Paths to Hope

Many times I take the easy road as I drive through Redding, spotting people and cars that remind me that the Redding denizens lean toward conservative at best and redneck at worst. The other day I spotted a truck covered in mud (OK, I liked that part) and under the mud were two old Bush bumper stickers and another proposing nuking some nation, clearly indicating a need for more mud. The truck groaned along on 8 cylinders, empty of course, carrying a guy smoking underneath his cowboy hat. Did I even bother to look for the gun rack? We all know it was there. Sometimes you do not need to malign people, you just describe them.

Yet other roads are available to the person with hope in Redding, and one of them ended at Clover Creek Preserve for me last week. Knowing the preserve protected only saplings, my daughters and I raced over there right after breakfast to beat the heat. The parking lot held small cars with bike racks and booster seats, making me smile as I unstrapped the twins from our boxy purple Scion. They tumbled out and we set forth on the trail.

We found many greetings and several conversations along the way to the bridge, and nary a negative word even from the cyclists who had to nearly to avoid my meandering toddlers while we raced down the paved part. Once on the gravel, we found ducks seeking bread, bullfrogs seeking love, and people seeking shade from the small willows and cottonwoods along the back of the small reservoir. The water flowed, I believe, from a treatment plant and the Clover Creek Preserve slowed its speed and absorbed its moisture, promising a future of huge cottonwoods between wildflower patches, a future more typical for Palo Alto than Redding, a fluttering triangular leaf of hope for a growing community.

The ducks knew the score, assaulting us with begging quacks on the north side and again on the south. By the south side we had leftover whole-wheat crackers and the bunny shape of the treats did not dissuade the vegetarian ducks. As the food ran out and the ducks swam away, two men approached us on a slightly higher parallel trail. They stood out in Redding because they were people of color (I believe Redding is 95% white and our largest minority are Native Americans), and because they were Muslim. The older man, perhaps 70, wore a miter (turban.)

I admit it, I had a Secret Service moment, scanning the area, ready to leap in front of the men and take a bullet headed for a turban. I blame my drama background and having little kids, which means life sacrifice is a daily consideration. Alright, memories of cowboy hats, nukes, and gun racks influenced me as well. So as I poised to defend, I also waved. The man in the turban joined his hands together as if in prayer and raised them high over his head as he smiled. Clearly I had a few cultural things to learn myself. Reading Three Cups of Tea was only a beginning. It turned out that they spoke almost no English, but they held up two fingers and pointed at my kids. I figured they either wanted peace, drugs, and free love or they wanted to know if the little tykes were twins, so went with a nod and a smile. Twins. Yeah. Identical. Yeah. Two years old. Hell, no one needs to even sign those questions anymore, I know your questions, just read my t-shirt. I had it custom made.

I paid attention to them as they left, passing by others along the path. Seven people in five groups passed by them and every person waved and smiled. One young jogger even offered the clasped-hands-over-head greeting and an awkward smile that said that although she was being cool, she did not know what the hell it meant, either. The men were totally at ease. My guard dogs stood down. My smile went up.

The sun seemed a bit brighter and the air rarefied with hope as we scampered back to the paved trail, dodged more congenial cyclists, and slipped into the car. The girls seemed happier than ever with their fruit juice, and they sang all the way home. I joined them, contemplating a future Redding that may already be on the way.