Will The Real Shannon Thomas Casebeer Please Stand Up

My name is Shannon Thomas Casebeer, and I’m about to say some things for which I will undoubtedly take some heat.  I’ve already shown questionable judgment by just posting my picture.  That gesture alone, almost certainly guarantees that someone will label me narcissistic and egotistical, words which at best, I’m barely able to say.  Fair enough!  It’s my blog. Whose photo do you suggest I post?  In any case, there’s a reason for posting my photo here.  Through time, the internet has become lightly seasoned with photos of me at varying stages of my life from 6 months to 60.  This photo is me, now.  This December, I’ll turn 60.  It’s been a long, difficult road.  Besides the ravages of 60 debilitating years, this weathered old rawhide has come through polio, skin cancer, a hernia surgery, two cervical surgeries, osteoarthritis, over thirty unappreciated, incapacitating years in the workforce, and numerous other various and sundry afflictions. I’ve been dumped off horses, donkeys, motorcycles, tree houses, pogo sticks and countless other gut jarring conveyances. The fact that I’m still standing at all, has got to be a testament to something!

   Now, on to the point at hand: Every time I post anything to the internet, my family joins simultaneously in an agonized grimace and a long, synchronized shudder!  ‘What now?” they lament.  “Please don’t post about politics or religion!”  Well, guess what? This blog now contains almost 12 months worth of my views on religion and politics, and other more salient matters.  If I can’t get on someone’s toes, with a benediction like this, I may as well hang it up and just go fishin’!   If you’re sufficiently foolhardy to peruse any of it, keep it to yourself, and please don’t tell my family!

Too be continued…

SMILE LIKE YA MEAN IT, AND BREATHE

It’s alright; I know.  It wasn’t your fault.

Yesterday was a hard day.  They shouldn’t have said those things.

It won’t help to rehash it, over and over and over. Let it go. 

My friend Adam took this photo.  This place actually exists.

Regardless of what happened yesterday; this photo captures the real world.

Hang onto it; slip into it.  Don’t let yesterday rob you of life’s magic.

Close your eyes now and visualize this place,

Or any of a thousand spectacular places you’ve seen.

Close your ears and listen.  Hear the water?  Feel the spray?

Can you smell those trees and the breeze coming off the mountain?

Tighten your neck and shoulder muscles, tighter, tighter, tighter, and release.

Now inhale deeply; deeper, deeper, deeper, and blow it all out.

Relax. Life is hard enough. Don’t make it worse by reliving meaningless moments.

Today is special, and today won’t come again.

Don’t waste it, and don’t let yesterday ruin it.

Fill today with good things; share it with others and never refuse affection.

Fill yourself with special moments; forget the rest, smile like you mean it;

And breathe.

S. T. Casebeer

August 26, 2011 


A personal note:  I know this sounds silly,but try it.  All my life I believed that on those occasions when I was smiling, I was smiling because I was happy.  You know what I've realized?  I was happy, because I was smiling!  Try it and let me know what you think.  Regardless of what's going on around you, take a deep breath, smile, and see what happens.
STC 

Wright's Lake, El Dorado County, California

Photo taken by me, with my Polaroid Land Camera, from my 15' Grumman canoe, long ago, in a galaxy far away. 

Dear God, please God, 

help us preserve our memories! 

A Community of
FRIENDS

When our hopes and dreams grow faded,

And we miss the friends who cared;

When old times are consecrated

By the golden hours we’ve shared,

When the streets we tread so long ago

Come back to haunt our dreams,

And we treasure those we used to know,     

And conjure up old schemes;  

When old associates fill our heart, 

And refresh our weary mind,

And we feel as one, those miles apart,

And old woes now seem sublime,

When our flesh, at best, contains us

And we’re far from hearth and friend,

May fond memories then sustain us,

Till we meet, at last, again.

STC

A Hangtown Homecoming

We spent the last night of our sojourn bivouacked at Tahoe, and at first light we began the long trip over the summit.  There was a definite nip in the air as we crested the summit and began our decent toward Twin Bridges. Summer was giving way to autumn and the Quaking Aspen shivered with the first telltale signs of golden foliage.  The higher elevations glacial crevasses had managed to maintain a few patches of the previous winter’s snowfall, and the breeze off the mountains was sharp and invigorating.

   Motoring through Camino, several of the townsfolk waved broadly and someone evidently recognized us and telephoned ahead.  By the time we’d descended the grade and cruised up at Smith Flat House, a welcoming committee had been organized, assembled, and worked into a frenzied anticipation through nearly an hour of waiting.  At our approach, several nostalgia stricken old veterans jumped to attention, removed their old campaign hats, and saluted sharply from the balcony; the community brass band tooted out a tinny but rousing rendition of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home”, and a crowd of several dozen onlookers lined the thoroughfare reigning in youngsters and cheering enthusiastically.  

   The streets were adorned, quite coincidently, with all variety of colorful banners, in celebration of the foothill’s annual Bartlett Pear Festival, and the atmosphere was absolutely festive!   At our approach, the Daniels boy jumpstarted his brand-new Indian Motorcycle and sped noisily to the front of our rapidly growing motorcade, as a couple of well stoked Stanley Steamers lurched from the shadows and slipped silently in behind.

   Moments later we convoyed triumphantly into Placerville.  Lidge was ahead in the flivver, and I sounded my horn, waving and pointing discreetly by way of indicating my intention to forgo the remainder of the parade route and make an inconspicuous run for home.  Lidge returned my wave, acknowledging my intention, and then preceded for lower town, waving at the adoring crowd as though he’d just been elected to a third term, his wild, white mane animated by the wind off the cowl and ablaze in the twilight.

   My sense of homecoming built to a fever pitch as I motored through upper town, and as I turned off onto Mosquito Road and sped for Reservoir Hill, six weeks of longing and homesickness morphed into inexpressible joy!  Reservoir Hill greeted me with a characteristically spectacular sunset, and as I approached the old home place, the little Scotties came running to meet me, and soft lamplight offered a radiant welcome through steamy windowpanes. 

   As I careened up to the house and stiffly dismounted old Reliable, Mariah stood waiting anxiously on the porch.  Her silver hair framed a welcome smile, gray eyes gleamed romantically in the twilight, and a month and a half of desperate longing had severely whetted my appetite for her company!

   Our eyes met briefly as we arrived at the gate, and as I pressed my chapped lips passionately against her furrowed forehead, we joined simultaneously in a mighty comforting embrace.  The long memorable trip had been life altering and inspirational, but it couldn’t match the emotion of coming home. “Obie’s Quest”

El Dorado

El Dorado

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.
But he grew old -
This knight so bold -
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell, as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.
And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow -
'Shadow,' said he,
'Where can it be -
This land of Eldorado?'
'Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,'
The shade replied, -
'If you seek for Eldorado!'
E. A. Poe  1848.
Poe passed away in October of 1849 

Asa Wilder Daniels

This is my great grandpa, Asa Wilder Daniels, at the family home on Reservoir Hill, just outside of Placerville. In 1873, the President of The United States of America had appointed Asa’s Dad, Surgeon, Jared Waldo Daniels, as Inspector of all the Indian Agencies and Reservations west of the Mississippi.  As a child, Asa had accompanied his Dad on many of these inspections.  Asa had met General Sherman, Ulysses S. Grant, and many of this country’s great Indian Chiefs. In 1888, Asa arrived in Placerville, purchased the Selkirk fruit ranch on Reservoir Hill, and settled down with my great grandma, Meda Eliza Camp Daniels. During the 1920s, Asa was The Justice of The Peace in Placerville. When great grandpa passed away in 1937, it was front page news in The Mountain Democrat.

The Storied Metropolis of Hangtown

Hangtown, California, aka, ol' Dry Diggins

The long hard day had assured a good night sleep, and when finally I came to and looked around the following morning, Lidge and Unk were still sound asleep, dead to the world, and snoring to beat the band!  It was almost noon by the time we got under way.  The sun was high, the humidity low, and the air hung heavy with the scent of Manzanita, the drone of insects, and the obnoxious screech of valley jays. We trudged on with determination all day long and right at dusk we reached the crest of a pine-covered ridge. “Over the mountains of the moon, down the valley of the shadow, ride, boldly ride, the shade replied, if you seek for El Dorado.”  So says ol’ Edgar Allan, and Lord knows Poe is well acquainted with shadows. There below, basking in the last red rays of the rapidly setting sun lay the storied metropolis of Hangtown. A small tormented creek meandered through a series of deep, pine-lined ravines, and clinging tenaciously to each bank, at close intervals and in no apparent order, squatted several dozen shake roofed structures reminiscent of the clapboard shanties that graced the Irish community back home. In addition to the rustic, wooden framed structures were numerous log cabins, and on the periphery of the settlement and lining Main Street on either side, an endless sea of tents glowed hospitably from the lamplight within.  The oak scented smoke of countless campfires hung thick in the motionless evening air, and the entire hollow twinkled in the light of countless lamps and flickering candles.  Laughter and jocularity rose spasmodically from a number of well lit gatherings down below, and a melancholy rendition of “Little Annie Laurie” scratched out hesitantly on a pair of slightly flat fiddles, rose plaintively from a massive canvas covered structure in the center of the scene. We eventually found access to the main street and proceeded slowly and deliberately in the waning light, until we reached a large open area in front of the crowded tent.  This was evidently the heart of downtown. Main Street, lined on each side with false storefronts, dropped in a gentle grade from the east; widening and splitting as it approached a long row of canvas covered shops.  At the east end of this row of shops stood a bell tower as high as any building in town.  Main Street proceeded west, past a number of dimly lit, but well patronized saloons and Center Street lead quickly toward a row of barns and stables, which faced the rear of the shops to their south and hung precariously over the banks of scenic Hangtown Creek to the north. Among the storefronts facing the bell tower from the north, was a well lit eating establishment, and observing our approach from this vantage point stood an elderly man and the very first woman that we’d laid eyes on since leaving San Francisco. "Obie's Quest"