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[jeffdominguez]

GROWING UP IN THE ‘BURG Trade, Commerce, and Tradition on the Sacramento River

Probably the first thing a person has to figure out when he moves to Clarksburg (other than where he’s going to live) is where he’s going to buy his groceries. For a town with a population overestimated at 366, you’d think that a single general store would be more than enough to ensure that the cupboards of the local denizens were always well stocked. Still, Clarksburg inexplicably offered TWO options in the way of shopping: Lawlor’s Market and Holland Market.

Lawlor’s stood proudly at the top of the levee on South River Road, overlooking the Sacramento River to its front side and the gentle ‘burg to its back. To its north side, it hugged Netherlands Road, for all practical purposes Clarksburg’s main street. After all, both the library and the high school were located on that particular drag, along with the Community Church and the Delta triangle, an odd triangular patch of land formed naturally by Netherlands, Park Avenue, and North School Street. Lawlor’s was finished in bright white stucco and trimmed in dollar green, and it had two swinging front doors, not unlike classic saloon doors, save for the fact that Lawlor’s doors were full length, extending from the floor to top of the door frame.

Beyond that, I can’t tell you much about Lawlor’s, because we were a loyal Holland Market family, and honestly, I don’t believe I ever spent a single cent at Lawlor’s. Absolutely nothing against Stu Lawlor, its proud owner. His son, Stan, was a senior at Delta High school when I was a freshman. Both were exceedingly amiable and undeniably decent guys, but we shopped at Holland Market. As Tessio famously explains in The Godfather, it was nothing personal, just business.

At the base of the levee where Lawlor’s stood, just as Netherlands Road flattened out, there was Holland Market. If you had a decent arm, you could stand behind the phone booth on the side porch of Lawlor’s and hit Holland Market with a rock. Not that anyone would ever throw a rock at Holland Market, but the two stores were oddly situated close enough to one another to do so. Holland Market’s shopkeepers, George and Bud McDonald, were beloved and active community members of Clarksburg. In addition to his duties running the front of the store, George was also the Chief of the town’s Volunteer Fire Department. His brother, Bud, drove a bus for the high school and grammar school every day before the first bell rang and after the last, but his primary occupation was as the store’s butcher.

When you had trash you wanted to burn, you headed into Holland Market and took a peek over the doorway of the butcher shop in back, at a sign marked “BURN” on one side and “NO BURN” on the other. It hung by a string on a nail, and George flipped it to the appropriate side every day, depending on prevailing wind conditions, I suppose. My grandparents—who raised me from birth—planned most of our weekends around the burning of our garbage. We didn’t dare leave a trash pile smoldering unattended in order to go call on friends or relatives or enjoy a meal out at, say, Freeport Café or Alma’s in Walnut Grove.

In Clarksburg, homes such as ours, situated on the outskirts of town were spread far apart, because they sat on huge plots of farmland, and the municipality wasn’t large enough to employ a garbage truck and crew to perform curbside pickup. Eventually, Tammy Camarillo’s dad got the idea to buy a used garbage truck and give it a go as a private commercial trash collector. Despite being based in the town of Hood, a few miles down, and across, the river, his business took off quite nicely. It seemed that people were willing to pay a substantial fee for having their garbage whisked away, and Mr. Camarillo’s idea met with great success. He was able to establish a big enough empire for his daughters to fight bitterly over when he sadly passed many years later.

Decades after leaving Clarksburg to attend college and, eventually, work, in Sacramento, it occurred to me that it was an odd thing to have two general stores in such close proximity to one another in a small town, and I gave some thought to how their business was divided. The division was actually fairly obvious all along, though it was never stated out loud or overtly pointed out at the time. It was mainly the more affluent crowd in the community who frequented Lawlor’s, prosperous farmers and the families of wealthy businessmen who purchased homes in the country to get away from the traffic and bustle of city life in the state capital. Curiously, that particular class of folks was somehow predisposed to patronage at Lawlor’s, and it became a bit of a status symbol to confine your shopping to that particular general store.

Meanwhile, down the hill at Holland Market, the clientele was comprised of the common man, the employees of local ranches, manual laborers, migrant farmworkers, and families of more modest means. The market was finished in white lap siding with bright red trim, a somehow homier contrast to Lawlor’s elevation. George devoted himself to stocking shelves, ringing folks up at the cash register behind the front counter, greeting incoming customers. His brother, Bud, was the store butcher, and he kept the glass case in the back stocked with amazing cuts of beef and pork, thick chops and steaks, mounds of freshly ground beef, fat sausages that seemed on the verge of bursting through their casings. There was also a sandwich counter in the back, where you could order a salami, ham, or bologna sandwich with or without cheese.

The options for your sandwiches were not nearly as exhaustive as those of the modern-day supermarket deli departments, with your choice of bread, Dijon or honey mustard, banana peppers, pickles, olives, etc. The sandwiches at Holland Market were all made on regular Rainbow Bread loaf slices, with plain mustard and mayo—you didn’t even get to choose your type of cheese, just whether or not it was included—but they were somehow the best sandwiches I’ve ever eaten. Perhaps it was because they were heartily consumed after a morning of summer football practice or endless hours of horseplay in the pool down at the high school, but those sandwiches remain a cherished culinary memory of my youth.

I used to be able to go in back at Holland Market, order a sandwich, grab a Pop-O soda in the flavor of my choice (usually root beer or grape), a bag of chips, and a candy bar, and take my haul up to the front counter, where, after George tallied my total, I would say, “Put it on my tab, George!” At which point, he would pull out a small binder with alphabetized dividers from behind the counter, open it to the “D” section, and write my total down. I’d sign the new entry and be on my way.

Grandpa would head into the store at the end of every month and square my bill with George. At dinner on those nights, the topic would inevitably arise. “Hey,” Grandpa would say to me, “I paid your bill at George's today. It was twenty-three dollars! What are you eating, gold?!” Grandma would shush him, explaining that a growing boy needed his nutrition (soda pop and candy bars included, obviously). After all, they didn’t want me wandering around town hungry, a horrible feeling that, sadly, was no stranger to either of them when they were my age…

While Lawlor’s may have held the tactical advantage of location, Holland Market was a wonder of comprehensive inventory. The store was small in square footage compared to the supermarkets in town, but George somehow managed to stock anything anyone might possibly need. To this day, I don’t know how he did it. Sure there were sacks of flour, and butter, and milk, all the staples, but did they have baking powder? Of course they did. It might not have been Grandma’s preferred brand, Clabber Girl, but George always had a few cans of Calumet on the shelf. He always had, it seemed, a few cans of everything.

Stumping George became a bit of a game for us, and I was often sent to the market to retrieve the oddest items. Thumbtacks? George had them. Diced olives? No problem. Spray starch? Here’s a can! Dry yeast, clothespins, birthday candles… check, check, check. You could even buy a pack of four-ought fish hooks or a pair of pruning shears at Holland Market. Why drive all the way into town when George had everything you needed in the comfort of our home?

Every year, around late May or June, George would post a flyer on the big bulletin board on the front porch of his store, next to the ice case: entry forms for the annual 4th of July Parade, organized by the Clarksburg Volunteer Fire Department. Whichever of your friends happened to be with you when the forms were first noticed on the board, he would be your parade partner that particular year. We’d decorate our bicycles with red, white, and blue streamers, our skateboards, our go-carts, our dogs, and take our place in the lineup.

The streets comprising the only logical parade route in the neighborhood would be lined with locals ready to enjoy the spectacle. The turnout every year was overwhelming, with decorated tractors and combines, fancy hotrods, the local Boy Scout Troop 83, the Delta High School Marching Band—nearly as many participants in the parade as there were enthusiastic spectators lined along the streets of Clarksburg, waving flags, clapping, and whistling.

George led the procession each year in an old relic firetruck on a 1925 Model T frame, owned by the department. It was kept by his crew in auto show quality, all spit shiny red and brass, and George had a small hose hooked up to the tank in back with a hand trigger nozzle. His driver would weave from side to side of the street along the parade route, and George would throw candy to the crowd from the front passenger seat and squirt a lucky spectator here and there to the delight of those who managed to remain dry. Clarksburg being a small town, the parade route was not very long, and recognizing that everyone, spectators and participants alike, went through a lot of trouble to prepare for the event, once George completed the lap around the block, it was not uncommon for him to continue on a second, and sometimes third, lap, just in case anyone had missed anything the first time around.

One year, I noticed that my bicycle tire had somehow flattened along the route, so I simply peddled over to Updegraff’s Chevron station up on the levee road, aired up, and returned to my place in the lineup which had somehow managed to muddle through in my temporary absence. Following the proceedings, the entire town headed over to the Volunteer Fire Department, where the crew would pass out popsicles to anyone who wanted one, and the winners in the various categories among all the entrants would be announced. I never won a trophy, but, just being alive and involved in the festivities, sitting there on my decorated bike with my buddies, sucking on a two-stick double pop in the July heat, my dog, Henry, at my feet, made me feel like the luckiest kid in the world.

And, honestly, I was.

[jeffdominguez]

Rough outro, Amiee's Song by Haycock Shoals

[jeffdominguez]

Particularly, the words of Jesus Christ.

[jeffdominguez]

Then fall, Caesar...

The passing of political firebrand Robbie Waters is a massive loss for the Greenhaven/Pocket community he once lovingly led with an iron fist  Robbie Waters was not a man who summoned ambivalent emotions among those who knew him. It may not be a conventional observation to note in memoriam that those who counted themselves as a man’s friends were more or less in pretty close proportion to those who… did not, but this is true of Robbie. Generally, a person’s feelings about him were either black or white. Somehow, very few opinions were ever gray.

If he liked you, there was no better friend to have in this world. He would throw the full weight and considerable power of his standing in the community and in citywide government, including law enforcement, behind your cause, whatever it may be. And if you crossed him, he was not one to forget it. You could bet that he would not allow you to forget it, either. He loved his city, especially his district, and he devoted tireless effort throughout his life to the betterment of both. People seemed to understand that about him—it was definitely a virtue—and he won election, and re-election, to the Sacramento City Council, for four terms in total. For 16 years, 1994-2010, he found himself perched atop a mini dynasty that recalled those old Chicago political machines, all run from his nerve center, a small office in the back of the True Value hardware store he co-owned in the Promenade shopping center.

Robbie was a legit hometown boy. He was born here in Sacramento in 1936. He attended Kit Carson Junior High and Sacramento High School. He excelled at sports and grew to be a “big fish in a small pond.” And as the pond grew, so did he, in proportion, putting him in the rare category of “big fish in a big pond.” After graduation from Sac High in 1954, he enlisted in the United States Air Force, and, upon his return home in 1957, he joined the Sacramento Police Department (SPD), where several chapters of his considerable legend would be written.

He climbed the ranks within the SPD like the kid who free soloed El Capitan, ascending great heights at a remarkably brisk pace, employing an occasional death-defying maneuver to get from station to station along the route. He was in charge of the Detective Bureau, served as a Lieutenant in the Homicide Division, ran Internal Affairs. He arrested a Manson-clan member who attempted to assassinate President Gerald Ford in Capitol Park. In 1975, following a dramatic shooting incident at Neptune’s Table ­­­­in the South Hills  shopping center, he was awarded the Sacramento Police Department Silver Medal of Valor.

Somewhere in all of this, he managed to earn his bachelor’s degree in Criminology from Sacramento State University, and he graduated from the FBI National Academy in Advanced Criminology. People tend to think of Robbie as a man who’s been handed things in life, but the almost absolute inverse is the actual truth. He worked nonstop for every accomplishment he realized. His heart pumped ambition. He inhaled opportunity and exhaled achievement. “Doing” was in his DNA. In 1982, he ran for his first elective office, Sacramento County Sheriff. And guess what: he won. He remained Sheriff until 1987.

His personal life, like his professional life, is marked by significant milestone achievements. His first personal home run came in the form of the diminutive Judie Kent, a blond girl he met on a blind date specially arranged after they’d spotted one another at a pool party they’d attended the week before, each with other dates. Like everything else he’d ever achieved, Robbie did whatever it took to make Judie his, and after a year-long courtship, they married. “I was 20 years old, and I weighed 99 pounds,” says Judie. Over the course of their marriage, she would prove to be worth her weight in gold to Robbie.

 Robbie and Judie were blessed with three great children, each born with a brightness that threatened their father’s considerable wattage, Dee Dee, Darren, and Danny. The Greenhaven neighborhood was more bare land than homes when Robbie took on the gargantuan task of constructing his own home—“Greenhaven 70” was the name of the development. With the help of many friends and family members, the home was finished in 1969, and the Waters moved in. 

After they installed their pool, the Waters residence became a hub among the children in the neighborhood. Behind the scenes, Robbie and Judie did what they could to eke out for their kids a childhood that was as normal and idyllic as could be expected when your dad is an extremely visible public law enforcement figure, Sacramento’s answer to a Clint Eastwood character, right down to the conservative politics.

Anyone who was active in any community endeavor in the Greenhaven/Pocket area was bound to cross paths with Robbie at some point. To enumerate all of his awards and accomplishments and civic memberships would be tantamount to emptying a can of alphabet soup in front of a reader. Separately, these achievements are each impressive monuments that speak volumes for his willingness to support a worthwhile cause with deeds rather than just words, for his selfless and remarkable bravery in the face of great danger, for the stunning level of proven expertise he possessed in his avocation. Collectively, they become the proverbial forest that obscures trees, a phone book of feats that simply cannot be properly appreciated when compiled into list format.

I knew Robbie because he co-owned the hardware store with my great hometown friend, Jay Weathers. Robbie always had a kind word in passing, a friendly greeting. We became forever linked in 1996, when I hatched an idea for a multi-pronged 4th of July celebration for our community—a parade, a carnival, and, eventually, an aerial fireworks display at Garcia Bend Park. It would be fashioned after the homespun Independence Day celebrations I enjoyed growing up in the Delta. It seemed to me like a natural for the Greenhaven/Pocket neighborhood. The first thing I could think to do was to go to Robbie for help in getting my plan off the ground, so I drove over to the hardware store and found him in his “district office.” He liked the idea, but he was a little skeptical about the scale I had in mind for the event. He was, after all, a politician now, and he had his eye steadfastly on the big picture, on public perception, on votes. In the end, though, he ensured that I had everything I needed to pull it off.

When the event was delivered, it was extremely well received and overwhelmingly embraced by the community. He was pleased, and he wanted a larger say in related decisions. That was a source of great conflict between us. We probably disagreed on more than we agreed on, and we argued strenuously while holed up in that back office at the hardware store. But not many people ever knew that kind of tension ever existed. In public, we were all smiles, and when it really counted, he had my back, and I had his. Politically, we were opposites, but we had this common interest that bonded us and fostered a mutual respect that remains of a value to me that I can’t adequately convey with mere words. And that, for me, is saying something.

This is who Robbie… was. It hurts to refer to him in past tense now. He was constantly climbing. He was no stranger to power, and he liked it, and he was good at it. He wanted to hold onto it, and he always wanted a little more. The latter of these is an exceedingly common human quality, a great thing when it’s wielded by a man whose heart is in the right place. And it’s a disaster when it resides in less of a man. Fortunately for all of us, Robbie was more of a man.

Robbie seemed to be the author of the philosophy, it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission. In fact, he personally introduced me to that approach to getting things done in a bureaucracy. We need look no further than the local controversy that developed when he ordered “City of Trees” to be painted on the Freeport water tower for an example. That was classic Robbie. But whenever a problem in our neighborhood came up that needed to be addressed, Robbie proved himself to be indispensable. He was supremely responsive, and he followed up the issue like a dog on a bone.

In my favorite Shakespearean play, Julius Caesar, Caesar is shown to be an incredibly effective leader, and Rome thrives under his reign. He is roundly loved by all of his people, and he loves them deeply in return. His detractors, however, point to his constant desire to expand his own power. They refer to him as ambitious, an unforgivable failing for a leader in those days. The senate members do Caesar in and turn the people against him, until Mark Antony comes along and reminds everyone that Caesar’s actions were always for the good of the people. We see, in brilliant oratory, how there are always two sides to a story. Human beings—even leaders, it turns out—are made in three dimensions, not one, not two. When Rome’s citizens are shown all sides of Caesar’s humanity, he is universally mourned.

Robbie Waters was brutally tough. He was undeniably ambitious. He was a formidable opponent to his political enemies. He could be short, blunt, uncomfortably plainspoken. He carried a grudge. And he was unapologetic regarding all of the above. But he also loved his family with all of his heart. And he loved his city. He enforced the law, and he kept us safe. He was willing to work tirelessly on behalf of a good cause. Above all, he was a relentless advocate for our community.

I encourage everyone to consider Robbie in full 3-D when thinking about his life and his legacy. You may come to bury him, but I promise you’ll end up praising him.

Rest in peace, Robbie.

[jeffdominguez]

Please listen to Part 1 of this story first. It will make much more sense!

[jeffdominguez]

This is a story about a local entomologist and friend of mine, Terry Allen, whose backstory seemed surreal to me the first time I heard it. But it took on a life of its own when he handed me a jar that virtually transported me into an old Steely Dan album that served as the perfect soundtrack for Terry’s story...

[jeffdominguez]

For a friend.

[jeffdominguez]

A little inspiration courtesy of Georgia Middleman...

[jeffdominguez]

I'm already declaring the Foo Fighters recently released album, "Wasting Light", the best album of the 21st century (so far!). Here's just one reason why...

[jeffdominguez]

"Cut me, Mick!"—One man's fitness quest ends in a ring

After my first boxing workout in about a decade, my body felt like Rocky's face looks, above. 

  NOTE: This feature will appear—in Spanish and English—in an upcoming issue of the popular Latino publication, Latin Star Magazine. 

By Jeff Dominguez

I walk into the Prime Time Boxing Club for my first one-on-one lesson feeling about as confident as a guy can possibly feel. That is, a guy in his mid-forties who hasn’t actually worked out in over five years, who is about 50 pounds overweight, and who found himself a little out of breath after putting on his socks that morning. But there’s no shame here. This is my current station in life: I got the kids all raised up to an age at which they no longer require my direct round-the-clock supervision, and, acknowledging the obvious decline in my level of personal fitness, I realize that it’s time to shift the focus a bit, back to myself. Clearly, if I want to stick around long enough to walk my daughter down the aisle and spoil my grandchildren, I need to concentrate on my health. As with millions of other men my age, the utterance, “I’ve got to get back into shape” spills from my lips every time I find myself in front of a mirror.

The options for exercise seem somewhat limited for a guy in my predicament. There’s always the health club, but, you know, I already belong to a health club, and it’s been years since I visited. Even when I do manage to make it in, I usually just hop on the bench press machine for a while, then end up deciding to cut my treadmill time in favor of a few laps in the pool. Of course, once in the pool, I end up marveling at the warmth of the water and floating around, my mind wandering as aimlessly as my body. Before you know it, it’s time to head home for dinner. This is no way to get fit.

Rather than rely on my admittedly flimsy sense of self discipline to get me into the health club, and, then, to power me through a workout, I need a source for motivation and direction in my quest back to fitness. I find that—and more—in the person of Angelo Nunez, co-owner of Prime Time and, as I discover later, a former professional light welterweight with an impressive pedigree, having fought guys like Oscar de la Hoya and Floyd Mayweather, Jr. The first thing Angelo asks is if I have any experience. Now, I don’t normally make a big deal out of it, but I inform him that, yes, I did some boxing... back in college... 25 years ago. Plus, I fought in the big Boxing Carnival at the end of the semester. As I speak these words, I realize that they are not nearly as impressive articulated out into the world as they were to me back when they were still in my brain.

Next, Angelo wants to see my stance. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” he says. I carefully hunch into the posture taught to me when I was a boy by my grandfather, himself a former welterweight who once “fought the guy who fought the champ” back in Fresno in an exhibition fight in the 1930s. Angelo clenches his chiseled jaw and purses his lips. “Throw a few punches,” he says. I flick out a jab or two. “Again,” he says. Now he’s got me going. “What’s the matter?” I think to myself. “Didn’t quite see the first one? Well here it is again! Don’t blink—you might miss it!” I’m bouncing a bit now. “Throw the one-two,” shouts Angelo. I throw the left and then the right. In my mind’s eye, I’m Ali, right down to the tassels on his boots. “Again!” he says. I comply. “Again!” I throw another one-two. Three or four one-twos later, I’m exhausted. “Please God, not another,” I plead in silent prayer.  Perhaps sensing my anguish, Angelo calls out to me to relax.

The first body blow I absorb in the gym, albeit figurative, is the realization that I’m doing just about everything wrong. Angelo spends the better part of the next hour completely reconstructing my 1930s stance and punching form. Seemingly every place where my body bends has a specific angle to assume. Toes, knees, waist, shoulders, elbows, thumbs, and chin all have their own prescribed positioning. I’m stunned and a little overwhelmed with the detail involved. It’s a wonder to me that a single punch is ever thrown in any fight, anywhere, with the precision required to do so properly. Left shoulder should be at 11 o’clock; the right at 5 o’clock. The toes of each foot are appointed their own hour, as well, but they seem to want to go on daylight saving time. After a few minutes of repetition, hard work, and expert advice, I’m exhausted, but my form doesn’t look half bad. Angelo has tuned me up in the space of about 45 minutes, and now I’m ready to attend any of the club’s classes.

After my session with Angelo is over, I stick around to watch him instruct the class that follows, to see what I might be in for if I were to attend. The combination of rope skipping, shadowboxing, and bag work is an incredible workout to behold, comprehensive in its scope, but not so intimidating that I lose the nerve even to attempt it. Quite to the contrary, I am eager to return to participate. Through it all, Angelo presides with equal parts of expertise, charm, and orneriness that belies the gruff, stark reputation of the sport. He is George Clooney playing Mickey in Rocky, in place of Burgess Meredith. As I watch, Angelo’s business partner, and wife, Cary Williams-Nunez, sits down next to me and we discuss the emergence of the traditional boxing workout as a viable option for a continuing, fit, lifestyle.

 “We have teachers, housewives, stockbrokers, people from all walks of life, from 20 to 60 years old, equal numbers of men and women,” she explains. “They’re either bored with their present workout, or they’re looking for something completely new and different to lure them back into working out again.” The combat aspect of the workouts is a unique framework in the pursuit of fitness, often carrying a special appeal for women. The end game isn’t necessarily to wind up in a ring, sparring a live partner. It’s living a fit lifestyle, although the club does offer controlled sparring two nights a week.

To me, the benefit to boxing for fitness is multifold: First, you have the obvious physical benefits inherent in such a rigorous workout. The coach is a key component, always present to motivate and instruct. Your comrades in the small group setting of the classes also bring a measure of accountability that is completely absent in the personal trainer scenario. And, in the process of staying in shape, you’re learning a rather significant skill—the art of defending yourself, the mastery of which brings an equally constructive psychological benefit, according to Williams-Nunez, a boxer and a model. “Our clients derive a very noticeable sense of self confidence,” she remarks. “They carry themselves differently once they realize that they can defend themselves if the need to do so were to arise.” That’s something you just can’t get from a spin class.

Not every boxing gym across the country has an Angelo and a Cary. If you’re interested in taking up boxing, make sure that you have an instructor with a suitable level of knowledge and the knack to motivate you. And, as with any form of rigorous workout, consult your physician prior to beginning, to ensure that you’re fit enough to undertake your new challenge. Locate a gym that can keep you wanting to come back for more, and you may not find yourself wearing a championship belt, but you just might find yourself cinching your own belt a few notches tighter.

[jeffdominguez]

You know you're from Sacramento, if...

 … you know that Captain Delta and Captain Mitch are not were not actually in the military.

 … just hearing the names "Bette Vasquez" and "Kristine Hansen" still makes your heart skip a beat.

 … you still feel a little funny driving around 4th and T Streets downtown.

 … you've ever thrown up in the parking lot at Confetti.

 … you hustled over to the nearest department store to get a free circular TV antenna for picking up Channel 40.

 … just when you're getting used to referring to "Florin Center" as "Florin Mall", you hear that they've leveled the whole place, whatever it's called.

 … you've seen a movie at either Skyview Drive-In or Fruitridge Drive-In.

 … you know what Hank Renner, Pat Patterson, Peter Maivia, Pepper Gomez, Don Morocco, and the Soulman Rocky Johnson did for a living that made them "Big Time" Sacramentans.

 … you've ever been to a Pig Bowl, a prize fight, or a concert at Hughes Stadium.

 … you remember when I-5 had a dead end.

 … you know “Tesla” used to be “City Kidd”.

 … you’ve ever bought groceries at Mayfair, Holiday Market, Van’s, Jumbo, Quality Market, Lucky’s, or Farmer’s Market.

[jeffdominguez]

The Gift of the Ordinary Day

I just watched this again for the first time in a long while. It's like someone sticking their hand into my chest, grabbing my heart, and wringing it like a sponge.

Sometimes, maybe on a weekend day, when we've just made breakfast together, and the kids are on the sofa, laughing, and we have no particular place to be that day, I'll look at Lisa and say, "This is the best day of my life."

It's not the cruises or the family reunions or the weddings or graduations I'll look back on with the fondest memories. It's days like these. My kids are right here. I know they're happy. I know they're safe. I can see them, walk right up to them and hold them, tossle their hair, share a laugh. I do not take this day for granted. I treasure it, even as it passes right in front of me. I don't know how my life will end, but I know that, when it does, I'll go clutching the memory of the gift of my ordinary days...

~JCD

[jeffdominguez]

Having children is like agreeing to let your heart walk around outside of your body.

Just said goodbye to Ruben. Back to UOP for another week of school. I realize I'm better off than a lot of my friends whose kids are away at college across the state or across the country, but when your heart is gone, it doesn't really matter how far away it is. It's gone...

~JCD

[jeffdominguez]

Cowardly Hate Crime, Intended to Intimidate, Has Opposite Effect on Local Neighborhood

Note: This story previously appeared in my column, The Pocket Watch, for the Valley Community Newspapers. My phone rang not long after, a call from Reader's Digest, seeking permission to reprint the story in an upcoming issue. Apparently, one of my readers had clipped it out and mailed it in to them. Of course, I agreed to allow them to rerun the story. That was the biggest paycheck I'd ever received for a single feature, and it now allows me to say that I've been published nationally and internationally, in 70 countries and 21 different languages!

  BY JEFF DOMINGUEZ

Sometime after sundown on Friday, February 17, in what was later revealed to be a racially-motivated act of vandalism, the home of the Jerrold Westbrook family was recklessly defaced by at least two perpetrators armed with several cans of spray paint.  At approximately 11:00 p.m. that evening, Westbrook and his wife, Virginia, the only African-American family in the immediate vicinity, returned to their home after running a few last-minute errands before a weekend trip upon which they were to depart the next morning.  As they drove into their driveway, they found the entire area of their home accessible to the front yard covered with streaks of red, green, and purple spray paint. "It was totally unexpected," remembers Westbrook, a minister who also works at a local elementary school, "so we couldn't really get angry.  We were more stunned and hurt, asking ourselves 'who would have done a thing like this?'"

Not content with merely destroying the paint job on the exterior walls of the Westbrooks' home, the vandals also sprayed paint into the deadbolt keyhole in the front door so that a key could no longer be inserted, and into the doorbell fixture outside, ruining the mechanism.  In addition, the home's windows and screens were painted, along with its front door handle and latch, door, peephole, entryway porch, sidewalks, masonry/brickwork, and even the family's welcome mat.  To be sure, it was a thorough job, obviously perpetrated by a frustrated mind that had found in an aerosol can of paint an outlet for its ignorance.

Unable to resolve the problem before their trip to Fresno to take care of an important family emergency, the death of a close relative, the Westbrooks were compelled to leave their defaced home early the next morning, dreading the crisis to be confronted when they returned.

Then, a funny thing happened.  Instead of hanging their heads and lamenting the Westbrooks' misfortune, the neighborhood, in a stirring act of unity and support, sprang into action.  Led by Terry Allen, a Neighborhood Watch leader, and Jim Brodie, a retired professional painter who lives across the street, the Westbrooks' neighbors, en masse, set out to undo what, unfortunately, society failed to prevent.  "They didn't do this just to you," Brodie had told the Westbrooks before they left for Fresno, "they did it to us, too, and we're not going to stand for it."

Allen and Brodie contacted the home's original painter, Don Stege, who offered advice in purchasing matching paint colors and using a stain-killing primer to remove the graffiti.  By the time they had returned from the paint store, Tom Blomberg, who provided all the acetone used, had already begun the cleanup of the windows and bricks.  Andre Schoorl handled the masking, primer, and preparation, and Brodie's wife, Violet, rescreened all of the windows herself, while their son, Robert, went to work cleaning the sidewalks.

Like a huge wave rolling through the immediate community, a groundswell of momentous proportions had been generated, and, one by one, the Westbrooks' neighbors came, rolled up their sleeves, and set to work.  Jeff Harada, from around the corner, painted the home's trim.  Maynard Kurahara came over to scrub the sidewalk and bricks.  Milo Moy took care of the window frames and polished the light fixtures and locks and, together with his Dad, Don, participated in the cleanup.  By the end of the day, virtually the entire neighborhood had checked in to offer either physical assistance, moral support, or both.

Ultimately, less than 48 hours after the home of one of the neighborhood's most highly regarded families was maliciously defaced by a pair of vandals with, apparently, strong index fingers and weak minds, there was nary a trace of the cowardly exploit.  The vandals' effort to intimidate had backfired fiercely.  Rather than retreating to quiver in their respective corners, the neighbors rallied behind the Westbrooks—even in the family's absence—and the entire neighborhood reaped a powerful sense of unity and strength that can only be achieved in the face of adversity.

Of course, when the Westbrooks returned home on Sunday, they were astounded and generally overwhelmed by the gesture.  "It had been a very difficult weekend," recalls Westbrook, "and we drove up here, and it was like a dream.  We couldn't believe it.  This house, the brass, everything, is better than it was before it was vandalized.  The feeling was joy on top of joy on top of joy—that's the only way I can explain it.  You could just see the tears welling up in my wife's eyes... and mine, too.  We feel a sense of gratitude toward our neighbors that we can never hope to repay.  It's something that I want to tell the world.  There are still real Americans trying to make a difference, and that's what (our neighborhood) is all about."

In the week that followed the incident, Jerrold received an anonymous phone call.  "You black son-of-a-bitch," the caller stated, "if you think what I did to your house was bad, just wait until I get ahold of you."  With that call, the vandals unwittingly upgraded the status of their offense to a racially-motivated hate crime, a Federal offense, prompting a full-scale FBI investigation that is currently underway.  Anyone who has any information that could possibly lead to the arrest of the vandals is encouraged to call the Sacramento field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation at (916) 481-9110.

The only unfortunate development that ensued from this entire episode is the fact that the crime is thought to have been witnessed by as many as two nearby neighbors, both of whom have refused any involvement in bringing the vandals to justice.  "What happens beyond my front window," said one, "is none of my concern."   To a group of neighbors still a little tipsy from the spirit of community that had reached a powerful potency, it was a sobering reminder that, while the solutions to society's ills will surely arrive with hard work, truly swift progress can be seriously impeded by a few weak links in an otherwise strong chain.

Still, as a whole, the neighborhood remains galvanized, united, stronger for weathering such obnoxious opposition.  "I have known loyalty in a lot of different settings," states Westbrook, "but never before have I known the sweetness and the togetherness of a neighborhood of people who love one another.  These people love me, and I love them, too."

Meanwhile, somewhere nearby, a vandal cowers in his home with a heart filled with hate, no doubt thinking that this is not exactly what he had in mind.

[jeffdominguez]

There are certain Latino songs that appeal to me on the most instinctive and natural levels, as though their beats were bred into my bones. From the time I was a very young boy, all the way through to the day I packed my things and moved out to go to college, I can remember hearing a specific repertoire of muffled rhythms through the walls of my home, as my grandfather, a drummer, practiced in the back bedroom. These patterns remained with me as though they were written into my genetic code. I could still hear them long after he stopped practicing, when I was at school or out playing with my friends. I could feel them rise out of everyday noises, basketballs being dribbled in the gym, car doors slamming shut, footsteps in stairwells.

A song need only remind me of one of my grandfather's rhythms, quieted in my life since he passed away in 2005, to compel me to listen more. Add beautiful orchestration to the mix, along with lyrics that create a lump in the throat, then I'm hooked. That is exactly the case with this tune from Panamanian actor, politician, musician Ruben Blades.

~JCD

[jeffdominguez]

Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

~Hellen Keller