Dozer, the bulldog

Dozer, the bulldog
Dozer: Spring training is upon us!

Backstage at Reggae on the River, 2017...

Backstage at Reggae on the River, 2017...
The author of Mark's Work

Hollyhocks

Hollyhocks
Why I grow flowers

HappyDay Farms bees are happy bees.

HappyDay Farms bees are happy bees.
Air-borne bees

HeadSodBuster and BossLady at the coast

HeadSodBuster and BossLady at the coast
Love is the greatest power.

Beauty abounds!

Beauty abounds!
Crossing the Eel River at French's Camp

If you've seen one butterfly, you've seen 'em all, said no one ever.

If you've seen one butterfly,  you've seen 'em all, said no one ever.
Butter in the fly...

July Jewels

July Jewels
Bees to the Kingdom

My souvenir from Reggae on the River, 2017

My souvenir from Reggae on the River, 2017
Something I have always wanted...

Mahlon Masling Blue

Mahlon Masling Blue
My friend and brother.

Mark's E-mail address

bellspringsmark@gmail.com

Sunday, February 1, 2015

Payback



This is Episode 30, and the last installment, in the story of the formation, rise and fall of the little education collective that used to exist up here on our mountain. I wrote and posted this account three years ago on my blog and then pulled it off because someone whose name I had not changed, objected. Now I have changed both the name of the little school itself, and the names of everyone who might be negatively impacted, and plan to re-post the story, one episode per day, until all 32 are again on my blog.
Payback

Having described the bust of July 23, 1985, in “It Came Out of the Sky,” I now ask, “What does this event have to do with Bell Springs Education Collective? This event took place two full years before we even joined the collective, in 1987, and it has everything to do with Bell Springs Collective. I was new in the neighborhood, having been on the mountain for less than three years. I had owned my property for ten years, but had only moved up in May of 1982.

When the helicopter “camped” on us, we were on our own, in the sense that it was my name on the deed to my land and the federal government had seized it, but we were not made to feel unsupported. Our friends and neighbors were outraged. Will wrote a lengthy letter to the Laytonville Ledger, run by John Weed, in which he described observing the federal thugs invading my parcel, and hearing “sounds of multiple items being smashed.”

Our community’s outrage was reflected in the simple fact, that if it could happen to Annie and me, then it could happen to anyone. It was even one thing to raid property for cannabis plants, it was quite another to toss women and children into the street.  One interesting component is that I never spoke to an authoritarian figure and I was never charged with a criminal offense.  I did get returned the nine hundred clams they stole from me, that I had received from Michael for carpentry services, but I was left holding the other rather expensive bag, to the tune of $17, 500 for lawyer’s fees.  Kind of funny how it turned out to be such a nice, round figure.  None of this $17,486.27 business. 

Friends and neighbors expressed their sense of outrage, by donating hard, cold cash to our defense fund. At first we were so flummoxed, we accepted the help without question. Eventually, I developed a very keen sense of communal responsibility, when it came to finding a way to demonstrably make reparations. Simply repaying money, which was donated to make a statement of support, was not feasible, nor expected.

However, when Karen made the decision to sever connections with the school district, as a result of Misha’s lack of academic growth and the potential legal ramifications, the little collective was left without that district liaison. I have indicated earlier, that the collective was not interested in the money, per se, that came from this position, so much as the curriculum which allowed our kids up on the mountain, to remain aligned with the kids attending school down in town.

The goal was to be able to transition kids from the mountain to the school, without having this transfer be academically any more difficult than necessary. By maintaining the district liaison, we hoped to be able to render this relocation of the kids’ academic setting as painless as possible.

So I could not right the scales of community support, with money, but I could with my education. I had earned my degree already in Humanities, from San Jose State University, so I applied at Dominican College, at their off-campus facility in Ukiah and was accepted. Of course, that act of applying at Dominican unleashed the fury inCorrine Rose Chintz and she wrote the famous letter, described in “Two Can Play the Same Game,” the ninth episode of Bell Springs Collective.

By the time the fallout from all of the legal maneuvering finally settled down, the collective was dissolved, the kids were down in town and I was employed by the district, as one of the language arts teachers on staff.  At least then, I was the first to teach some of those students, making the jump from the mountain to town.

That sums up the events and turmoil that comprised the fall of the Bell Springs Education Collective. Out of chaos comes order.  Corrine Chintz created her share of chaos, whether in a misguided attempt at attaining equality for her daughter, or a sense of wounded pride at being ousted from the collective, something that will never be determined.

What we did determine, is that communication and unity combined to create the battering ram we needed to burst through the legal wall that Chintz created, and that having done so, we provided for our kids the best possible combination of one-room school charm and fervor, with the pragmatic availability of education in town.  

Well-played, one and all.

2 comments:

  1. Thanks for reposting this Mark. Clearly you went to a lot of effort for the education of your children, and others in the community. And it also led, eventually, to your job in Laytonville. Bravo!

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    Replies
    1. Thank-you, Mary! I appreciate your words.

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