Much in the manner of Nathaniel asking Philip “Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth?” poking fun at various places like Bakersfield is a time-honored function of the “literary set,” and writers like Sinclair Lewis did this with real artistry. Just the mention of my hometown is enough to cause titters among those in places like San Francisco, and while living there it seemed a sacred obligation on my part to punctuate the conversations at various cocktail parties with mentioning my birthplace of Weedpatch, which the doctor noted on my birth certificate was “near Bakersfield.” And while my mention of Weedpatch would elicit real interest among the literary set, no doubt because of the similarity to Al Capp’s “Dogpatch” that even the literati had to acknowledge, it was the mention of Bakersfield that caused the rolling of eyes and tittering remarks.

But beyond pricking the balloons of pompous asses by mentioning my “humble origin” to those that considered anyone with a Ph. D. being born in Weedpatch (near Bakersfield) as an insulting effrontery to the educated classes, to those that feel themselves superior by accident of birth or later choices of geography like San Francisco, there is a need to accept the fact that throughout the San Joaquin Valley there are the substantial drawbacks like world class air pollution and a preponderance of non-English speaking people that cannot make any contribution to raising the standards of culture in places like Bakersfield and Fresno. Nor can Bakersfield easily escape either its past or being more readily associated with Buck Owens and the Crystal Palace rather than our museums, book stores and art galleries.

So it was that in all seriousness I suggested the Padre Hotel be made into a world-class “gentleman’s club,” something to outshine any pleasure palace to be found in places like Las Vegas. I gave my reasons for believing this should be done, and it would certainly give Bakersfield real stature and shut the mouths of detractors in places like San Francisco. But alas, my sound judgment and reasoning has thus far fallen on deaf ears. What politicians continue to believe to be their private domain concerning prostitution and drugs coming with elected office continues to be denied ordinary citizens.

While Kern County has come far since the impact of the Dust Bowl days, none of us a product of those sincere and honest people that settled here would want to deny our heritage of the best of civilized manners and speech representative of the southerners like my maternal grandfather John B. Caldwell that came here back then. However, the music that became known as the “Bakersfield Sound” in those early days would be foresworn by those whose pretentiousness would deny such a thing.

As radios played throughout Bakersfield we children would often pick up some of the lyrics that went with the catchy tunes being played. And because the producers were not always circumspect in the choice of programming, some of these songs had lyrics that did not fit the moral code of our elders. But then, the catchy jingles on radio advertising things like Dr. Pepper, Pepsi Cola, and Shredded Ralston were often intermixed with the music programming and some of this apparently went unnoticed by many of the adults.

While I was attending Mt. Vernon Elementary during the early 40s the school was having a talent show. As one of the better singers at school I was volunteered by my teacher to sing in front of the whole school. She had a few selections for me to choose from like “Red River Valley” but none of them seemed to hit me quite right. They just didn’t fit my mood. Bakersfield radio stations carried many good musical programs and I was always listening to music from the radio, the church, and mom’s records, and I had memorized many of these songs. As a result I had an extensive repertoire of widely diverse songs and decided to do one of my own favorites. But I failed to share this decision with the teacher. And so it was that the principal, teachers, pupils, members of the PTA and others were treated to my rendition of that great and famous ballad popular in Bakersfield at the time: “Cold Icy Fingers.”

Bill Jackson was a fellow that believed in hainted sights
He used to dream about them when he went to bed at night
And when he dreamed about them you could nearly always tell
He’d just pull back his covers and jump right up and yell
Keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me
Keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me
I don’t mind your naked bones
Don’t mind your hollers and your groans
But keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me

One night as Bill was passin’ a graveyard on a hill
Somethin’ dressed in white jumped out and made a grab at Bill
Bill said you may not catch me but I’ll make y’ do your best
But 'fore we start t’ travel, I’ll make one last request
Keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me
Keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me
You can chase me out of breath
You can scare me half to death
But keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me

Bill went to see a doctor with a misery in his chest
The doctor looked at Bill and said take off your coat and vest
He started tappin’ on Bill’s wrist and gave Bill such a shock
That Bill just jumped right back and said now wait a minute Doc
Keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me
Keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me
You can cure my aches and ills
With your powders and your pills
But keep them cold icy fingers off ‘a me

The teacher was most unforgiving. Little did she realize how lucky she was that I didn’t treat everyone to “Cocaine Blues” (circa 1942), my alternate choice. Looking back, I think it was the reference to naked bones that got to her. She was quite the old maid. However, if any of you are wondering about the lyrics to that other old favorite, one line went “Took ‘a shot ‘a cocaine ‘n’ I shot m’ woman dead.” It’s quite a rouser and you may imagine how the rest of lyrics went from that sample. Parents take note: Simply marvelous the things that attract the minds of children, things to be memorized for a lifetime. I’ve now shared with you an example of my own cultured tastes and refinement that knows no bounds, and I am always anxious to share the bounty of my childhood with others who have similar, discriminating tastes. So much for any pretentiousness on my part; it is far better to be honest; after all, why live like a politician in constant fear of being exposed?