Commentary : Closets Untidy, but--Like, Wow--It’s Home

I don’t know about you, but as a Californian, and more specifically a San Diegan, I feel like someone has just dropped in to inspect my closets and look under my beds.

There we are, for the world to see, on the cover of Newsweek magazine and coincidentally highlighted in National Geographic and Sunset magazines. A few of the closets are tidy. We can be proud to show off areas such as our respected science community, world-famous zoo and beautiful coastline.

But not everything is spotless. We’re going to need more time to sort through the accumulating junk that tends to clutter. The plight of the illegal immigrants coming across our southern border is definitely a cause for concern; the escalating violence of street gangs is scary to think about; and everybody knows about the bottlenecks in our massive web of freeways.

Newsweek devoted a page to “The States of California,” which is an amusing guide to California’s states of mind, divided into geographic sections. In San Diego and Orange counties, for instance, our local heroes are listed as Gene Autry and Nancy Reagan. Maybe I wasn’t home when they took that poll. (It’s kind of like reading your horoscope . . . some things happen to fit, and others . . . well, they must work for other Aries.)

The “auto of choice” for our geographic area is reportedly the Oldsmobile Cutlass Calais. Now, wait a minute! Where are the Oldsmobiles? It seems to me we have an abundance of Toyotas and Mercedes-Benzes, or am I driving with blinders on?

In the category of “who’s who,” it lists land developers with surfer kids and purebred dogs. I suppose I can see a correlation there. Our dog is only half “pure,” but we do have surfer kids.

The Coast is listed as a separate geographic area and is defined as the sandy strip from Oregon to Mexico. If you drive a Volvo station wagon, that’s probably where you live.

There has always been a certain mystique about California. People from other parts of the country set us apart as different. We’re a conglomeration of free spirits, but there is an image that our young people feel obliged to uphold. The myth is perpetuated by funk ads, Mike Royko columns, summer surf movies and Beach Boys’ tunes.

A recent trip to the Midwest and a visit with some firmly rooted high school friends made me realize that there really are some striking differences. Certain aspects of being a mother of teen-agers are the same everywhere. Our shouts of “clean your room” or “turn that music down” only differ with geographic accents. But, when I complained about sand in the Jacuzzi and dead grass under melted surf wax, I was met with blank stares.

I guess that’s to be expected. I didn’t know about the surfing life and lingo myself until each of my three sons turned into teen-agers in search of being tubed.

It began with car pools to the beach and a game called, “Let’s see how many surfboards we can fit through the sunroof.” Like fine china, the boards were carefully packed between beach towels to prevent “dings.” I learned a lot about surfing from behind the steering wheel, “hanging five” on the gas pedal.

I also was educated about the effects of adolescent hormones stirring, as the boys discussed the budding beach bunnies they hoped to impress.

“Becky has great elbows,” a soon-to-be male voice once said from my back seat. I wondered if Wisconsin teens noticed “elbows” under all the wool sweaters and down jackets.

But, back to my visit with friends. We reminisced in a restaurant where half of the people gestured with cigarettes, filling the air with smoky conversation. My eyes burned as I listened to their laments on the price of snowmobiles and basements cluttered with fishing poles and hunting rifles. It brought back memories of growing up in Wisconsin and fathers taking their sons fishing.

“That’s kind of nice,” I thought, “the father-son thing.” I don’t know too many fathers who go surfing with their sons.

On the other hand, our great weather permits year-round bonding in many other areas.

On the positive side, Californians are more conscious of health and the environment. Though I did notice a sprinkling of Midwestern joggers, the greater numbers of people who smoked was startling . . . and the “entree of the day” was invariably something deep-fried. Maybe Wisconsin wasn’t ready to have its closets inspected, either.

“Doesn’t it bother you to have your kids grow up with all the California weirdos and go surfing all the time,” one of my friends asked.

My tanned and healthy feathers ruffled. “At least they’re not hunting innocent animals or polluting their lungs and the environment with smoke,” I defended. (I didn’t mention the smog, but we’re working on that.)

It was then that I realized that my transplant to California soil 20 years ago had taken hold. With a smile and a snicker of pride, I thought, “Like, wow! I mean, it’s incredibly awesome. I’ve become one of them!”