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It-Spo-Iotisti - Truth (The Californians 1992) (6 pages)
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Page: of 6
to give the island of Alcatraz a proper identity anda “real history.” It is easy for modern
people to think that the history of Alcatraz
began when a foreign ship sailed into the
bay and a stranger named Don Juan Manuel
de Ayala observed the “rock” and recorded
it in a log book in 1775 as Alcatraz. That
episode, that sailing and that recording was
only moments ago.
Grandfather said that the Sacramento
Valley was, long ago, a huge fresh-water
lake, that it was “as long as the land” [from
the northern part of California to the
southern] and that a great shaking of an
angry spirit within the earth caused part of
the coastal range to crumble into the outerocean. When the huge lake finally drained
and the waves from the earthquake finally
settled, there was the San Francisco Bay,
and there, in isolation and containing a
“truth,” was Diamond Island (Alcatraz).
We were in his little one-room house in
Atwam. It is cold there in the winters. Bitter
cold. I arrived late in the evening, the tires
of my truck spinning up his driveway, a
series of frozen, broken mud holes across a
field in the general direction of his home.
The head lights bounced out of control. My
old 1948 Chevy pickup was as cold inside
as it was outside. The old truck kept going
but it wasa fight to make it go in the winter.
It was such a struggle that we called it “Mr.
Miserable.” Mr. Miserable and I came to a
jolting halt against a snow bank that was
the result of someone shoveling a walk in
the front yard. We expended our momentum. The engine died with a sputtering
cough. Lights flopped out.
It was black outside but the crusted snow
lay like a ghost upon the earth and faded
away into every direction. The night sky
trembled with the fluttering of a million
stars — all diamond blue. Wind whipped
broken tumbleweeds across his neglected
yard. The snow could not conceal the yard’s
chaos.
The light in the window promised
warmth. Steam puffing from every breath,
I hurried to his door. The snow crunched
underfoot, sounding like a horse eating a
crisp apple. The old door lurched open with
a complaint. Grandfather's fatigued, centenarian body a black silhouette against the
brightness — bright although he had but a
single lamp without a shade to light the
entire house. . saw a skinned bear once. It
looked just like Grandfather. Short, stout
arms and bowed legs. Compact physique.
Muscular — not fat. Thick chest. Powerful.
Natural.
Old powder-blue eyes strained to see who
was out there in the dark. “Hallo. You’re
just the man I’m lookin’ for.” Coffee aroma
exploded from the open door. Coffee.
Warmth!
Grandfather stood back and I entered the
comfort of his jumbled little bungalow. It
was cozy in there. He was burning juniper
wood. Juniper cured for a summer has a
clean, delicate aroma —a perfume. After a
healthy hand shake we huddled over
steaming thick, white cups made grey in the
dim light. Grandfather looked long at me.
I think that he was not totally convinced
that . was there. The hot coffee was good.
It was not a fancy Colombian, aromatic
blend, but it was so good!
We were surrounded by years of Grand-