When people ask me where I’m from, I say:
Oh, I was born and raised in Eureka, in Humboldt County. Right on Pacific Ocean. Misty lagoons. Six Rivers. Very isolated. Bigfoot Country. Just south of the Oregon border.
Never, ever, do I say the ‘C’ word.
The ‘C’ word means Palm trees. I’m from a place with Redwood forests older than the birth of Jesus.
The ‘C’ word conjures visions of surfer chicks who run in slow motion. Our surfers wear heavy wetsuits, risk hypothermia and ride waves that sink fishing boats.
The ‘C’ word makes people think of smog and year-round sunshine. I grew up in the land of limited visibility. Fog and rain and cold. All year long.
The ‘C’ word draws a picture of loud-colored baggie shorts and tank tops and sunglasses. We wear jeans and hoodies and Carhartt and boots.
To the enlightened, the ‘C’ word might mean The Golden Gate Bridge and Fisherman’s Wharf. I grew up thinking San Francisco was Southern California. Eureka is 300 miles north of that beautiful city by the bay. When the first big rain storm washes the mountainside at Confusion Hill across Highway 101, which it used to do every single year, we lived behind the Redwood Curtain.
I’m coming back to Eureka in a few weeks.
On May 4th, 6-9, I’ll be at Café Nooner for Arts Alive! The next day, 11-2, I’ll be hanging at Café Nooners Too in Henderson Center. Signing books, visiting with old friends. May 11th, I’m throwing a Bigfoot Party at The Shanty. 6-9 Come on down and visit. See bigfoot. Buy a book, I’ll buy you a drink or a cherry coke–depending on where you are on your journey.
So, where do I tell my friends I’m going in May on this little whirlwind book tour?
I tell them I’ll be in the Humboldt Nation. Just south of Oregon.