We've Got History

I am not a native Californian.

I was born in New Jersey (Exit 5), moved to Maryland at age six and spent the next ten years singing Maryland My Maryland and strolling the cobbled streets of Annapolis.  We moved to California when I was sixteen. The Spanish names hit me like a knock down ice cold Pacific Ocean wave.  El Camino Real, Paseo Padre...so unlike the Pine Trails and Holly Lanes of my childhood.  As we passed the enormous statue of Junipero Serra off the 280, pointing at...pointing at...what?

I didn't care.

Nope.  I was not interested.  I was an Anglophile...a J.R.R. Tolkienophile...  I cared nothing for the Spanish Missions or the Mexican rancheros.  I couldn't even work up much enthusiasm for the 49ers.  I liked old English names that felt quaint and cozy.  You can take your Los Gatos, I'll have my Fox Hollow, thanks.

So as my kids grew I began to be sad that they were missing out on American History by growing up here.  I tried to make up for it when I could, like when the Nina docked at Santa Cruz.  But they wouldn't get the fifth grade trip to Williamsburg that I had so enjoyed, nor would they come across old bottles when digging in the woods.  Sniff.  So I decided to do something about it.  They couldn't grow up immersed in colonial history, but Evelyn could have a fifth grade trip and we'd all go along for the ride.  I planned out a Revolutionary Road Trip.  We spent six weeks traveling from St. Augustine, FL to Boston, MA.

It was even better than I imagined.  We got accidentally locked in the Castillo San Marcos after closing, we sifted pipe stems and pot shards out of the dump behind George Washington's Headquarters at Valley Forge,

But something both funny and necessary happened at Williamsburg.  I was there loving it, being so happy that my kids could have this essential American experience, when a docent asked where everyone in the group was from.  My kids said, "California!"  And the guide said, "Aw.  I feel so sorry for people from California.  You have no history."  And in that moment I saw myself as if in a mirror, and the spell upon me was broken.  I saw my prejudice against California history for what it was: ridiculous!

At the end of the trip I made this vow:

If anything this trip has given me a profound sense that time is short for the vast wealth of things there are to do and see in this world. I vow that when I am home I will not return to sluggish complacency. When I see them, I am going to turn off and follow where the park signs lead.

And we have.  There was this Point of Historical Interest, for instance.  Sometime during the course of this year I decided that we'd done the fifth grade Colonial American experience for Evelyn, so we'd do the quintessential fourth grade experience for Clementine.  Not that we care about grade levels or anything...I just have this paranoia that my kids will feel that they missed something by not going to school...so if something schools do seems particularly fun I try to make it happen.

So we toured old Monterey and learned about the whaling trade and Spanish and Mexican periods.  We'd been to Empire Mine before, and Marshall Gold Discovery Park.

But I wanted to do the gold rush right and proper, immersion style.  The last month or so while I've been barely present here in the blogosphere I was planning a two day trip to live like miners in canvas cabins at Malakoff Diggins State Historic Park.  We'd cook over an open fire, dip candles, make lanterns, and visit the diggins.  Well, on Monday and Tuesday we were there.

Check back in a few days to see how it went.