Born in the Panama Canal Zone 80 years ago, Mr. Zidbeck came to California in 1944 with his mother and three siblings. He enlisted in the US Army after graduating from high school. Honorably discharged in 1952, he attended college under the G.I. Bill. After graduating from UCLA in 1958, he worked as a probation officer in LA County. George's wife of 55 years died this past August. However, he plans to remain in San Luis Obispo County since retiring in 1985.
In addition to penning observations and reflections since living in San Luis Obispo County, George has authored six volumes of a family saga that addresses the negative influence of alcohol on a family from the perspective of the mother (two volumes); the father (three volumes); and the first born son. Anyone interested in contacting the author, may write George Zidbeck.
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Rochester, George's Good Buddy |
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Lakota Lady
by George Zidbeck
Now and then I punch out the first words of a literary sortie by introducing miscellaneous editorial tangents. After all, our life stories seldom fall into symmetrical dimensions. At times I feel the need to choreograph not just time and place, but also beg you to consider my biased perspectives. Well, I'm going to push those considerations aside and get right to the story that took place during my recent return home from Reno, Nevada.
The penultimate overnight layover had me leaving Columbia, California on the Highway 49 'gold trail,' heading south to Mariposa. My GPS of that given moment had much to do with my chance encounter of a lady hitchhiking on the road.
Winding roads had slowed my speed. I had time to reflect on my next move—ignore the woman or stop and give her a ride? I could not determine her age in that she hadn't turned to face my car while continuing to walk slowly south, her left hand outstretched with the thumb uplifted. When able to get a closer perspective, I estimated her age to be close to sixty.
With a medium build, a few inches over five feet tall, she nonetheless strode purposefully while sporting a backpack. Wearing jeans, work boots, and a sweatshirt, she did not present the persona of someone homeless. And, yet, I confess to having a touch of apprehension over giving a strange woman a ride. After all, I hadn't picked up a hitchhiker in years.
At that point I was about six miles from a town site behind me and at least fifteen miles from Mariposa.
Softie that I am, I pulled to the shoulder and unlocked the car doors. She first removed her backpack and put it in the rear seat before stepping into the front passenger side. "Where you headed," she asked? Her breathing only moderately heavy, her soft voice, without any noticeable accent, gave me no clue as to her origin. Her brunette hair, cut on the short side, hadn't received any fussing from some beautician.
"I'm going to Mariposa to see some friends," I told her in as neutral a tone I could muster as I pulled back onto Hwy 49.
"That's perfect. That's where I'm headed. I help this older man run a small ranch, doing light jobs to work off my rent. My truck ignition gave out on me, so I'm heading to Mariposa to get the part I need."
"Well, I hope you get the part and that it works. How you gonna get back?" I suspected that she was going to plead with me to take her back to the ranch.
"Oh, I'm sure the auto store will have the part I need. But, I'm going to the senior center first, and have some lunch there. It's free for local seniors, but I'll buy your lunch for driving me to town."
"No, no, no thank you." With her offer, I relaxed. The lady needed help, but she wasn't panhandling, and she smelled clean. I explained that I had eaten a large breakfast and that my friends would feed me when I got there. "But, even when you get the part," I had to ask, "are you going to have to hitchhike back?"
"No, that's the nice thing about this county. The sheriff's office is right across from the senior center, and they run a SCOPE program. They'll arrange to get me home."
Not bothering to ask her to define SCOPE, I guessed the first two initials meant Senior Center. "That's good," I told her, feeling comfortable in helping the lady. Maybe she was country and worked to keep herself in decent health, but I couldn't see her having to get back on the road hoping for a lift even if the senior center provided her with a decent lunch. I returned my focus totally to driving, not expecting the conversation to go any further, but she surprised me. "Even if the city didn't have a program to help seniors, I'd get by. I'm Lakota."
She seemed eager to talk, so I slipped into a listening mode. Even if I had majored in anthropology during the 1950s, that study doesn't entitle me to banter on and on about Amerinds and their varied cultural heritages and physiologies. Moreover, she didn't present any features that suggested a Northern Plains Indian background. Also, the lady's story only requires a summary and not a detailed genetic map. No doubt you'd like to hear what she said about herself: "You can tell I ain't full blood, but I spent a good part of my early years on a Dakota Reservation. It wasn't easy when I grew up, and it ain't easy now for my people back in Dakota. Anyway, I married young and went to San Francisco. Had a boy and a girl before the man left me and the kids. But, they turned out all right and come see me now and then. I didn't work at any high priced jobs; so my Social Security check ain't much. Still, life is good. My pickup is old, but generally gets me here and there. It's a seventy-eight Chevie. Oh, excuse me, here I got to talking about myself without giving you my name. Joleen, as in Dolly Parton's song."
I gave Joleen a quick glance and a smile, recalling the tune as a popular number when first released. "And, I'm George," I answered. I'm retired and decided to visit some old friends. My home is in San Luis Obispo County."
"I know where that's at. I already told you I'm on Social Security. But, I do something that keeps me busy all year long. You know those samples that hotels and motels give to their customers? Well, I tell all the people I know to save them for me. I add some personal cosmetic items, and put everything into small boxes to send to the reservation in December where they can be passed out to some young girls who usually don't get anything for Christmas."
"That's very nice of you," I commented, adding, "I guess the Lakotas are too far off the beaten track to have a casino or two to bring in tourist money."
The talking stopped until just before we entered Mariposa, her then telling me where to turn by the hospital. Soon thereafter she had me stop in front of the senior center. She thanked me and opened the door, but before she turned to get her stuff from the back seat, I said, "Just a minute." I then reached for my wallet, and gave her ten bucks, explaining, "It ain't much, but you can use it to help buy the part you need or to buy some goodies for your Christmas packages."
"Thank you, Sir. God bless you."
"Thank you. You take care."
Pulling away, I couldn't help thinking how often we lock ourselves into a land and a culture that totally fixes our status and national orientation. Many U.S. Citizens have the self-governing right, plus the resources, to move around; go different places…. I say U.S. citizens casually rather than using the term, Americans. Canadians are also North Americans, and it is not my judgment alone that breaks the American continents into three separated zones: North, Central, & South. Additionally, the phrase American Indian totally ignores the complexity of Amerinds from Alaska to Tierra del Fuego. How has your history clouded your biases? I only bring up the question in that the pustules of a country's past often clouds our individual lives and realign our attitudes – sometimes in unexpected places; unexpected ways.
Above reflections subsiding, I quickly found my way to Highway 49 South, and hit Bootjack in less than ten minutes after passing through Mariposa. Although I knew seeing my friends shortly were going to make me feel good, I already had a headstart in feeling positive. Yes, thank you, Joleen. It's always a pleasure to meet nice people who don't have much, but do what they can to make life a little brighter for others.
PS: My Bootjack friends, Dick & Gwen Foster, having a chance to preview my tale above, report that SCOPE is an acronym for Sheriff's Community Organized Policing Effort that coordinates local volunteers. Good show!
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