Dear Friends,

California is a beautiful and wonderful place, home to one of our dearest friends, Super Saint, who is currently suffering the wages of caprice in exile. After we failed to meet in his hometown, I convinced Mother a few weeks back to make a return visit, as fares remain very cheap and we are eager to spur the tourism economy. Although we failed twice over to make the rendezvous, we did get to see a part of the country we never have: marvelous Merced.

As one exits the Bay Area, there is quite a rapid ascent through an arid and gently sloping range of mountains called the Diablo Mountains. Neither Mother nor I appreciate things named for bad spirits and beings, and we especially dislike when university mascots are named things like devils or demons. Where did such a horrific practice start? To align yourself with beings of the underworld is anathema to everything for which virtuous people stand. To do so is as crass and unbecoming as stacking black and white cookies on top of each other instead of neatly placing each cookie in an individual container. Though they are called cookies their bottoms have the texture of a cake and are deserving of such treatment. Stacking causes the icing to stick to the bottom of the cookie above, ruining one of America’s greatest desserts. Please, friends, if you ever sort black and white cookies, do so with great attention to the fragility of the cookie’s base.

My ears popped as we reached Altamount Pass. I noticed also that the air cleared. The grass was dead, as much of that part of California had gone through a drought the last six months. The air also was much warmer, at least 20 degrees warmer than San Francisco. As we reached the summit, the windmills took over the landscape.

“Mother, are these the same windmills from Rainman?

“No. Those windmills are outside Los Angeles. These windmills are part of one of the first such farms in America. I believe they started installing them in 1980. Aren’t they graceful?”

I nodded and thought about fighting the windmills of conspiracy theorists on the Political Talk forum. The idealogues accept you when you say complimentary things about their beliefs, but turn on you like a rabid dog if you suggest their delusions might be delusions. I wish someone had introduced them in their youth to Plato and Augustine. Then they might sit and reason with you.

We had planned to stay at a Bed and Breakfast in Merced. As Providence would have it, though, we passed a Howard Johnson just before Turlock. I have always wanted to stay at a Howard Johnson because Howard Johnson was my favorite Mets player in a time I enjoyed professional sports. He was the king of the 30-30 club. As a child I thought he owned the hotel chain. I remember years ago on the way to MSY passing the one near Vets and I-10 just behind the current Best Buy.

“Mother, please stop. It’s a Howard Johnson!” I do not know if Mother listened to me because she wanted a room to herself or if she knew it was my childhood dream. Either way, she stopped and reserved a room for me. The room was not much to look at it, but it was cleaner and felt safer than my recent stay at the London Lodge Motel.

Dinner that night, I had hoped, would be at Sizzler. I have never been to a Sizzler and I know they are in bankruptcy, so how much longer will I have the opportunity to try one? Mother, though, wanted to try In-N-Out Burger. We went through the drive-thru, which was as efficient as that of a Chick-Fil-A. The Bible verses on the cups and paper were great and I quizzed Mother to see if she could recite the verses, but the food is not better than Burger King, Bud’s, or Ben’s Burgers. I had a few double burgers and cheese fries, and left wanting. To our delight, there was a Popeyes across the street. Its line was just as long as In-N-Out, but it did not budge even as we waited and received our burger order.

Some might wonder why we would make a trip to Merced, CA. It is a reasonable question. Several years ago I read a delightful book called The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down. Most of the book takes place in Merced, as it details a ER doctor’s struggles with a young girl with status epilepticus. She was the daughter of Hmong refugees, and it was in Merced that the vast majority of Hmong settled after the disastrous Laotian Civil War. A national leader of the Hmong promoted Merced as a great farm land, which it is. However, when they arrived, they found a land that was already owned and farmed, mostly by migrant Latino farmers. Poverty was thus a major problem for this community, which by the 1990s made up 20% of Merced’s population, up from 0 just fifteen years earlier.

Some people think that my vacations to lesser known locales, like Modesto or Jasper, Alabama, are ridicule worthy. But I like experiencing in the flesh the places that host good stories. Far better for me to visit these places than to go to the beach or Disney or on a cruise.

Merced very much is a farming community. The number of almond trees is countless. Had Abram lived in the San Joaquin Valley, God might have taken Abram out in the day and said, “Look at the almond trees, if you are able to number them. So shall your offspring be.” The orchards are ordered, stretching as far as the eye can see. I thought about the Kevin Costner movie, McFarland, USA, where he plays the coach of that track team in a town not too far south. The high school track team is composed of children of migrant farmers who toil in the almond orchards. These people know work, far more than many of the people who criticize them as a burden to our nation.

Merced is also the western gateway to Yosemite National Park, one of the most beautiful places on Earth. Just 90 minutes away, Merced looks and feels nothing like Yosemite. Many people will tell you that there is nothing between San Francisco and Yosemite, but I take that claim to task. Merced, friends, is well worth at least a few hours, if not a day or two, to explore and enjoy. Here are a few pictures from around town that I thought you might enjoy:

This post was edited on 12/19/20 at 10:55 pm