While academia suffers no want of educated fools, an even greater number of fools are to be found among those steeped in the arrogance of presumptive ignorance among which the worst are those disparaging the Founding Fathers. Such ignorant fools have “read a book” and this “qualifies” them to speak insultingly of those like George Washington for example. These fools cannot but remind one of the story of the elephant and the fly. When the fly tells the elephant he must leave the elephant replies, “I didn’t notice you were here.”

The Father of our Country remains a near mythical figure in the annals of history, and while the “flies” are abundant none can detract from the genuine greatness of George Washington. And not a single “fly” can do other than simply be annoying as is the characteristic of all flies filled with a false sense of their importance. No doubt such flies believe they would be better off if America didn’t even exist, if there had never been any like our Founding Fathers who bequeathed us the freest nation in history and then in their presumptive ignorance disparage the very men who gave them the freedom to act like flies. But though the flies like to find fault as though they would have done better I doubt they would put their lives on the line as did those like George Washington for the sake of the freedoms We the People now enjoy and make Americans the envy of the world.

But speaking of freedom, my old farmer friend came by the other day and we got into a discussion about the quality of life here in the Kern River Valley. Russell and I go all the way back to that time when Isabella had a population of 36, so we share a lot of memories about the area before the “Dam People” moved in and the area began to be populated with “flatlanders.”

Russ and I agree that despite the many changes the quality of life makes the valley a very unique place to live, and we share a like gratitude for the blessing of being able to live here. Not only are the air and water clean, there is no traffic and no lines in which to wait for service. But such are the vicissitudes of human nature that if someone has to wait ten minutes at the DMV it is cause for complaint. And all too soon does the glory of the surrounding mountains, the pristine river and streams with trout become a commonplace to many and so taken for granted as to eventually pass unnoticed.

First moving to the Valley in 1948 with my grandparents to settle on a mining claim that is now Boulder Gulch Campground, I found this area every boy’s dream for hunting and fishing. The unspoiled forest, the wild Kern River and Bull Run Creek where trout abounded, it is no wonder that over the years despite encroaching "civilization" it remains my choice for quality of living; and I can hardly fault those moving here for the abundance of clean air and water, among other things.

Having long ago left off the hunting and fishing, now preferring to watch the quail, dove, and those beautiful gray tree squirrels rather than viewing them as food supplying the family pot, the mountains, Bull Run Creek and so many other things remain as they were when I was a boy.

Something else I have retained from those earliest years without electricity or indoor plumbing is an appreciation for simplicity in living, without any of the illusions. The Valley still affords people the opportunity to live simply and enjoy Nature.

Before plastering his cottage at Walden in preparation for his first winter there, Henry Thoreau wrote of how pleasing to the eye the rough, unfinished wood, the bark and knots exposed. I know what he meant. Having done so much building myself, there is something about the bare, raw wood of the construction, working it, the scent of it that makes the covering of it with things like plaster, drywall, stucco seem a somewhat melancholy task.

As a boy, I experienced the same thing with those marvelous balsa and tissue model airplanes. Once all the intricate work of construction was done, I would gaze at the model, all the various delicate parts fully exposed, all properly constructed and the nearly gossamer web work of formers, stringers, longerones, ribs that brought those carefully cut, placed, glued, and sanded parts together into an airplane and it was a somewhat melancholy task, the covering of such beautiful, intricate work of my fingers and mind with the tissue, and then the painting, concealing such a work of art constructed from what at first appeared to be a jumble of miscellaneous and seeming unrelated pieces with no discernable use or purpose.

Many years ago I would learn of the high prices being commanded for "used boards." People would buy old barns and outbuildings in order to have the weathered boards, sometimes intricately grooved or holed by insects, such boards being pleasing to the eye. Some were used for other forms of decorative construction, some used by artists. Speaking of which brings to mind a pet peeve; while many such uses of old, weathered boards are quite pleasing to the eye, a decorated toilet seat hanging on a wall just does not seem to either obscure or enhance its true, intended function, no matter the "art."

My own little cottage in the country has such boards mentioned covering my screened front porch. I look up at the weathered, bare wood with the same pleasure Henry expressed, considering it a sin should these weathered boards, mottled and stained with the rains and snows of many winters, April and May showers and summer heat, ever be profaned by paint.

Admittedly, with increasing age I do find myself increasingly coarse in my manner of living, and this applies to this little cottage in the country as well, where spiders spin their webs unmolested, except for the occasional black widow or recluse, and I enjoy the company of forest birds and critters. As my manner of life coarsens in some ways, it seems I take greater pleasure in things like butterflies and supplying fresh water daily to my wild, country companions.

I have lived in virtual palaces, with concomitant large mortgages, houses that would grace Malibu or Beverly Hills for which I could not even pay the property taxes today, that have not been so pleasing to my eyes as this decaying little cottage that seems to be gently weathering old age, keeping pace with me. What small amount of paint there is on exterior boards like fascia is peeling, the roof leaks, and these things seem in keeping with my own mood and lack of concern for such things in declining years, during which time the things I used to believe of so much importance and consumed so very much of my time, effort and money, so much of my life seem very nearly trivial to me now.

No, my mind still does good service and I have not forgotten why such things were once important to me. Admittedly a writer lives in their mind, welcoming the solitude of their thoughts rather than society, and generally wishes to simplify their lives for the sake of writing. It just seems that I could have chosen a better path long before I did the one I have been following these past few years, a life of simplicity without the acquisition of things, and has other priorities than the lives most account "successful."

I neither fault nor begrudge wealth to those who can responsibly use it beneficially. However, this requires a talent, and it is a talent, that I lack. Regarding philanthropy and works of charity, however, come to think of it Henry did mention his offer of help to the poor of Concord, provided they would live as simply as he did. The poor declined his offer.

Having caught a large lizard in the house, I took him outside and loosed him amongst the large granite rocks in the backyard where he will have more suitable accommodations, admittedly not the usual housekeeping chore enjoyed by those not privileged to live in my surroundings blessed by Nature. Not that I mind having lizards in the house with me; I’m kindly disposed toward the little fellows and they are good at keeping unwanted bugs and spiders cleaned out. But I don’t want to step on one barefoot in the dark, and they become too easy prey to the resident cat that despite my repeated threats of bodily harm to her like cutting her tail off behind her ears refuses to leave the little critters alone.

When I was a boy I anxiously awaited the warm weather as the opportunity to move my bed out of the cabin and place it under a large pine where I would be lulled to sleep by the balmy night breeze soughing through the pine needles, an Aeolian harp, one with the Universal Lyre the strings swept by the hands of angels. These many decades later, there is still magic for me in that whispered music.

Granting the difficulties of living without electricity and indoor plumbing, nevertheless I was thoroughly spoiled as a boy living on the mining claim here in the valley before the lake went in, to have the whole of this part of the Sequoia National Forest and the wild Kern River flowing unrestricted through the valley to myself to explore, hunt and fish to my heart’s content. Therefore it should not be surprising I would want to share this part of Creation with my children as they were growing up.

So at every opportunity I would bring my children here. I would teach them to camp, to fish and to shoot wherever possible in the areas I had come to know and love as a boy. And one of these favorite spots was Bull Run Creek, a pristine trout stream in a pristine wilderness, with its marvelous deep clear pools and sparkling water running over the rocks and waterfalls cascading down over water-carved granite no artist in sculpting could possibly duplicate. I cooperated with Forestry in those days keeping the trail clear all the way back to the old mine and tin shack, and was among those encouraging the present gate be installed at the end of Burlando Road in order to keep this pristine area from being trashed, as was beginning to happen with an influx of uncivilized people not properly “housebroken” before that gate was finally installed.

Surrounded by such abundant beauty of Nature as we are here in the valley, some may be inclined to take it for granted. But I will never forget one occasion that keeps me from doing so.

A young friend born and raised in Los Angeles had never been in a wilderness environment. Hard as it is to believe, there are those born and raised in metropolitan areas that have never heard the call of quail, have never seen more than a handful of stars at night, and have never experienced a native stream. While visiting such a stream with me, the young fellow bent over and putting his finger in the flowing water he looked up at me in wonder and asked, “Is this real water?”

I didn’t laugh; the question was a sobering one, and fortunately I was able to treat it with all the respect it commanded. Given the young man’s background it was far from being a silly question; and it was a forceful lesson to me never to be forgotten that we should never take the bountiful beauty of our valley for granted, but fulfill our obligation as custodians of these wonders and blessings of Nature.