California is a land of exiles. For that reason – among many others – I love it.
Anyone not born here has come to explore, this to self-reinvent, sick to escape forces of oppression or boredom or hopelessness left behind.
This westward tide has flowed for centuries, check pulling wave upon wave of Spaniards, gold-rushers, dust-bowled Okies, Sinaloan braceros, Vietnamese boat people and self-anointed stars in training onto the shores and streets of a land gilded with sun and promise.
Tidal debris silting up in the antique stores of Orange County and Ventura, Santa Barbara and Bakersfield brims with nuggets.
A 4-Her brought this all the way from Montana, and then left it.
Possibly a few dozen years ago. There’s no telling now.
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