographs and descriptions of styles and materials used to build and maintain different-sized options. It was clarifying to see the pictures, as they demonstrated the ease of integrating this low-impact, environmentally sensitive, and accessible sport into the existing natural beauty of the East Ranch. The Garman’s research also included a first-pass look at potential costs for a course’s design, build, and maintenance. The figures are subject to change after a more detailed review by a course designer and all the appropriate staff to ensure compliance with the existing EIR and use conditions.
PROS Commissioner Kermit Johanson presented his findings and recommendations for enhancing the existing trails to accommodate runners and ensure ADA compliance. He shared a color-coded topographical map showing where the enhancements would fall within the existing footprint and a rough estimate of cost and effort based on configuration, materials, and labor sources.
Each presenter fielded questions and concerns and, in collaboration with the PROS ad hoc members, will present the information to the full PROS Commission, get input, and formulate a unified presentation to the CCSD Board and the public at an upcoming Board meeting.
After all the presentations and discussions, the attendees were asked – Do you support moving forward with the next steps for the proposed projects? Every hand went up in favor, including representatives of the CCSD Board, Beautify Cambria, Cambria Community Council, concerned residents from the surrounding neighborhood, members of the business community, and long-time residents and parents.
The PROS Commission will hold its regularly scheduled meeting on Tuesday, April 4, at 10:00 am at the Vet’s Hall. The session will also be available via ZOOM.
On a cool, windy, and sunny Thursday afternoon, my wife and I attended a Catholic funeral Mass for Father Mark Stetz, a beloved local priest who passed on, leaving a grieving flock and family to say goodbye. We went not as Catholics obeying tradition but in respect and appreciation for Father Mark’s good heart and his values-driven life of service.
The church filled beyond its three-hundred seat capacity. Sixty-eight priests and bishops and a convent of nuns occupied a good portion of the pews. A dark-suited bouncer patrolled the entrance lest an un-anointed muckety-muck try to sneak a seat inside the crowded building. Though the Gospels tell us “the least shall be first,” the VIP section and reserved seating said something different.
The sidewalks leading up to the main entrance bloomed with rows of white folding chairs filled with friends and parish faithful saying farewell to the good Father. Suits and ties mixed with jeans and work shirts. English and Spanish voices blended in song and prayer, and the church musicians, minus my favorite mandolin player, filled the spaces with joy, sorrow, and a message of hope.
As an escaped Catholic, I engaged in the service from an emotional distance. My mind drifted from the present to past Catholic funerals, some held in my old Bronx parish of Saint Nicholas of Tolentine, others across the tri-state region of New York, Connecticut, and New Jersey. Some were for my family members, from grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles, to my beloved younger sister Anne Marie, whose death at thirty-two had a significant impact on changing my life. Her funeral, held just a few short months after my mother’s, was the toughest to accept. It was made more stressful by the Catholic Church’s refusal to allow a dedicated funeral Mass because it was Good Friday. Yet we, the family, found our way through the grief and loss and did our Catholic duty, sore asses on hard wooden pews, silently incensed as the censer swung and click-click-clicked against the long metal chains filling the air with a smoky aroma which always says death.
I remember other sadly joyful funerals for departed friends from the world of music and theater, held in churches filled with friends and family blessed with talents they shared, through tears and smiles, in song and recitation. The loss was there, but the dread was absent. There is nothing like sitting in an unassuming church filled with a few hundred actors and singers whose voices rise in a final farewell, serving the universe with their best, most meaningful, loving goodbye.
An odd sense often fills my head when listening to more traditional music played at some Catholic funerals. Maybe it’s the minor chords, the slow tempos, or the loss of clarity as the organist applies too much pipe and pedal. Perhaps it’s the subtle aggression some church pianists bring to the keyboard, or the battle for primacy between soprano and tenor during a dramatic rendering of a mournful hymn. Maybe I just cannot stay in the moment, but I often think these songs would kill in a heavy metal motif. A thudding bass, two low tuned guitars chunking out mid-scooped rhythms, a wild-haired skinny guy wailing away like the lead singer from a 1980s hair band would undoubtedly change the vibe. Or would it? I have shared this observation with a few fellow mourners, who quickly rescinded their proffered Sign of Peace. Not big metal fans, I guess – though if you look at paintings of Jesus and the Apostles, you might see a resemblance to the lineup of ’80s rock bands on one of those Rockapalooza Booze Cruises popular in some circles.
But back to Father Mark. His funeral was a celebration of his life. A long-time friend and fellow priest related the most telling story, illuminating who Mark was. At his ordination, Mark asked if there could be a washing of the feet. This request, to me, is the pure distillation of the message of Christ. Humility, service, caring, and community. Not glory, not adoration, not the fear of damnation. The expression of love for all, no matter the station.
Regardless of how we worship or what traditions we follow, good people find ways to do good deeds. Whether done loudly or quietly, it doesn’t matter. We can only go where our humanity leads us, and if that is a search for a higher power or a nobler cause, it’s all good.
I write about music a lot and often look at it through the lens of how it impacts me emotionally. So, I will write about the album “Currents” through the same lens. It will be interesting to see where this exercise takes me. It may be a jumble of parents, friends, musicians, creative souls, and flawed humans. I guess we will see.
My son John is a musician, a songwriter, and a rock and roll poet-philosopher.
He is part troublemaker, part peacemaker. He is a bundle of love, hope, despair, optimism, and pragmatic fatalism, at times impossible and always completely loved. The perfect combination to make a great rock and roll record, which, in my opinion, he has done with his band Original Son.
The album “Currents” shows Original Son’s roots in punk and builds out from there. In my mind, the band and the record are just good old-fashioned kickass rock and roll with a heart and a conscience.
The ten songs are full of emotion, from deep anger to natural optimism. Rhythmic shifts and musical intensity slam against subversively upbeat choruses, creating a fast-moving thrill ride. The connectivity between music, lyrics, and performance has the flow of good storytelling. The arrangements drop surprising little hooks, with background vocals, percussion, snatches of piano, and some tasty Hammond organ adding to the sonic picture. Producer Tim Hutton keeps it all flowing, never stealing focus from the guitar-bass-drums vibe that is the core of Original Son.
The musicians – singer/guitarist Johnny Calderwood, bassist Justin Chester, and drummer Jeff Robinson, sound like a band– an honest compliment to them. Each player has a knack for dropping lines and phrases that make me go, “Woah, I didn’t see that coming, or just DAMN!!!” Younger, hipper reviewers have compared their playing to more contemporary musicians. I hear flashes of the players I have listened to over the years. In Justin, I hear John Entwistle as much as modern players like Flea and Mike Dirnt. Drummer Robinson reminds me of Mighty Max Weinberg, not so much in tone but in intense, rock-solid time and taste. (I asked John, “how hard does he hit?” to which he replied, “As hard as he needs to.” A compliment I know musicians who play in bands will understand and appreciate.)
As a guitarist, Johnny is an intense, dynamic rhythm player with a thick tone that fills out the mid-range with solid time and controlled aggression that lays down a bed for his crazy-good vocals. His solos, mostly short and to the point, dispense with gimmicks and make statements appropriate to the song. He shows a surprising range of stylistic influences, and nods to everyone from Mike Ness to Neil Young. I’ve had a love-hate relationship with his lead tones, but I have realized over time that his sound is his sound. His note choices and poignant phrasing in his short solo during “The Avenues” stopped me cold and had me hitting rewind. Moments may go unnoticed during casual listening, but these little glimpses beneath the bold and brash add dimension to my understanding of the artists.
The opening track, “Castles,” made me sit up and think, what do we have here? A dark, almost menacing eighth-note bassline joins with gritty power chords dragging a tail of feedback and crashing cymbals. A forceful voice asks, “Is this is the end/ Are we running out/of solid ground/did you learn to shout?” And then – BAM!!! Full-on punk-flavored power trio rock spitting social commentary on our fractured and divisive society and the actors who orchestrate the hate. “We’re all locked out /of the rooms of the castles/ of your masters. / In a world /built on deception/ you did not question/you are the weapon.” The song moves through a few subtle yet distinct styles, at one point causing me to flash to Deep Purple’s “Highway Star.”
Then comes “Parasite,” the first single released from the album. Brighter, bouncier, a bit cleaner sounding, giving the impression that it was a happy piece. Until I read the lyrics. This song’s moral and political core targets those who choose to attack rather than build. “You got your merry men/they keep their torches raised/so we can identify them/ You are a parasite/an American Parasite.”
“Well’s Run Dry” beats me up with the fury of the lyric, the ragged emotion of hurt, and the undeniable glimpse of acceptance and guarded reconciliation in the chorus, “we don’t want to talk about it.”. And then comes the breakdown courtesy of a volcanic performance by hardcore legend Lou Koller of Sick of It All. “You cannot fake this/you cannot break this/we turned our rage to hope and changed the whole perspective.” Then comes the heys and reminder that “we don’t want to talk about it.” “We” may not want to, but there it is.
Aha – “Currents.” A minute-long respite to collect myself. Guitar and vocal. Snatches of piano, a bit of keyboard, and one minute of philosophy-driven questions and observations about the world we find ourselves grinding through. The vocal is outstanding, almost beautiful—a strange word to use, given the delivery’s ragged edges and gritted teeth. There is courage in letting the lyric and vocal stand in the clear. And then it is over. I need to rethink the use of the word respite.
My absolute favorite in this collection of favorites is “The Avenues.” The song is a big basket of little hooks and moves like a ride on a gently rolling road of lyrics and melody. It is part rage, part despair, and part guilt. The story is inspired by what he sees in his adopted city of Los Angeles; the homeless, the underserved, the everyman and woman being driven farther and farther into hopeless situations while the ones with the means remake the city into walls of privilege. Johnny reflects on his journey in parallel to the changing communities he knew and shared. “We all found shelter here/and then it disappeared/between the lights and the glamour we made our way and survived. /Did we lose ourselves/in those dim-lit rooms/did the city slip away while we broke all the rules?” Then the relentlessly melodic chorus of “We’re just waiting for the fallout, baby. We’re just waiting for the walls to come tumbling down. Did they build it up/just to push us out? Recycle everything and turn this town upside down….” The band marches resolutely through the deceptively simple, repetitive chord progressions, allowing the lyrics to tell the story. A signature guitar phrase runs through the song, including the beginning of the solo, which adds a short eight bars of melody that breaks my heart every time I hear it. The final chant at the end says it all – “They’re gonna fuck it up. They’re gonna fuck it up” over a swirl of layered vocals repeating “down, down.”
“The Turnaround” is a reimagined take on an earlier recording, moving away from the more pop sound of the original into a gritty, almost punk-funk reading. Like “Currents,” the intro is low-key and a bit tense, then the band tears into an aggressive rock-funk slam that is invigorating and soulfully nasty. Power move here.
“Fire Away” is a therapy session in two and a half minutes. “I might be broken beyond repair ’cause the pieces are too jagged to fix.” The background vocals on the ending are almost dirge-like ooh – oohs. The message is mixed, but the almost rockabilly feel shakes things all around, so the listener has the urge to sway and shout FIRE AWAY!
“Flesh and Bone” and “Shelter”are raw and rollicking. On these tracks, the rhythm section rules. Drummer Robinson kicks off Flesh and Bone with a Mick Fleetwood-like drum intro, switches to a pounding, unclenched hi-hat, then hits the gas with a punishing beat that calls the rest of the players to the table. Bassist Chester lets loose with some dynamic solo lines that make this old bass player grin like a schoolboy. He also pops out in Shelter, shoving every inch of air out of the low end and into the atmosphere. Another tear of minor-ish guitar runs crashes into a pounded piano, ending in a glorious wash of tones, tunes, and atmosphere. I hear things in my headphones that I’m not sure are there – yes, it is that ear-opener.
The last song, “Hymn For The Underground,” is a punk-rock pep talk for everyman, capturing the essence of accountability and self-destiny. “You’re not replaceable/ they can’t walk on water/we are the ones who make the gears turn…you are glorious.” Be good to yourself, find and celebrate your value, and “stand up for what you love.”
To my ear, The Turnaround, Avenues, and Hymn For The Underground call out for social awareness and activism from the masses.
Well’s Run Dry, Flesh and Bone, and Shelter share the more intimate and painful truths of trying to find some peace in a life filled with great highs and lows. Alienation and anger singe the edges, but a bit of jaded optimism is threaded throughout the pain. The one word that comes to mind is “accountability.”
I love this record for a whole lot of reasons. One of the best ones? It makes me want to sing, dance, pound the table and yell words not suited to a man of my age. And I will, and you just might too.
Album Credits
Words and Music by John CalderwoodArrangements by Original Son
Guitar & Vocals – Johnny Calderwood
Bass & Vocals – Justin Chester
Drums – Jeff Robinson
Additional Vocals on Well’s Run Dry – Lou Koller
B3 Hammond – Howard LaravaePiano – Tim HuttonPercussion – Chris Reynolds
Recorded at Canyon Hut Studios
Produced by Tim HuttonEngineered and Mixed by Chris ReynoldsMastered by Hans DeKline
Beautiful Cambria never lacks a passion project. The current drive to build a Skate Park on Main Street to replace the one removed due to its deteriorating condition is an excellent example of the challenges of such endeavors.
What might seem like a simple, straightforward project is much more complicated than perhaps people realize. Over the recent weeks, I had multiple conversations with representatives from all parts of the puzzle, including leadership from Skate Cambria, CCSD Board members, and staff. My goal is to present a reasonably clear view of the moving pieces that make up this effort. There are levels of complexity beneath each topic, so I have added links to available details so readers can examine the same data. Here’s a simplified takeaway from those discussions.
The Simple
The goal of the project’s advocates is to build a safe, accessible skate park on Cambria Services District property on Main Street, next to the Cambria Library and across the street from the Vet’s Hall. The previous community-built facility occupied the site before being dismantled due to deteriorating and unsafe conditions.
Proposed Site on Main Street
The Players
A community organization, Skate Cambria, is deeply involved in driving the project forward. Skate Cambria has done an admirable job of gaining community support, as well as skateboard-related industry interest. The group’s fundraising efforts, managed through a local non-profit, have reportedly amassed approximately $175,000.00.
The Cambria Community Services District is involved in the project for two main reasons. First, the property belongs to the District, and by extension, Cambria’s taxpayers. As a community asset under the CCSD’s jurisdiction, there is a responsibility to manage the parcel appropriately.
Second, Cambria’s PROS (Parks, Recreation, and Open Space) Commission serves as an advisory body to the CCSD Board of Directors. PROS has a limited budget and no legal authority to take action without the CCSD Board of Directors’ approval.
The Challenges
As always, the biggest issue the project faces is funding. The preferred location brings a host of challenges that drive costs, and therefore injects financial risks associated with uncertainty.
Based on detailed presentations from the design and engineering firm Spohn Ranch and the Project Management lead from CCSD, the current projected cost sits at Six Hundred and Sixty-One thousand dollars. This number, provided by Spohn Ranch, carries several caveats, including potential areas of cost reductions.
The Project Management presentation details the requirements from SLO County’s permitting authorities. Concerns include the need for a restroom and accessible parking for the facility. Both of these requirements have the potential to add significantly to the final project costs. There are potential approaches that could reduce or eliminate the need to build out both items. Final project requirements will be defined through Value Engineering/redesign activities and negotiations with the permitting agencies.
Funding Sources
Skate Cambria’s Fundraising Report
Skate Cambria indicates they have raised approximately $175,000.00 in donations. They continue their fundraising activities and lobbying for additional financial support from the community and other interested parties.
A potential funding source under review is a PROP 68 grant for $177,000.00. As part of the application, the District must identify the project’s cost and all funding committed to the project.
Gaining a more accurate and realistic total project cost requires significant interaction with the permitting organizations, complex project re-engineering, and aggressive negotiations among all parties to get to a final project plan. The filing deadline for the grant is December 31st, so it is a steep climb to gather all the data, crunch all the numbers, identify all the funding sources, and go through the process of budgeting and allocation of District funds.
Based on just the “known” estimated costs outlined by Mr. Spohn, the quick math is:
Estimated Project Cost – $661,000.00.
Assume the $177,000.00 grant is secured. Add the Skate Cambria funds of $175,000.00.
The difference that the CCSD would need to commit to contributing to meet the grant criteria is $309,000.00.
Remember, these figures are based on estimated costs and do not include any additional expense to meet required permit conditions. Nor do they contain any cost reductions gained through redesign and Value Engineering.
Regardless of how the project is ultimately defined, any District money must come from the general fund. That is the same pool of money that pays for the Fire Department and The Fiscalini Ranch Preserve, among other things.
Next Steps
The Board has scheduled a special meeting for Saturday, November 20th, to discuss this project. The meeting will be available through Zoom, and the public is encouraged to share thoughts and suggestions on how to move forward. It is always better to participate in the process and make your judgments rather than rely on other people’s perspectives.
This project is a positive example of how citizens work together to meet goals that affect the larger Cambria community. Skate Cambria demonstrates the passion and commitment to the Skate Park project and the equally important job of being great role models for the community, young and old.
The CCSD Board and staff continue to do the difficult work of evaluating all the information, balancing the community’s needs, and making the hard decisions about spending limited resources most responsibly.
Crazy tumbling images spun by. Her logical scientific mind frantically grabbed but failed to hold onto the connective tissue that floated just out of consciousness. Her intuitive, primal spirit found a thread and pulled, gently braking the whirling carousel. The random images, sounds, and emotions connected; not in any logical order or sequence, but started to make sense.
In this dreamy vignette, young girls filled the small gym at Saint Nicholas of Tolentine grammar school. A whirl of motion, navy jumpers over absurd blue bloomers, six to a side, as the rules of the day dictated. Basketball, boys or girls, ruled the neighborhood. From grade one through high school, the thud thud thud of ball against the ground was as much a part of the atmosphere as car horns, cooing pigeons, and soft Irish accents of mothers and grandfathers.
The tone of the rhythmic thump changed from leather on wood to the metallic ping of ball meeting concrete. Gone was the swish of the net, replaced by the clang and rattle of the garbage can used for target practice outside the oval that centered Devoe Park. The oval was the neighborhood coliseum for serious players, usually male. Plenty of local girls could compete against the best boys, and handily beat the average ones. But in her dream, she was not one of those girls.
She was still falling. Her vision melted into a kaleidoscope of maroon and white. Words and letters appeared above and beside her, then turned upside down as she descended. Familiar words. She carried them for four years and earned an F, the prized varsity letter that represented Fordham University, the place where she found her niche among the best cheerleaders. The place where she achieved academic excellence. The place where once again the arrogance of men tried to keep her from playing on their court. Forgive me, Father, but I will not be known as Young Miss, but as Doctor.
The picture changed again. A boisterous crowd filled row after ascending row in the most famous of all arenas: Madison Square Garden, home of countless basketball confrontations, rock concerts, and the occasional mass wedding. A young college man, playing his heart out for his school, grew older with each dribble, his face and figure becoming the comforting man she woke up to that very morning. Alongside him ran two boys, who, like the man they resembled, grew into young teens, then mature young men. They were as clear and familiar as her own heart, the heart that pounded as she presented them to the world.
There was no rat-infested apartment building in this dream, no terrifying first lab class with dissected rodents under her shaking hand, no arrogant Jesuit blocking her access to a life in medicine.
There were only twenty-five thousand cheering fans, falling with her, helping feather the landing, and sharing the fear and joy of a tumultuous ride.
She slowly woke, the places of the past replaced by the contours of her office. Her eyes briefly rested on the wall of framed accomplishments. The sounds of distant cheering remained faintly in her ears, as grateful neighbors saluted the arriving colleagues that fight to keep other people’s dreams alive.
Her hand rose to her white coat, feeling for the Blue and Gold SNT, or the Maroon and White Letters she gained at Fordham. Instead, her fingers found the symbol of her calling. She gave a reverent squeeze to the simple tag that bore her name and the most honorable letters, M.D.
The intersection of citizen advocacy and elected community leadership is more fluid than a hard, clean line. There are rules and processes designed to facilitate that dynamic, but it isn’t easy to maintain consistent compliance in practice.
Whether elected or volunteer, public service comes with the responsibility to sometimes loosen one’s grip on an absolute position and accept a reasonable compromise. It also requires occasional conformity to uncomfortable or alien practices to how one operates as an individual, a family, or a boss.
Many of the people who step forward to serve the Cambria community are eager to “crush the ball” and drive positive change. Some are natural leaders, with the right combination of skills and experience needed for a particular role. Others are situational leaders, either by subject matter expertise, intense personal connection to an issue, or passion for a cause. Many, if not most, are good collaborators who find a place to contribute to the overall success of the team, and therefore the community. There are a few who struggle to recognize when they are holding on too tightly to a single style, not putting the greater good above personal philosophy.
Little League Baseball
When my son was much younger, I helped support his Little League team. I was not an official coach, just a father who knew a fair amount about the game of baseball, had a flexible schedule, and enjoyed watching the kids learn all the essential things that come along with organized sports. The official coach, Steve Galluccio, kept a group of rambunctious young boys on a good path while allowing enough freedom to keep it fun. He also had the remarkable ability to handle the difficult kids who would sulk or act out when they weren’t chosen to start or play the position they wanted.
My skill was in observing the players as hitters.
You can observe a lot by just watching. Yogi Berra
Two of the kids had great raw tools but made repetitive mistakes that limited their success. One boy was an obvious athlete – tall for his age, great disposition, and a joy for playing that made it look easy. His approach reminded me of the great Atlanta Braves outfielder Dale Murphy. The Little League version held his arms high, with shoulders level with his chin. His eagerness to hit the ball as hard as possible led him to violate the prime rule of hitting – keep your eye on the ball. When he started his swing, he would raise his front shoulder, which blocked his view of the incoming pitch. On those occasions where he connected, the baseball rocketed over the head of the outfielder. More often, though, he would miss the pitch badly. We worked on this problem throughout the season, and his success rate improved with each game.
‘The second player had a different batting style, though his desire to crush the ball also led to some bad habits. To generate more power, he would pull his arms way back as the pitcher released the ball, knocking him off balance and elongating the time it took to get the bat into the hitting zone. We worked on his starting point, moving his arms away from his body and keeping his hands farther back, in a ready position. We also worked on getting his feet spaced and balanced. The time he gained gave him split seconds to adjust to the location of the pitch. The phrase we used as a reminder was “fast hands, quiet feet.”
Put Me In, Coach
Like people everywhere, we sometimes refuse to listen and adjust our stance, relying on self-confidence that might be a bit misplaced. Not everyone can be right all the time. We all need coaching, and we all need to constantly evaluate our approach and make adjustments to meet the day’s challenge.
One of the many reasons I see baseball as an analogy for life is the century-plus history of those who enjoyed long and successful careers by making adjustments. Many pitchers, gifted with a blistering fastball that made them unhittable, found themselves getting touched up as they lost a bit of zip. Twenty-year major league pitcher Frank Tanana adapted by adding new pitches, changing speeds, studying hitters more closely, and knowing when to turn the ball over to a teammate. Derek Jeter could hit home runs but took a situational approach to hitting, amassing statistics that underscore his intelligence, team focus, and the judgment to adjust to the game situation. Will he apply the same philosophy to his new career as an MLB team owner? We will see!
Self-realization is powerful. So is listening to coaches who see things from a different perspective. As my good friend and mentor Rick Jablonski says, “give me the athlete, and I’ll teach him the game.” Great advice, especially with those who have the willingness for continuous learning and growth.
Like baseball, there is always a crowd watching every move, every choice, and every decision in public service. The beauty of it all is there are way more fans rooting for success than detractors hoping for failure. So, grab a glove or a gavel, suit up and enjoy the game.
Thoughts From The Back Of The Room 