Squatch Vs. The Blog

Hey campers, today I am going to finish packing all of my worldly possessions, and try to be ready for the sound of the starting gun. When the pistol shot sounds I will be out of here, even more quickly than the homesteader hopefuls in the 1800’s.

homestead act races – Google Search

Signed into law in May 1862, the Homestead Act opened up settlement in the western United States, allowing any American, including freed slaves, to put in a claim for up to 160 free acres of federal land. By the end of the Civil War, 15,000 homestead claims had been established, and more followed in the postwar years.
Homestead Act – Facts & Summary – HISTORY.com
www.history.com/topics/homestead-act

Presently I am waiting for a tow-bar to arrive, so I can hook the car to the tail end of the motor home. After the lights are set up, and I get a permit to drive a non-registered vehicle from Reno Nv. to N.E. Washington, that pistol shot will sound.

Home is where the heart is, for sure. I have put up with this city and am willing to never do this again! The paranoia and ill feelings from all of the local residents, truly disgust me. Everyone seems to believe everyone else is some kind of: Terrorist, Pedophile, Murderer, Thief, Gang Member, Rapist, or just plain crazy and not to be trusted or dealt with on a personal level.

So what kind of deviant am I? Well I don’t drive a brand new shiny car. I have long hair, down to my belt. I only shave weekly or monthly, depending on how social I have to be. I dress in rags, as they are going to get torn up, with all of the things I do.

I have allowed others to see me as some kind of scary person, to ward off contact. I speak my mind, and don’t hold back, when I think something needs to be said. If I state something in an intense manner, the police are usually called.

I don’t have or believe in locks, and locking everything up. It’s a hassle to have to carry keys to open places that really don’t need to be locked. Everyone else has a different opinion. They will point out how many places are broken into, and how much thievery is present.

It seems most of the people in this city are truly frightened. They call the police when they see a stranger in their neighborhood, and are never willing to confront someone themselves. Too many of these city dwellers don’t know their own neighbors, and barely pay attention to what is going on around them.

News stories help promote the hype, no one is to be trusted. If I’m not some previously mentioned deviant, then I must be some type of scam artist. The paranoia is rampant, and there is no way to counter that trend.

What Is Deviance?
Deviance is the recognized violation of cultural norms. Norms guide
virtually all human activities, so the concept of deviance is quite broad.
One category of deviance is crime, the violation of a society’s formally enacted criminal law. Even criminal deviance spans a wide range, from minor traffic violations to prostitution, sexual assault, and murder.

Most familiar examples of nonconformity are negative instances
of rule breaking, such as stealing from a campus bookstore, assaulting a fellow student, or driving while intoxicated. But we also define especially righteous people—students who speak up too much in class or people who are overly enthusiastic about the latest electronic gadgets—as deviant, even if we give them a measure of respect.

I was investigated by the local Sheriff, as I was parked near a middle school, waiting for my grandson to arrive. Someone saw my rig sitting across from the school, with me sitting in it. Instead of stopping and asking me why I was in their neighborhood, they called the police. That is the new ” Norm “, and my complaints as to how people are reacting these days change nothing.

I confront those I want information from. I don’t sic the law on them, just because I don’t know them, or have never seen them before. We have a whole nation full of frightened sheep, and that problem or attitude will continue to prevail.

So with all of that rant laid bare before you, I hate cities. Where I live you can barely see other homes, and certainly aren’t able to just look out of my windows into my neighbors windows. My neighbors leave me alone, and I do the same for them, but we do interact with each other, and it doesn’t involve the law!

Where I live, there are only two patrol cars used by the Sheriff’s office out at any given time. That’s two cars patrolling an area of 5,267.98 square miles. The Sheriff’s office asks that everyone try to resolve issues in a civil manner, and not include them in that process, if at all possible.

What does any of this have to do with the title of this post? My blogging is going to suffer greatly when that pistol shot sounds. I will go driving and screaming my happiness, and I truly can’t wait to get home. I am sorry my friends here at the blog, I will miss you. I just won’t miss the city.

Dear WordPress Support

I don’t know what exactly is going on with OM’s blog or the troubles he’s having, but I had thought I was following people, and they were following me as well, only to find I had to re-follow. I will send Jason an email and see what is going on. I recommend everyone re-blog this as a protest, or at least to make a point , and act as a statement! I know that may seem like biting the hand that feeds us, but sometimes speaking up is more important, than the consequences they bring.

Rescued

Pa Fenton loaded us into his car and drove on down the road. The ride was a short one, as us kids had walked most of the way to his home, over the long cold night. The car was crowded, as Pa and Ma were in the front seat. Both Ma and Pa were old, probably in their late sixties, with silver hair and wrinkled skin. They all were dressed for court, and Pa had shaved sort of.
Jack’s Mannequin- Rescued/lyrics

Marty, a girl of about 16 years was in the back seat, and moved over to let my brother, sister and myself have some room in there with her. She smiled a big smile at me, and I didn’t know how to deal with that, my heart thumped in my chest sitting next to her. The house we were headed for was only another mile down the road. We had almost made it there on our own, despite how tired we were.

At least we would be safe now. Ma and Pa Fenton ran a receiving home for abused children, and allowed those kids to live with them, until foster homes could be found. Usually that process only took a month or so, but in this case it might take a little longer than that. We would still have to be processed through the system, and we would probably be split up, as nobody ever took in three kids at the same time.

The process can be long and involved. We would have to call my probation officer, who worked for the state, schedule a court appearance, and go through the multitude of formalities involved with children that had been abused, or were considered beyond parental control. I had been through all of this before a couple of times. I was labeled 601, according to California statutes.

601 was beyond parental control. I was considered a chronic runaway. At no time had anyone listened to or understood, my views of the events, that finally led to why we were here now. I was only 12 years old, and grown-ups didn’t think I should have any ideas or opinions, about what my brother, sister and I, had been living with. It was generally thought, children didn’t know anything.

Pa started telling us what was to happen in the coming days. I was to call my probation officer as soon as we got to the house, so Ma and Pa wouldn’t get into any trouble. Harboring runaways was as bad as robbing banks, as far as the state was concerned. It was okay to beat your kids, but it wasn’t okay for someone to save them, it seemed.

The ride only lasted ten minutes, and didn’t allow us to rest from our ordeal. Marty said she was happy to see my brother and myself again, and that probably made me blush. We had met her 4 months prior, and I had a mild crush on her. Marty was 15 or 16 years old, and pretty in my way of thinking. She had, had a bad home life, and was living in the receiving home, awaiting a family that could treat her right. Sometimes it seemed as though nobody had a very nice family.

When we pulled up in the driveway a young boy came out of the house. His name was Steven we were told. He immediately told Ma and Pa, about the phone call, and said whoever it had been wasn’t willing to leave a message. I chimed in at that. ” That was me ” I said, and then explained how I only had 1 dime, and knew it would be pointless to leave a message. I wouldn’t be near a phone, as we were walking across town, and trying to hide from the authorities.

Us kids hadn’t eaten since the evening before we left home. We were starved, and weary. Karol and Kevin were a little apprehensive as to what was going to happen next. I wasn’t quite so worried as this time I had witnesses, as to the conditions we had been living with. Ma and Pa Fenton knew who my probation officer was, so while Ma made food for us, Pa dialed the phone and talking to my probation officer started the next phase of our tribulations.

During the 60’s, social workers were called probation officers. They had large case loads, and at that time, and children were meant to be seen, not heard. She had known of my situation, and had figured it was just a case of a 12-year-old boy, that didn’t want to conform, or follow rules. I realized this was going to muck things up, especially since I was stronger than my siblings and prone to speaking my mind, when I was allowed to.

Pa Fenton talked to my p.o. It was late enough in the day, to put off any kind of action until the following day. I didn’t have to talk to her, at least not then. Ma and Pa both, were happy to see us again and even happier to meet Karol. They had heard about her, and how bad we said things were. They did believe us, but having a new source of information definitely helped the situation. Karol telling the story would at least give credence to my tales.

Marty and Steven were the only children at the home, at that time, so there was room for the three of us as well. The place was set up dormitory style, with a girls section and a boys. there were lots of bunk beds along two of the walls, and each section had room for about a dozen kids in waiting. Last time I had been there, eight other kids were pretending that was home.

We settled in, hoping we would be able to stay there more permanently. I was dreading the coming day, having to see my p.o. She wasn’t ever mean, just disbelieving about things, when it came to me. She would be one of the more decent people I had to deal with, it turned out.

Morning came and I had to be awakened. I slept so soundly everyone thought I had kicked the bucket. I couldn’t remember a time before then, that I rested so well. I didn’t have to be aware of my Step Mother slipping in and hitting or kicking me. My Step Mother had broken my nose so many times, I had deviated septum, and couldn’t breathe through my nose. I would get hit, for sleeping with my mouth open too! I had learned to cover half of my face when I slept.

Betty Ralph’s came by at about 8:30 am, and talked with us. We already had a court docket for 2:15 that afternoon. She was extremely apologetic for allowing us boys to be sent back to my parents place after the last time, we went through this. The judge I had seen told me, ” If you were my son, I would take you home and give you what for “. That was just what I had needed to hear. The attitudes back then were different from today.

Court was a fiasco, as one might expect. The same judge, my same probation officer, only this time she actually argued in favor for us kids. Although the judge didn’t like this turn of events, he allowed us children to remain in the custody of the receiving home until foster homes could be located. We were never able to be placed in a home together, and over the course of a two month period, we were placed into separate foster homes.

We finally had been heard, and I should have just called Ma and Pa Fenton in the first place. We could have saved ourselves the long walk, and all of the worry about police, truant officers, and my Step Mother’s punishments. We had finally been Rescued….