Anarchist to Abolitionist: A Bad Quaker's Journey
The Ridgecrest Years
Cindy and I only lived in Trona for a few months, then we moved to Ridgecrest, about 30 miles from the Westend factory. Most of the time, I made the commute to work on my motorcycle. Mile after countless mile, up and down Poison Canyon, sometimes so hot you didn't dare expose skin to the convection power of the heated air blasting past. Not to over emphasize the harshness of the Mojave, but if you just consider the place names in this desert, and realize each place has a reason it was named thusly, then you can get an honest picture of life there. Some examples: Poison Canyon, Death Valley, Stinky Socks, Gold Hill, Silver Queen, Lost Canyon, and Jaw Bone Canyon to name a few, were all entirely appropriately named places.
When we left California City, we did so to escape the drug culture that we were immersed in at the time. The drug culture was just as prevalent in Ridgecrest, but we weren't a part of it and we didn't know any of the local drug connections. This is an important point; changing your location to flee a drug problem or any other problem you have, will only work if you change yourself at the same time. Cindy and I understood this point, and we set about changing ourselves.
We had stayed in a motel a couple nights when we were transitioning from Trona to Ridgecrest, and there was a Book of Mormon on the nightstand. I spent a few hours skimming around in it trying to get the gist of the religion. I thought it was interesting, so I decided to just walk to the local Bible book store a few blocks away and buy a copy. The man at the book store explained as best as he could, that many if not most Christians consider Mormonism to be a cult. He was a bit hesitant to share his thoughts in any depth, but he gave me a small book about Mormonism and a small Bible for free. He said that if I read that little book on Mormonism and still wanted a Book of Mormon, that I could stop by the Mormon Temple across town and they would likely give me free material and maybe the book free, too.
I read his little book and decided Mormonism wasn't for me. But I also started reading the Bible he gave me. I hadn't read the Bible in years, but my grandmother used to sit and read it to me in the evenings sometimes. It was familiar, so when I read it again, the stories started coming back to me.
After about a year in Ridgecrest, Cindy and I decided to try a small nondenominational church that was meeting in a local school cafeteria every Friday night. They had just purchased some land, but hadn't started construction on their building. They had a very young congregation, many in their 20s and 30s, and very few over 40, so we fit right in and felt welcomed by the warmth and love of the people.
At the time I was consuming as much reading material as I could get my hands upon. I bought books when we could afford them, but mostly I made use of the Kern County Library system. Often, Cindy and I would visit yard sales and I would always pick through their books looking for something interesting. I didn't care for fiction of any flavor. I was seeking truth, not fantasy. I looked for books on history, theology, geography, economics, and even metallurgy. But mostly, I was fascinated with the history of Christian theology and doctrine, specifically how it developed and how it changed over the centuries. The most expensive books I bought couldn't be found at the library, nor at yard sales. They were Hebrew dictionaries, Greek dictionaries, concordances, and copies of early scriptures.
I also did a lot of fasting, meditation, and introspection to really try to figure out who I was and why I was alive. My personality shifted dramatically, to the point that I couldn't even explain to people my previous life in the drug world, because they thought I was not capable of such things. They would refuse to believe me.
It was during this time that I was properly introduced to the concepts of libertarianism. I had bumped into libertarians before, in 1979 when I was working with NORML to try to change marijuana laws in California, but that exposure was very limited. However, one of my coworkers at Westend was a staunch libertarian, and quietly an anarchist. We didn't get to talk much due to the vastly different jobs we did, but when we did talk, it was very productive. Also, around the same time, I found an interesting book at a yard sale. It was one of a four volume set of books by Murray Rothbard titled Conceived In Liberty. I think I may have paid a couple dollars for it.
I already had a healthy skepticism in regards to the government sanctioned version of history that schools taught, as I had discovered quite a few lies in school history books some years earlier. But now I had a book that would drive me to question everything I thought I knew about history. This, coupled with my growing skepticism regarding religious dogma, doctrine, and organized religion as a whole, was quickly changing who I was and what my charge was in raising my family.
I became involved with the local Libertarian Party, and spent some of my free time meeting with them, hearing their ideas, and in mild debates with them. One of the strategies we were developing was to infiltrate the local Republican Party and try to get one of us to be chosen as a delegate to the upcoming 1988 Republican Convention, where we could pull off some kind of stunt to get the cameras on us, and then reveal a Ron Paul banner. We thought we were so smart, but actually we were just doing what libertarians have tried over and over with the same bad results. As it turned out, several Republican Party groups had also been infiltrated by libertarians that year.
I ended up being chosen by the Republicans as one of the stand-in delegates. They paid for me to fly to the convention and set me up with a room, shared with three others. When I arrived at the hotel, one of the delegates was waiting for me near the front door. He told me that I was already checked in and he gave me my room key. He said I was late for an important meeting and I needed to let the bell hop take my baggage to my room, so he could take me straight to the meeting, as they were waiting for me so they could start.
I gave the bell hop my bag and a five dollar bill and followed the man up some stairs to a room where about a dozen men and two ladies were waiting. The delegate I was with introduced me and left the room. An older man stood up and began speaking. He read each of our names from a paper on a clipboard. Then, he explained that someone in the Party suspected we were libertarians, there for disruptive reasons, rather than in support of the Party. We were told very clearly that if we did anything to disrupt the convention, or if we so much as mentioned Ron Paul's name or the Libertarian Party on the convention floor, we would be removed from the convention and we would have to pay for an incredible hotel bill just to have the honor of leaving. (Again, this was 1988, not 2012.) We were also instructed that we were expected to support George Bush. I went straight from that room to my room, packed my bag, and left for home. Well, actually I ordered dinner and charged it to the room first, then left without checking out.
I wasn't lured back to politics until Ron Paul ran for president as a Republican in 2008. At that time I forgot every lesson I had learned and supported him. It was a stupid mistake that I won't repeat ever again.
Working at Westend allowed me plenty of reading time. We were allowed to read on the job, so long as our work didn't suffer because of it, so I took advantage of my spare time by filling my head with facts. One of my duties at Westend was to operate a natural gas powered GE 5000 Series turbine electric generator with attached high pressure steam boiler. Assuming nothing went wrong, and nothing ever went wrong, I had pretty much nothing to do but read for eight hours a day. Once an hour, I would walk around the generator and boiler and manually check each of its gages, and write down temperatures and output levels, but that took less than five minutes, so the rest of the hour was mine to read as I wished.
This is a good time to mention the Mojave's most evil child, the tarantula hawk. To give you an idea of this little monster, just consider that entomologists that study tarantula hawks advise that if you're ever stung by one, your best course of action is to quickly lay down and scream. But don't lay down where the tarantula hawk is trying to bury its catch, or it may sting you again. They advise this because people stung by a tarantula hawk tend to do stupid things like run into walls and ditches, run into traffic, or run into a cactus. Do an Internet search and you'll see what I mean.
Wikimedia
The female tarantula hawk flies around at a height between about human crotch level and human face level, across the desert floor looking for tarantulas. Upon finding one, they attack and sting it. This paralyzes the spider, but doesn't kill it. They then drag or, if the tarantula hawk is large enough, fly with the spider hanging underneath, to the hole they have prepared. There they lay a single egg on the spider and bury it. The living spider provides the tarantula hawk larva its first meal. Here's the weird part; the female never needs to encounter a male tarantula hawk in this whole process. Unfertilized eggs still produce a male tarantula hawk. Fertilized eggs produce female tarantula hawks.
During my hourly rounds, I would often see a very large tarantula hawk, usually with a tarantula in tow. Evidently, the sandy soil around the turbine at Westend was a favorite place for her to bury her hairy victims. If you didn't pay attention as you walked around the turbine, you could unintentionally find yourself in her path, and she wouldn't give ground. She expected you to get out of her way. With the above knowledge, you'd be surprised at how fast you can swivel your hips and get out of the path of a tarantula hawk that's approaching your crotch. Day dreaming while walking in the Mojave is never a wise option.
Imagine a world with tarantula hawks the size of condors. In such a world, we would be the ones paralyzed in a hole in the ground, with a larva feeding on us. Wow, this is getting weird, let's get back to talking about reading and religion and junk.
Cindy and I made some good friends at this new church, but we also dedicated a large portion of our energy and income to it. Between the construction of the new church building and other church related projects, we were constantly busy doing something with the other church members. Because the congregation was so young, there were a lot of babies, and the church was growing fast bringing in more and more young couples with little babies.
This was perfect for Cindy. Around this time, she was pregnant with our son, then the next year she was pregnant with our first daughter, and this church was the perfect fit for us. They were super supportive and being around several other young women that were pregnant at the same time was tremendously helpful with Cindy's pregnancies. Cindy helped with the church nursery and the church school, and it was very rewarding for her.
Since the church was so youthful, the music was very upbeat and a very important part of every meeting. They always had between five and twelve band members, and some of the congregation had donated a very nice sound system to the church. I started out helping with the sound system as soon as the building was completed. Soon, I was completely in charge of the sound for the church. That included making sure every sermon was recorded and copies were made available, and every band practice was provided with professional sound support. The church band began going on the road to other churches and also playing in public parks and so on, so it was my job to be the "roadie" that moved all the equipment from location to location, set up everything, ran the sound system, then broke it all down and transported it back to our church building or to the next venue. It was a lot of work.
As much as Cindy and I loved the friendship and fellowship we found at our church, my studies seemed to drive me away from their theology and doctrines. The more I learned about early Christian doctrines, the more I realized modern Christianity is nothing like the teachings of early Christians. Also, the fanatical attachment to modern versions of the Bible, including and especially the King James Version, fly in the face of the historical evidence on the matter of Christianity itself.
I don't want to make this a theological dissertation, but as beautifully written as the King James Bible is, with its Elizabethan language and style, it's far from being consistent with Christianity at any historical point in time. And due to the popularity of the King James Version, pretty much every newer version is polluted by the flaws of the King James.
If I have offended you with my criticism of the King James Version, please consider one thought before you judge me. If today, writing this in 2019, His Most Magnificence and Divine, President Of The United States, Donald John Trump (dirt bag that he is), or his magnificent (baby killing) predecessor, Barack Hussein Obama II, were to commission and authorize the production of a Bible, then be so arrogant as to place his name and approval upon it, would you consider it to be the actual words of God? Because I have studied the life and actions of the actual James Charles Stuart, the so called King James, and I can tell you that James was the exact same kind of slime that Trump and Obama are today. There is no difference, except that James could have the innocent murdered in front of him for his entertainment, while Obama and Trump slaughter their victims by the hundreds at a time at great distances. But all three are the same kind of bloody murderers. Is this who you trust to deliver the Word of God? And, if so, what kind of god is this that you worship? Such a god would make Odin look away in shame!
As you can imagine, things eventually turned sour for us at the church. Specifically, my questions to the leadership and visiting clergy became more and more uncomfortable for them to answer. It's kind of like what Terry Jones said about the movie Life of Brian; it wasn't blasphemous because it doesn't touch on belief at all, it's heretical because it questions dogma. After a while, it became clear to me that we wouldn't be able to maintain our relationship with organized religion for the same reason I was coming to the conclusion that I hated working for a major corporation. It was all politics, and advance was based on conformity, while tearing someone down in order to rise up. These are not the acts of men of honor who are dedicated to seek the truth. Of course you don't expect honor in the corporate world, but one would think that so called "men of God" would seek the truth at the cost of everything else, but rather they seem to seek the praise of their fellow men.
Eight years I spent at Westend, getting exposed to carcinogens, while breathing air contaminated with crushed glass and caustic chemicals, all the time enduring the blazing heat, just over a hill from a valley literally named Death. In addition to working in one of the hottest places on earth, the entire factory was crumbling. There were 12" steel I-beam structural supports holding up the buildings around us that were so badly rusted, you could stick your hand right through them. One of my best friends at Westend was walking on a walkway over a tank that was usually full of a boric acid solution, but had been emptied for maintenance. The flooring of the walkway had rusted out and it gave way, dropping him about forty feet into the tank. On his way down, the large impeller that stirred the solution partly broke his fall, and his pelvis. He was fortunate and somehow survived. Others weren't so lucky.
One odd thing I should mention about working at Westend is that you learned to constantly glance at the floor as you made your rounds, or anytime you were walking in the chemical plant. If you spotted a puddle or wet spot on the floor, you didn't dare walk over it or step in it, because it could be an acidic or caustic material. The last thing you wanted to do was step under an acid leak. That was life at Westend. The floor could give away at any moment and acid could drip on you when you least expected it. Much like the Mojave itself, if you didn't pay attention, Westend would bite you.
Oh, don't get me wrong. Kerr McGee made sure every OSHA (Occupational Safety and Health Administration) rule was followed to the letter, so we were certified by the government to always be 100% safe. We wore plastic hard hats, safety glasses, and hearing protection almost everywhere in the plant. We had monthly safety meetings where some company stooge would encourage us to be safe. We were offered trinkets if there were no reported injuries for the whole year. I mean, imagine the scenario where a guy is about to stick his hand into a rotating gear, but it dawns on him that if he shoves his hand into that gear and is mangled, the "team" won't get that pocket flashlight with the company logo. No sir, he wouldn't do that to the "team", so he puts his hand right into his pocket and throws off any ideas of grabbing that rotating gear.
Wikipedia
Yup, that makes perfect sense. Company safety policies for the win! Now let's go out there and paint that rusted support beam Safety Yellow, rather than replacing it because safety first.
About two years after I was hired, a few of the guys at the plant decided to try to form a rescue squad that was specific to mining and industrial needs. In the Searles Valley, where the Westend plant is located, Kerr McGee owned thee large chemical plants that they have since sold. In addition to the chemical plants, Kerr McGee owned a quarry that fed limestone to the Westend plant. Also, the Mojave Desert is riddled with abandoned mines and mine shafts, some of which can be straight vertical shafts of one hundred feet or more. Many of them contain pockets of poisonous hydrogen sulphide gas that can kill with one breath. Most of these mines were not marked and dirt bikers would sometimes fall into them and become trapped or killed. A mine and industrial rescue team would be helpful in the facilities, but would also be great for the surrounding communities. The guys pitched the idea of a rescue team to the Kerr McGee executives and the executives agreed to fund it 100%. We were thrilled! I volunteered to be in the first squad to be trained, and I stayed in the squad as long as I worked at Westend.
It was fun training. We learned all the basics of mountain/ice climbing and all the basics of rescue work. We learned basic first aid and triage, but we weren't attempting to be paramedics. We knew going into this that we would mostly be doing body recovery work. That's not fun or glamorous like "rescue" work is thought of or how it's portrayed on television, but it was the reality of our job.
Cindy and I had some friends visiting our home once, years later, and we were all telling things about our lives. I made the mistake of telling the story of just one of the incidents I was called out to handle when I was on the rescue squad. As I finished the story, I realized what a terrible thing I had done. I had painted a picture in their minds of the horror that I see whenever I think of that night when I was called out to the Argus plant for a "rescue". I should not have burdened them with that image. So, I won't tell the stories of the rescue squad again. I'm happy to say that due specifically to my training, I have saved two lives, one of which was a child. But you never wake up from a dream where you save a life and everyone goes back to what they were doing. You wake up from the dream that replays over and over, where you're picking up parts of a body and putting them in a bag for the county coroner, while the blood just gets deeper and deeper around you.
Being a part of the rescue squad was rough work but incredibly rewarding. It's not for everyone. If I hadn't learned so young how to shut down my emotions and bring up the grit during an emergency, I would not have made it on the squad.
Setting aside the heat, the chemical exposure, the physical dangers, and the hard work at Westend, the thing I hated the most was the corporate politics. By that I mean the constant struggle between people in the company to get ahead of others through any means available, including character assassination. The back-stabbing and the power struggles sickened me. I hated it. Success wasn't measured in hard work or production accomplishments. Success came in tearing someone down so you could climb on top of them to reach the next person who you would then tear down.
So I quit Kerr McGee, I left Westend, and I took a job delivering pizza in Ridgecrest. No, you read that right,with two little kids and a wife to support, I went from a good paying career as an engineer to a delivery boy. Cindy and I had looked at restaurant franchise programs and decided one national pizza chain was our best bet at owning our own restaurant. So I risked everything and jumped in head first.
Head first! LOL! Concussions! You either get it or you don't. Ok, back to the story...
The idea was that if you successfully managed one of their pizza restaurants for a year or longer, and if a company superintendent or a franchisee would vouch for you, then they would finance you 100% to own your own franchise pizza restaurant. It was 1988 and it was time to get out of the chemical factory and build a future for my family. And what better way than to own our own business? No back-stabbing, no corporate ladder, no office politics, just the free market! We make pizzas and sell them to people who want them, then we toss a cut of the profits to the big pizza company so we can use their name and advertising.
I know, I know; yes that is ridiculously naive. I was twenty-seven at the time. My brain hadn't fully developed yet.
Let me just point out that I don't particularly want to be sued, so rather than mention the name of this highly litigious pizza restaurant company, I will replace their name with "pizza restaurant" and "pizza company". It’s bad writing when you over use a word or a phrase in a paragraph, so when you see me say these phrases, it's because I am avoiding a lawsuit.
I very quickly became a pizza restaurant manager, as did Cindy. We ran several pizza restaurants together and several separately. It was a bit bumpy at times, but we both had great reputations as managers and began becoming big fish in the little pond of the southern California division of this pizza restaurant chain. We did this for several years, and we somehow found time to add our third child to our family. It's all a bit blurry in our memories, because life was moving so fast at the time. We were putting in crazy hours. But we were moving towards our goal. We wanted to own our own restaurant, and this seemed to be the way to do it.
First post & table of contents
If you would like to read the book in its entirety, you can purchase it with cryptocurrency at Liberty Under Attack Publications or find it on Amazon. We also invite you to visit BadQuaker.com, and, as always, thank you for reading.
