From Commune to Compound: Growing up a Northern California Cliché.
The Bohemian Grove is a private club located in a town in Northern California called Monte Rio. Founded in 1872, the club limits it membership to prominent men, including business leaders, government officials, and artists. They meet every July for a two-week retreat in a 2,700-acre redwood forest.
The club is known for its secretive rituals, including the “Cremation of Care” ceremony, which symbolizes the members’ release from worldly concerns. These include where to urinate appropriately and what level of blood alcohol will only result in a reversible coma and not death.
The private nature of the gatherings has led to various conspiracy theories and speculation about the influence of its members on global politics and business. The Grove has been a subject of various documentaries and investigative reports, often focusing on its elite membership and secretive practices.
But there are other secretive and sacred properties in that beautiful slice of the West Coast known as Sonoma County. Let’s go back in time and travel ten miles north of the Grove. Travel a two lane road winding through redwood forests and then golden hills until you reach the communal ranch and home of a group of progressive, liberated, forward-thinking young adults (ok, they were called “Hippies”). The name of this particular commune was “The Land” and I lived there, for a summer or maybe it was two, when I was four years old.
Obviously, this was not by choice. At age four, I wasn’t particularly concerned with counterculture movements or utopian communities. I tended to go with the flow; I followed my parents lead, for the most part. And so, as part of our shared Northern California duty, we left the comforts of suburban Palo Alto and went to live where the wild things are.
I have only a few of my own memories of our time on The Land, the rest are supplied by my father, who is clearly nostalgic for those days of experimental living heightened by experimental substances. Not so long ago, while at a family holiday dinner, I think Thanksgiving, the subject of bread came up because someone had forgotten to bring dinner rolls. I was sitting next to my father. He leaned over to me, his eyes almost glazed over as he spoke:
“Remember when you and Steve [my twin brother] and I were making bread on The Land? I was in the best space because I dropped a hit of acid the day before.”
“Gosh, I don’t recall that day as vividly as you do, but I believe it happened.” I responded.
I secretly thought, “Well thanks for hoarding your drugs. Rude!”
Interestedly, LSD is the one drug, the only drug, that I haven’t tried. My parents warned me numerous times: “Michael, you aren’t stable enough psychologically to handle LSD. You could end up in a permanent psychosis.”
I believed them and continue to this day to have almost a phobic fear of LSD. What important lesson can parents learn from this? It’s pretty obvious: If you tell your child they can’t handle a particular drug, you are potentially robbing them of the experience of trying that drug.
I am a Northern California Cliché.
My memories of The Land include milking a cow named “Betsy,” getting violently ill with food poison, and a vague memory of a kid we sort of adopted for the summer named Garrett. I found out years later from my father that Garrett was none other than Garrett McNamara, a big wave surfer known for his exceptional skills and achievements in the sport. He gained international fame for his daring feats in surfing massive waves, particularly at locations like Nazaré in Portugal, where he has surfed some of the largest waves ever recorded.
For the next couple of years I tried desperately to drop his name anytime I felt it was appropriate (never). It finally occurred to me that my social circles do not include monster wave surfers or their fans (hard to believe, I know).
Early-Mid 1970s
The transition from Hippie kids to semi-normal young adults was made that much more difficult by the fact that my brothers and I sported long hair until it was no longer tolerable.
Change is inevitable and often comes swiftly. Two events triggered an urgent need for my brothers and I to trim up. They are both so cringe-worthy I debated whether to include them. Cringe won, as it always does.
My older brother, then age 12, was sent to the local supermarket to get a few items, including a box of Tampons for my mother. As he was checking out, the cashier, who was right out of a Coen Brothers’ film, lowered her glasses and gazed at my brother while speaking: “First time, Hon? Don’t worry, it gets easier.” It goes without saying, the next day my brother was sporting a very short hair cut, almost military-grade.
I’m afraid my breakthrough moment is even cringy-er. I was 10 years old and had a haircut that was a little longer than the infamous Dorothy Hamill (the Olympic gold medal figure skater) haircut that probably few of you have heard of (Google it, totally worth it). I was waiting for the school bus when a Datsun B210 pulled up to the corner and the driver, a young man probably in his 20s, rolled down the passenger window. He motioned for me to come to the car. I stepped forward and he asked, “Hey are you a boy or a girl?” Before I could answer, I looked down to see the man had his pants open and his erect penis standing straight up — and I swear to god I am not making this up — with a yellow ribbon tied around the shaft. Now, while it is true that in 1976 there was a very popular top 40 song called “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Old Oak Tree,” something tells me his actions were not part of a promotional campaign. But who knows, it was a different time. I followed suit and the next day, went straight to Buzz Cuts-R-Us.
Late 1970s
My home town of Palo Alto features two distinct identities, contrasting old-style architecture with Mid-Century Modern neighborhoods, both of which contribute to the city’s unique character.
Old-style homes reflect Palo Alto’s historical roots and craftsmanship. These residences are predominantly located in the northern part of the city, near Stanford University and downtown.
In contrast, Mid-Century Modern homes embody innovation and a forward-thinking approach to design. These residences are primarily found in the southern neighborhoods of Palo Alto and were mostly built by Joseph Eichler, a key figure in Mid-Century Modern design. His homes are particularly famous in Palo Alto. His style included flat planes, large glass windows, and open spaces. His homes were often integrated with nature, featuring sliding glass doors that connect indoor spaces to outdoor patios and gardens. They are wildly popular among contemporary tech workers.
Back in the seventies, when we moved into our “Eichler,” as they were known, they were just suburban homes that had a modern California feel. Sunset magazine was scripture. They were reasonably priced and affordable, unlike in today’s real estate market.
Our little Eichler soon became unfit for a family that include three boys that were rapidly out-growing their adorable, androgynous phase. My parents decided sometime in the mid-seventies that the best way to avoid murdering or being murdered by their three adolescent sons (ranked among the most dangerous and lethal of the Sociopath genus) was to build a completely separate dwelling within the property boundaries that only they would be allowed to enter. This allowed them to maintain some semblance of a peaceful life.
My brothers and I occupied the “Lord of the Flies” suites on the ground floor, known affectionately as the “Kill Floor.” Some of the town locals believed in myths that were wildly exaggerated; despite what you may have heard, our bedrooms were not the birthplace nor the current residences of any of the Seven Kings of Hell.
The kitchen was a neutral zone, though UN peacekeepers patrolled the area at least twice a day. Then came the formal living room. My brothers and I were allowed to enter once a year for our annual peace summit, which usually failed. A less formal space, the “TV room” was opened to us all the time and was furnished entirely with breakaway furniture and glass, similar to what is used by stunt people on movie and TV sets. Safety comes first when selecting furniture primarily used as weapons in an endless cycle of indoor kick boxing matches. These frequently resulted in visits to one of several urgent care units located throughout Palo Alto.
These medical facilities were like homes away from home; satellite properties though they didn’t belong to us. We just used them with such frequency, people assumed we owned them. However, we were among a small number of platinum-plus members who enjoyed benefits such as two-for-one weekend specials, and, oddly enough, a frequent flyer program. We later learned that this program was initiated at the community’s request and reserved for my family only. In short, members of the community worried about the very real possibility that their family members might someday need medical attention, and so a strategy was required that would encourage my family to travel, the destination was of no concern, just away.
Back to the tour: the rest of the ground floor consisted of a large bathroom which was used as a triage unit and, occasionally, a decontamination zone. The second floor was not a public space. “The Residence,” as we called it, was built with functionality and security in mind; a panic suite designed in the then popular “Contemporary Survivalist” style.
Early 1980s
The remodels and updates continued. Having finished fortifying The Residence, attention turned to the back yard. It was there that we built a large wooden deck with a built in redwood hot tub. Not a Jacuzzi with form fitting fiberglass, sculptured seating, LED lights, and other modern features. This was the real thing: Made of redwood, above ground, fits 8 adults, perfect breeding ground for new strains of fungus and bacteria. The tub became the central gathering place for family, friends, romantic interests, and believe it or not, guests that attended my brothers’ and my Bar Mitzvahs.
A Bar Mitzvah is a Jewish coming-of-age ceremony for boys, typically held when they turn 13 years old. The term “Bar Mitzvah” translates to “son of the commandment,” indicating that the boy is now responsible for observing Jewish commandments. The ceremony usually includes the boy reading from the Torah during a synagogue service, followed by a celebration or party with family and friends.
I left for college in the mid eighties. I went to Brown and at some point mentioned to my new friends — many of whom were Jewish and raised on the East Coast — that I had my Bar Mitzvah at home and that part of the celebration included lunch served on our large redwood deck followed by optional but highly encouraged use of our hot tub, they looked at me in a way that is hard to describe. It was as if their facial muscles had been activated by signals from their brains, initiating a precise and elegant sequence of movements. These movements resulted in what we know as an expression. In this case, an expression typically reserved for when one is encountering someone who seems, well, like a raving lunatic.
I thought it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, but I’m a Northern California Cliché.
Late 1980’s — Present
With the great war now considered a truce, my parents emerged from their compound. They looked around the battle field with wide, cautious eyes, like a cat you just brought home from the pound. Their children were gone, off to fancy Universities conveniently located no closer than 2000 miles away. Having spent the last 20 years working hard and earning money while negotiating a war they thought would never end, they were ready for the (obvious) next phase of life: Screw communal living. Instead, move to a much bigger, better house in the nicest neighborhood in town, and without question be a little more selective about who you allow to live in your new home.
