Rumsey Valley
Yolo County California
March
Following the convocation of legislators in Las Vegas, Dan and Nicole Rawlings had spent another three days in the neon city, attending several shows and just enjoying time away from the pressures of Dan’s legislative duties in Sacramento. Although the trip had been to discuss the prospect of other states joining with California in forming a new nation, it had also served as a brief extension to the abbreviated honeymoon Dan and Nicole had taken to Mazatlan after their marriage in January.
Their wedding had certainly not been every girls’ dream. A New Year’s Day decision, a quick trip to Reno, a Friday, Saturday, and Sunday in Mexico, and then they came home as Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Rawlings, with Dan returning to his state capitol office the following Tuesday, spending the next two months behind closed doors in California Assembly and Senate workshops on constitutional development.
Nicole’s retirement from the FBI, confirmed shortly before Christmas, had been a blow to the young woman, changing the course of her life even more dramatically than her decision to marry Dan Rawlings. They had moved into Dan’s condo in Davis, about twenty miles west of Sacramento. As he had promised, they contracted to build a new home slightly northwest of Davis, up Rumsey Canyon, where Dan’s family had settled shortly after the Civil War. It was to be the fourth Rumsey / Rawlings home in one hundred and forty-five years. Jack and Ellen Rumsey had been the last to build, in 1946.
On a bright Sunday morning, the last day of March, Dan suggested they drive up Highway 16 toward the new home site to view the work that had been accomplished in their absence. Fifteen miles from Woodland, just west of the tiny village of Esparto, Dan took a slight detour off the main road. Nicole knew immediately where he was going: the Esparto Cemetery to visit Jack Rumsey’s final resting ground.
Jack Rumsey had been the patriarch of the family through most of the second half of the twentieth century. He had died at age 89 of a heart attack the previous August. His death had occurred one day before the insertion of federal troops into Sacramento and the brief gun fight between the 82 ^nd Airborne Division and the California State Reserve that the press had dubbed The Battle of Capital Mall. Dan had commented several times that he was grateful that Jack had been spared the necessity of seeing his beloved California party to an armed conflict between California and military forces of the United States of America. Even Dan found it hard to believe.
As they pulled into the small, well-maintained cemetery, Dan parked on a side road and they exited the vehicle, slowly walking toward the Rumsey and Rawlings’ family plot. Dan’s older brother, Tom, who had died during birth, lay in a row with Ellen and Jack Rumsey and several earlier generations of Dan’s family. Now, with a new home, the prospect of a new state, and even the possible advent of a new nation, Dan found himself wondering if Jack Rumsey would lay buried on “foreign” soil.
“The roses are starting to bloom,” Nicole said, pointing toward the row of bushes that surrounded the family plot. Dan looked in their direction, taking Nicole’s hand and strolling past several headstones. Jack and Ellen’s ornate marker had an asymmetrical appearance, with Jack’s engraving fresh and bold, compared to Ellen’s inscription, which had tarnished a bit in the decade since her death. It gave the marble edifice a visual, compelling, and heartfelt story without the need for explanation. In most respects, it was a traditional family plot, with headstones reflecting that some members had spent merely hours on their earthly sojourn, others nearly a century.
“My mother told me that her mother, Grandma Ellen, planted those roses almost fifty years ago. Mom’s been caring for them ever since she was a teenager, when Grandma would bring her here to tell her about our early pioneer family.”
“They’re lovely,” Nicole replied. “We never had flowers so early in Connecticut. That’s one reason I love California. Did you have much to do with your grandmother?” she asked. “I know you and your grandfather were very close, but how old were you when Ellen died?”
“Late teens. Yeah, Grandma and I often just strolled through the orchard in the evenings.” Dan chuckled a bit as they walked, a quick memory flashing through his mind.
“What?” Nicole said.
“I was just remembering. When I was younger, I’d often spend the weekend here in the valley with Jack and Grandma. I’d go out in the orchard with Jack before twilight. We couldn’t pass two almond trees before Jack would say, ‘pick up that bit of brush, would you, and toss it on the pile over there.’ We could never just ‘take a walk.’ There was always something that needed to be done in the orchard. But with Grandma, we would walk, talk, often sing a song together, and she’d teach me about the squirrels and various birds that fluttered through the grove. As the sun would begin to set, we’d often see a few deer come down from the hills to forage through the trees, looking for immature almonds or tender, low-hanging branches. I really loved Grandma.”
As they walked, Nicole stepped a bit closer to Dan, slipping her arm in the crook of his elbow. “And Jack,” she said.
Dan stopped walking, considered her comment, then turned and kissed her on the cheek. “Yes, and Jack.” He looked up at the massive oak trees that bordered the cemetery, the afternoon wind rustling through their leaves. “This is where the voices in my blood live,” he said softly. The previous year, Dan had achieved publication of his first novel, a fictional family saga of his ancestors who lived in America for twelve generations and settled this part of California five generations earlier. He had named the novel “ Voices in My Blood ” after the feelings he had for those ancestors.
They walked a bit further and Dan stopped to pick a few weeds from his Uncle James’ plot, bending down and brushing dirt off the engraving. “I never really knew Uncle James. He was my mother’s younger brother, but he died early. As you can see from the dates, he was barely thirty.”
Dan rose, brushed some dirt and grass off his knees, and headed for the car. “Let’s get moving up the valley. I suppose you’re anxious to see the progress on our new home,” he said.
As they walked toward the vehicle, they were silent until Dan exited the cemetery and headed northwest toward Highway 16 a few miles up the side road. This time Nicole started to laugh softly.
“Okay, share the humor,” Dan said.
“I was just thinking about this new house we’re building. Is our address going to be 224 Pioneer Drive, Rumsey, California? Or 224 Pioneer Drive, Rumsey, North California? Or maybe 224 Pioneer Drive, Rumsey, North California, Republic of Western America? Or just, 224 Pioneer Drive, Anytown, Anywhere?”
Dan looked at her as he pulled on to the main highway, a broad grin crossing his face.
“How about Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings, Pioneer Lane, Tent City, West Coast? There wasn’t much more than that when my great-great-grandfather first drove up this canyon in his Conestoga.”
Nicole shook her head. “Nope, I want running water. Hot running water. And besides, anyone who hopes to be the governor of a new state shouldn’t live in a tent. A log cabin, maybe, but not a tent.”
Rancho Murieta Country Club
Southeast of Sacramento march
California Governor Walter Dewhirst won the honors on the first hole with a flip of his tee. As he addressed the ball, Lieutenant General Robert Del Valle stood quietly off to one side, waiting his turn. Their wives, who were playing as partners in the Sunday morning match play against the men, sat in their golf cart, waiting to drive forward to the ladies’ tees.
Despite having received no formal communication, Dewhirst knew what was coming. Del Valle was finally going to resign his position as Adjutant General for the State of California, as well as his position as Commander, California National Guard. He’d been increasingly distraught at the direction of the secession. The collective failure of the military and the California legislature to stop the movement had brought him to the end of his patience. Truth be known, Governor Dewhirst felt the same way, but had decided to serve out his term-another twenty-one months-and be the last governor of the state of California before it became an independent nation.
Del Valle’s turn came and he pushed his drive, coming to rest a few paces off the fairway some twenty yards behind Dewhirst’s ball. The two carts drove forward about thirty yards, and the ladies stepped on to their tee while the men remained seated.
“Monday morning sound about right, with an effective date of July 1 ^st?” Governor Dewhirst said.
Del Valle stared quietly at his partner, a man with whom he’d been playing golf for most of the past ten years. “I’d swear you’re clairvoyant, Walt.”
Dewhirst laughed, then quickly went silent as his wife shot him a disapproving look. Her partner, Jean Del Valle, was addressing her ball, and she was a stickler for the etiquette of golf. She sent a nice drive down the fairway about one eighty, and the ladies walked back toward their cart. Dewhirst drove forward toward the resting place of his wife’s drive, resuming his humorous chuckle.
“I’m not so much clairvoyant, Bob, as you are transparent. You wear your feelings on your sleeve, at least as they pertain to the secession.”
“You’re right, as usual. In the modern-day, California vernacular, it sucks, Walt. It just plain sucks.”
Again, Dewhirst started to laugh. “You’ve begun to make the transition to civilian life already. When you finally get frustrated enough, you can start saying, ‘ whatever,’ and fit right in. But you’re right. It does suck. The whole damn thing has gotten to this point on a fraudulent basis, yet here we are. Have you decided what you’re going to do?” As Jean Del Valle prepared to hit her second shot, Dewhirst parked some distance away so they could continue to whisper. “Or are you really going to retire?”
“Confidential, right?” Del Valle asked.
“Of course, Bob.”
“I’ve accepted appointment as the chief executive officer of The Montclair Advocacy.”
Dewhirst’s eyes grew larger and he nodded his head. “Very prestigious appointment, Bob, and no better man for the job. Heading the nation’s premier conservative think tank is an outstanding opportunity. They’ve already come out against the secession, no matter how far down the pike the political process. Do you think Montclair can turn it around?”
“I don’t know, Walt, I truly don’t,” he said as they started forward again, pausing as Jean Del Valle took her second shot. “But we’re damn sure going to lobby against it. The Board was adamant when they offered the appointment that they did not want to surrender to the ‘ragged mob, ’ as they called it.”
“Isn’t Dan Rawlings using Montclair Advocacy as his consulting firm for preparation of the constitutional document?”
Del Valle nodded as Walter Dewhirst drove toward his partner’s ball. “He is. In fact, he’s contracted with Montclair to meet with his larger, multi-state group in Mexico next month to discuss the bigger picture. He doesn’t know I’m going to be there to try to dissuade them from pursuing the idea.”
“I read in your monthly National Guard newsletter that you promoted him to major earlier this month.”
Del Valle nodded acknowledgement, stepping out of the cart and choosing his seven iron. “He’s gotten on the bandwagon for secession for some foolhardy reason, but I had to recognize his contribution to the whole Shasta Brigade and election fiasco. General Connor advised me that the president-Prescott, actually-suggested he receive some commendation, so we gave him a Bronze Star and a promotion to major.”
“It’s not undeserved, Bob,” Dewhirst said.
Del Valle looked toward the first green, sized up his shot, and hit the ball about five feet onto the front surface of the green, leaving a forty-foot, two putt for par. He replaced his club and stepped back into the cart. “You’re right, Walt. Rawlings is a good and capable man, but I just can’t get my head around why he’s shifted his political positioning on this issue.”
“Well, I can tell you one thing,” Walter Dewhirst said as they drove toward his tee shot, “depending on where they set the minimum age for governor in the new constitution, Daniel Rawlings may damn well be my replacement as governor of California, whatever the state is called at that time.”
Del Valle was quiet for several long moments as the governor took his approach shot, placing it inside all three balls that were on or just off the putting surface, then driving toward the cart path which circled the elevated green. Then, as they retrieved their putters, he commented again.
“If it has to happen, he’s probably a good man for the job, Walt. He doesn’t have your experience or flair for compromise solutions that satisfies all parties, but I have to admit, Major Rawlings is a good officer, and now he has an equally good woman as his wife. Nicole Rawlings is a capable force in her own right. A man can go far with such a woman at his side.”
“Shhh,” Dewhirst whispered, “don’t let the women hear you say that, or we’ll be on the hook for another Mediterranean cruise.”