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Topical Sunday Concerts and Art in Santa Cruz
BY SARAH RINGLER
PHOTO BY TARMO HANNULA
Russell Brutsché talks with visitors at his First Friday Art Opening at Felix Kulpa Gallery July 5.
Tired of the vacuous and commercial sounds and sights that surround us in much of the media today? Leave the screen and come out to hear Songs of Santa Cruz and Celebration of Woody Guthrie's Birthday, two events that shouldn't be missed this Sunday in Santa Cruz.
Russell Brutsché will be accompanying himself on guitar from 3-5pm at the Felix Kulpa Gallery, 107 Elm St., $10 donation suggested. Inside the gallery, view his current paintings as well as his 3-D version of downtown Santa Cruz with pop-up highrises.
Earlier in the day, the Kelly O-Davey duo, featuring union musicians David Burough and Jimmy Kelly, will perform songs in celebration of Woody Guthrie's Birthday at the Town Clock from 11am-3pm. Donations accepted. Happy Birthday Woody Guthrie.
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Santa Cruz To Protest Panetta Twice
BY SARAH RINGLER
Two events are planned over the next week that protest the Middle East foreign policy supported by U.S. Representative Jimmy Panetta. Panetta is the U.S. representative for the Central Coast's 20th congressional district. He is also the son of Leon Panetta who previosly held the same seat for 16 years, and was also Secretary of Defense under Barack Obama and Director of the CIA from 2009-2011.
The first protest will be held outside Bookshop Santa Cruz, 1520 Pacific Ave. on July 19. Inside the bookshop, Congressman Jimmy Panetta, Santa Cruz Mayor Fred Keeley, NAACP Santa Cruz County Branch President Elaine Johnson and Santa Cruz City Councilmember Martine Watkins will participate in a reading of Sinclair Lewis's 1936 It Can't Happen Here, a play that was a warning, back then, of the rise of fascism. With Panetta's active support of Israel in the killing of Palestinian women and children in Gaza, and Keeley's and Watkin's sponsorships of heartless sweeps that sporadically displace our already desperate local homeless community, aspects of fascism are already here.
The second, on July 21, from 2-4pm in San Lorenzo Park, asks that Jimmy Panetta boycott Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu's July 24 speech before the U.S. Congress. It is also a vigil asking to end the U.S. supported violence toward the Palestinian people.
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The Tale of Two Bus Drivers
BY SAM EARNSHAW
From the mid 80s to the late 90s, my wife and I owned and operated Neptune Farms, a 10-acre organic farm in Santa Cruz which weekly sold at four Farmer’s Markets and five natural food stores. I currently operate Hedgerows Unlimited, installing native plants on farms and I live in Aromas.
This is my chronicle of the Jan. 4 and 5, 1991 Rally at the Nevada Test Site for a Comprehensive Test Ban, before the beginning of the Iraq War.
I want to tell you a story about two bus drivers. Actually, it’s a story about my trip to Las Vegas in support of a rally held by Greenpeace and the American Peace Test, to urge the United Nations to pass a Comprehensive Test Ban on Nuclear Testing, which is supported by every nation in the world, except for the United States and Great Britain. But it really is about the bus drivers, because, well, let me start over.
The first bus driver we met on Saturday morning as we all parked our cars and walked over to the busses that were lined up in the Sahara parking lot in Las Vegas, hired to drive us 65 miles north to the Nevada Test Site, where the U.S. detonates one nuclear bomb every four weeks. (Quotes from previous night’s speakers: "We are already conducting a nuclear war. We are exploding twelve bombs a year.” “Twenty-two percent of the radiation underground escapes to the atmosphere,” “The test program is designed to make nuclear bombs safe.” (!!?).
The day before, we had arrived in Las Vegas, and found our way to the Sahara Hotel and Casino, which had donated the Grand Ballroom to Greenpeace and the American Peace Test to conduct a conference associated with the particulars of the rally and planned civil resistance (arrests) for the following day.
Three of us, organic farmers from Santa Cruz, and our dog, drove down to Las Vegas. None of us had been to Vegas before, nor had we been to a Nevada Test Site protest, which have been going on periodically since 1980.
We walked into the Sahara Casino, looking all around us at the bright lights, the red carpets, the it-could-be-any-time-of-day atmosphere, the jinging and dinging of slot machines and jackpot bells. I had been to Tahoe before, and I had this theory that gambling casinos were one place in the U.S. that you could go, no matter how you were dressed and no matter what you looked like, and no one would look at you. I mean, first of all, everyone looks outrageous, just being there, totally sucked up in the wild whirlwind of any kind of gambling they could ever want to do; and second of all, there really are some outrageous looking people in there, if you know what I mean.
Well, Las Vegas in general, and the Sahara in particular, blew my theory. People looked at us. We were hippies, freaks, peaceniks, with peace buttons and signs, who walked through the casino on the way to the Grand Ballroom. The Sahara was, in fact, very nice to all of us; it was their clientele that I got the vibes from.
Anyhow, to get back to the bus drivers, we arrived very late at the conference on Friday (actually, it was over), and the first thing we did was to choose which buses we wanted to take the next day: there were five leaving in the morning from 6:30 to 9:30am, and five returning in the afternoon, from 2:30 to 7pm.
Also, did we plan to get arrested? We looked at each other. Well, it was our first time there, and, uh, we do have to get back to the farm (although nothing's really growing there right now and we’re not really harvesting anything) and, well, we didn’t get in any affinity groups or learn the particular. Oh! Yes, there’s our dog! What would happen to her? No, we guessed we weren’t going to get arrested, not this time anyway.
So, we signed up for the 8:30am bus up there and the 3:30pm bus back, and the driver of the 8:30am bus on Saturday is the first driver I started telling you about. We got on the bus, about three or four seats back. There were still about 10 or 12 empty seats on the bus (This may not seem that important, the number of empty seats, that is, but just wait.) We were a little tired from the night before, because there had been an evening program with speakers and music and dancing. There had been a spiritual invocation and drumming (I think; unfortunately we were late and missed it) by local Shoshone Indians on whose land the Test Site lies. Naturally, they are not allowed on that part of their own land, and several of them were the first arrested the next day as they strode, proud and silent, across the cattle guard and across the fence and onto their own land, where they were immediately arrested by several cop-like-looking cops, to the cheers and yells and shouting of 2,200 people thronging behind them, 750 of whom also followed in civil resistance by trespassing and getting themselves arrested. 750 out of 2,200 is a very high percent, but did not get any media coverage worthy of its significance, and also did not leave very many people to take the afternoon buses back to the Sahara. Which leads me to the story of the second bus driver. But, wait. I was just getting to the story of the first bus driver.
So, as I was saying, there we were, on the bus, waiting to leave.
Some people were walking over to get in the bus, but the driver closed the door and began to drive off. "There are still some empty seats,” some of us spoke out.
Silence from the bus driver as he slowly edged forward.
“Wait!” some of us shouted, louder this time. Some people on the bus saw their friends outside the bus, wanting to get on.
“Stop!” we shouted. “There are lots of empty seats!”
Silence from the driver, as he relentlessly crept across the parking lot and toward the street.
“Hey!” yelled one peace activist. There was a definite level of tension rippling up and down the whole bus.
Then, the turning point, when it was totally apparent to everyone that this guy was absolutely not going to stop to let anyone on, and here we were. We all glumly settled back in our seats, beaten, resigned, used to it, looked at each other silently, looked out the window at the grey Las Vegas morning, and began thinking about where we were headed, and to heck with the jerk who was driving the bus.
As we rode along, many things went through our minds. “I never realized Las Vegas was so big,” I commented, as we got on and off urban freeway exits, passed stores and apartments and lots of city stuff for fifteen minutes.
Suddenly, there was an abrupt and remarkable change: giant condo subdivisions, as far as the eye could see, in all directions, for miles and miles and miles. Condos in all shapes and sizes, packed in next to each other like toy houses, more condos than you could even imagine existed, and they kept on coming, mile after mile after mile. Soon, everyone in the bus was talking about it, in hushed tones to his companion.
My first thought was of water usage: we ration in Santa Cruz. I wonder if they all have low-flush toilets and don't water their tiny bright green lawns. I already knew the answer, and I was hit by the starkness of it: man conquers the desert, creates a huge paradise in pursuit of happiness (i.e. gambling). I was getting no feelings of sensitivity toward the environment.
The previous night we had cruised the Strip. There are so many gaudy signs with billions of light bulbs: incredible gambling palaces with huge Disneyland-like grotesque caricatures of truly elegant and complex buildings. It is said that the Strip burns up one million dollars in electricity every single day.
I couldn’t help feeling that I was surrounded by gigantic waste — wasted money, wasted energy, wasted resources. Huge twenty and thirty story hotels, crammed with people, scurrying back and forth from the slots to the shows to the buffets to the gaming tables ad infinitum, and all of a sudden our protest seemed so small and somewhat insignificant. I mean, when you gaze at the wonders of Caesar’s Palace, when you think of all the individuals who live in all those condos, don’t they know about nuclear testing? Why aren't they out here with us? Are we going to go to war in the Persian Gulf so that Las Vegas can live and people can waddle around with their little coin buckets from slot to slot?
The bus rolled on.
I looked at the back of the driver's head. I wondered if he noticed the condos. Maybe he lived in one of them.
I thought of the speeches the night before: the executive director of Greenpeace, dynamic and exciting, with lots of hope and passion for what we were doing; Daniel Ellsberg, the veteran protester, leading us on, chastising our U.S. Congress for letting Bush lead them around by their noses, talking about how getting arrested for what you believed was truly liberating; the Raging Grannies, a group of elderly grandmothers in colorful hats who raged against the tyrannies of nuclear power and the impending war. And then, the evening finished with hours of singing and dancing, as our minds and bodies gave up the tedium of dealing with the insanity of war and weapons, and we hooped and bounced and danced, colorful pagans streaming, whooping, yelling, whirling, in the Grand Ballroom of the Sahara Hotel, regular people and hippies, freaks and peaceniks, in the Belly of the Monster, come to Las Vegas to try to tell the rest of the world that war and nuclear weapons are not wanted by normal human beings.
I guess I could stop here. There are some images: the powerful presence and beautiful imagery of the Russian poet/activist who taught us to hold up an open hand rather than a clenched fist; the buffet cashier who told us she wished she was out there with us and was glad someone was standing up for peace; the Vietnam vet at the rally who yelled at the cops that someone in their family felt like we did, and that 20 years ago he was on their side of the fence and felt just like they did but now he was on this side; the Shoshone Indian, a young man with straight black hair hanging down from under his baseball cap, holding a drum, chanting, drumming, an ageless war chant that raised the hackles on the back of my neck as he stared across the fence at the white men, wearing uniforms and guns, keepers of white man’s law, of white man’s justice, of white man’s terrible arsenal; the cops themselves, young men and women, striding around with plastic handcuffs dangling from their belts, showing the uneasy confidence that comes with a gun and a uniform, chatting amongst themselves, smoking cigarettes, looking around uneasily as the crowd chanted “Arrest Yourselves! Arrest Yourselves! You’re on the other side of the fence! Try it! Arrest Yourselves!" I was struck by the impression that these cops, who stood on the other side, both of the fence and of the political spectrum, were just like us -- they were just human beings, doing what they felt was right, just like George Bush, just like the people in our families who further the war machine “for peace”, just like the people who were so happy to be spending a few opulent and sinfully delicious days in Las Vegas, just like the bus driver who was merely doing his job.
As I said, I could stop here, except I still have to tell you the story of the second bus driver. The rally was winding down.
The buses carrying those arrested drove off, to the shouts and yells of those of us remaining. It was almost 3:30pm. We walked over to the buses, invigorated, refreshed, flushed with emotion and hope: the feeling of tremendous energy of all these people who felt like we did. Maybe there was hope. Maybe this awful
war would not start. Maybe the U.S. would vote for a Comprehensive Test Ban, and thus Iraq would be blocked from developing a nuclear bomb in a peaceful manner. Maybe.
Dreamily, we got on the bus. We sat three or four seats back There were a few empty seats.
An older man sat in front of us, papers and stuff spread on his seat, anxiously looking out the window. His female companion had gotten off the bus but she’d be right back.
The Greenpeace organizer outside signaled to the driver that he could go. He started to close the door.
”Wait,” called out someone. ”There’s a woman who left her stuff on the bus and she’ll be right back.” The driver ignored him and closed the door.
”Hold it!” someone else shouted out. “She’ll be right back!”
”The man said to go,” snarled the bus driver.
The people on the bus started to get uneasy. (None of these people, incidentally, had been on the first bus, except for me and my two companions).
The elderly man was upset, agitated, talking out loud to himself and to his missing companion: "0h, hurry up! 0h! Where is she? Come on! Hurry up!”
“Wait a minute!” we all shouted. “We can wait for her to get back. There’s no hurry.”
“The man said GO!!” screamed the bus driver. “Can’t you speak English?”
We were stunned. Behavior that flew in the face of common sense. Rigidity. Arbitrary adherence to orders. Lack of under- standing. No sensitivity to human values.
Wasn’t this what our protest was about? Weren’t we trying to convey to our leaders that there was a new age, where love and flexibility could reign? Where force and rigidity and power trips and exploiting the resources of the planet were no longer necessary?
Immediately I thought of the first bus driver, who left when he was told to leave, even though there were empty seats and people right outside the door who wanted to get in. We, the peace activists and ecologists, wanted to fill the bus, use the space, conserve the resource (why drive a bus not full?). He, the uniformed keeper of the order, simply did not care about any of these things.
Now, the scene was being repeated. Was it a coincidence? 0r was it that we were once again running up against the bastions of order; the same bastions of order that insisted that we must fabricate and test nuclear weapons, that we must obliterate Iraq to show them that force is not acceptable to civilized men, that we must not wait a few more minutes for a passenger because we were told to go.
The man in front of us hurriedly gathered up his papers and possessions and got off the bus. 0n the steps, he turned back and said gently “Thank you,” to the driver. The driver glared back at him with hate in his eyes.
We slumped back in our seats as the bus rolled up onto the freeway. There was a bitter taste in my mouth. Moments before, I was languishing in the glory of our dramatic and glorious rally and action. Thousands of people, united in one voice, screaming for peace and sanity on the planet. Now, I was sitting in the bus, headed back to Las Vegas.
The seat in front of us was empty.
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Dance for Liberation and a New World - eSIM Disco Fundraiser
BY PALESTINIAN SOLIDARITY CENTRAL COAST
Join us at the eSIM DISCO on July 27 at Barrios Unidos, 1823 Soquel Ave., Santa Cruz for a benefit dance filled with passion and purpose. Our goal is to assist with connecting the people of Gaza with each other and the world by sending 100% of our proceeds as eSIM cards.
Doors open at 7pm with, DJs at 8pm. Sliding Scale $20-$30. 100% of the proceeds will go toward purchasing eSIM cards for Palestinians in Gaza.
Featured DJs: Mothership Connection playing Cumbia, Boogie, Freestyle; Hani Gata with Ambient, Experimental, House music; and Casa Primos with Reggaeton, RnB, Old School Funk. They spin beats that will move your soul.
From the moment the music begins, it will transport you to another world. For those interested in work trade opportunities, we welcome you with open arms. Reach out to PSCC to learn more and get involved.
We strive to make this event accessible to all. Limited parking is available in the back lot, and the venue is mostly wheelchair accessible with some seating provided. Water and refreshments will be on hand to keep you energized throughout the night. Barrios Unidos is our gracious host.
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FYI - Updates on Chomsky and Peltier
By SARAH RINGLER
Portside, an online magazine that promotes itself as “Material of Interest to People on the Left” published news on June 12 of Noam Chomsky’s hospitalization in Brazil as a result of a massive stroke he suffered last year in June.
Chomsky, 95 years old and a laureate professor at the University of Arizona and professor emeritus at Massachusetts Institution of Technology, is currently in a Sao Paulo hospital according to his wife Valeria Chomsky who flew with him there on an ambulance jet with two nurses following the stroke. She is quoted as saying that although her husband has difficulty speaking and his body is numb on the right side, he follows the news and "when he sees images of the war in Gaza, he raises his left arm in a gesture of lament and anger." She said his condition has improved significantly, and he is seeing a neurologist, speech therapist, and pulmonologist daily. Click HERE for the full story.
Leonard Peltier was again denied clemency on July 2, Chase Iron Eyes, Director and Lead Counsel of The Lakota People’s Law Project reported. He writes “With a heavy heart, I report to you that, once again, American Indian Movement (AIM) activist Leonard Peltier has been denied his freedom. On July 2, despite the best efforts of a large coalition and so many who lobbied the U.S. Parole Commission to do the right thing by Leonard—behind bars since 1977 and our longest-standing political prisoner—it decided against his release.
“That said, options remain — so we must keep the pressure on! We continue to ask the president to grant Leonard clemency and let this legendary justice defender live out his remaining years at home. As we have mentioned to you before, Leonard has serious health issues which the prison cannot properly handle. Time is running out.
“Understand that Leonard’s case is a classic miscarriage of justice. Leonard, a citizen of the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa in North Dakota and a Dakota, was a key member of the American Indian Movement (AIM), which pushed back hard in the 1970s against violence in our communities perpetrated under the auspices of federal law enforcement. Thus, the government went after him hard and, despite a host of problems with his trial, he’s now serving two life sentences as a scapegoat.
“Problems with his conviction include a lack of eyewitnesses, recanted testimony from other witnesses, and withheld ballistics evidence. The prosecuting attorney is now on record as saying Leonard should be freed — and a host of other justice advocates, including Amnesty International and the Dalai Lama, agree.
“Leonard’s freedom is an issue of Indigenous sovereignty, as embodied by a single man. A good human being has now spent nearly 50 years behind bars, essentially because he’s Native and once made for a convenient example. Enough is enough! Please send your message to President Biden. Ask him to do the right thing, show empathy to a misunderstood elder with a good heart, and grant clemency to Leonard Peltier. Wopila tanka — thank you for showing your love and respect."
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CARTOON BY ELIZABETH WILLIAMS
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Gloria Circumnavigates Our Block
BY WOODY REHANEK
Gloria circumnavigates our block
with her walker, stopping beneath
the orange trumpet vine
on the sidewalk beyond our fence.
I hear her from the sundeck
chatting with her caregiver
& sometimes singing
like I've never heard
singing before.
******
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San Francisco Mime Troupe's American Dreams
Coming to Santa Cruz, Sept. 7, 3pm at London Nelson, 301 Center St.,Santa Cruz. AMERICAN DREAMS features a four-person cast that includes veteran SF Mime Troupe collective members: Andre Amarotico* (Oliver, Harold) Michael Gene Sullivan* (Gabriel Pearse, Chancellor Quisling); and features Lizzie Calogero*(Meliae Higgins, Emma); and Mikki Johnson (Paine Pearse).
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BY TREE KILPATRICK, FARMER AND FORAGER
Among Us
BY KATHLEEN KILPATRICK
Hyphae hidden beneath the crust,
drifting spores too tiny to be seen,
fantastic forms arising unexpectedly,
invisible lattices growing
within walls and underfoot.
Neither plant nor animal,
something in between,
older than dirt, tougher than us,
belying an appearance of fragility.
Painter of deserts, dissolver of rocks,
weaver of forests, destroyer of crops,
feast for the forager, taste of umami,
spoiler of bread, saver of lives.
Forgotten fruit furs over, emits
a smoky plume when touched,
velvety blanket covers ancient sauce,
clothes left in the washer reek.
What we call overgrowth is merely
finding advantage in opportunities
created by abundance and neglect.
Resourceful spores colonize our shoes,
insinuate between our toes,
bloom beneath diapers and in skin folds,
thriving on the excess we exude,
flatulating us in life,
flaying us in death
We used to think the worms
would eat us in the end.
Maggots will come, it's true,
but only when we're broken open.
So many tools humans have harnessed,
basket, spear, the seed, the plow,
the grinder, axe, and oil, and engine,
animals to work and to be eaten.
Now we hope to harness mycorrhizae,
harvest, shape them from and with the ether,
dissolve the garbage, build new products,
sequester carbon, cure diseases,
keep the human cycle going.
On that final day, they will be here,
this vast empire of fungi,
whose kingdom may outlive ours,
besting us in the task, the art,
of building and destroying.
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Photo by TARMO HANNULA
Cedar waxwings make their yearly visit to Watsonville.
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Santa Cruz County Covid-19 Report - Rt stays above for 9 Weeks
By SARAH RINGLER
The California Department of Public Health and Santa Cruz County Health Department regularly release data on the current status of Covid-19 in the county as well as information on influenza, Respiratory Syncytial Virus (RSV), and Mpox. Since cases of Covid are still appearing, and there are still vulnerable people, I will continue reporting the graphs below.
The three graphs below were updated on July 7.
The first graph is the Effective Reproductive Number. When the line rises above one, it shows that the spread of the virus is increasing. Below one means the spread is decreasing. Last week it appeared the Rt was dropping below 1.0 but when this week's graph was released, the number stayed above 1.0.
The second graph below shows data that the Health Department collects for Covid from wastewater at the City Influent, for the city of Santa Cruz, and from the Lode Street pump stations for the county.
The third graph below shows hospitalizations.
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Photo TARMO HANNULA
Fashion Street - These folks are enveloped by a collapsible tent.
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Labor History Calendar - July 12 - Aug. 1, 2024
a.k.a Know Our History Lest We Forget
July 12, 1917: Bisbee, Arizona deportation of striking copper miners. 1,186 miners deported into the desert.
July 12, 2012: 1,000 workers from 16 unions wildcat Newfoundland mine construction job, winning on the fifth day, 4 face contempt charges.
July 13, 1917: Strikes in police murder of worker spread in Sao Paulo, Brazil.
July 13, 1934: Southern Tenant Farmers’ Union organized in Tyronza, Arkansas.
July 13, 1995 Detroit newspaper workers begin 19-month strike.
July 14, 1877: General strike halts railroads.
July 14, 1912: Birth of Woody Guthrie.
July 14, 1921: Sacco and Vanzetti convicted after two-month frame-up trial.
July 14, 2014: Los Angeles port truckers launch 5-day strike; dockworkers briefly honor picket lines.
July 15, 1917: 50,000 lumberjacks strike for eight-hour day.
July 15, 2012: 7,000 workers occupy state-owned Mist Spinning plant in Egypt.
July 15, 2022: US government blocks national rail strike, mediation board calls for 24% pay hikes and one-man crews.
July 16, 1876: Birth of Vincent St. John, leader of WFM and IWW.
July 16, 1877: Great Uprising, nationwide railway strike.
July 16, 1913: IWW cigar workers strike in Pittsburgh, PA.
July 17, 1936: Spanish Civil War begins.
July 18, 1969: Hospital workers end 113-day strike that saw united efforts by strikers, students and civil rights groups in Charleston, SC.
July 19, 1848: Women’s Rights Convention in Seneca Falls, NY.
July 19, 1877: Pittsburgh strikers drive soldiers out of town.
July 20, 1934: 76 strikers wounded in Minneapolis truckers’ strike.
July 20 2020: Strikes, protests across US support Black Lives Matter fight.
July 21, 1878: Publication of “Eight Hours,” most popular labor song until “Solidarity Forever.”
July 21, 1964: IWW blueberry pickers strike begins near Grand Junction, Michigan.
July 21, 1978: Wildcat postal strike begins in Jersey City for safety and right to strike.
July 22, 1877: General strike in St. Louis.
July 22, 1917: IWW and Casa del Obrero Mundial-sponsored general strike closes Tampico, Mexico oil industry.
July 23, 1934: Sacramento police arrest farmworkers.
July 24, 2019: General strike protest topple Puerto Rican governor.
July 25, 1867: Das Kapital published.
July 25, 1890: New York garment workers win closed shop and firing of scabs after 7-month strike.
July 25, 1987: Firings break US Postal strike.
July 26, 1877: 30 workers killed at the “Battle of the Viaduct” by Federal troops in Chicago.
July 26, 1912: Battle of Mucklow, West Virginia, in coal strike.
July 27, 1913: 20,000 Barcelona textile workers, mostly women, strike for shorter hours. Win 60-hour week in September.
July 27, 1918: Goon shoots Mine Mill (former WFM) union organizer Ginger Goodwin in Cumberland, BC.
July 27, 2022 UK train workers have 1-day strike.
July 28, 1989: Women shoemakers in Lynn, Massachusetts demand equal pay.
July 28, 1992: Volkswagen locks out 14,000 workers in bid to break union in Puebla, Mexico.
July 29, 1970: United Farm Workers win grape strike contract after five-year strike.
July 29, 2010: Jail blockade forces sheriff to postpone immigrant raids in Phoenix.
July 29, 2013: Fast food workers strike for living wage in seven US cities.
July 29, 2019: Unpaid Kentucky miners blockade train hauling their coal.
July 30, 2010: Four days of riots protest new Bangladeshi minimum wage of $43/month; 4,000 workers arrested.
July 31, 1909: Government crushes general strike, kills hundreds in Barcelona, Spain.
July 31, 1978: Italy general strike vs. fascism.
August 1, 1910: Miners locked out at South Wales’ Cambrian Combine pit; troops deployed against picketers.
Aug. 1, 1912: San Pedro longshore strike defeated, several IWWs blacklisted.
Aug. 1, 1917: IWW organizer Frank Little lynched in Butte, Montana.
Labor History Calendar has been published yearly by the Hungarian Literature Fund since 1985.
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"Armies are the greatest supports of tyranny.
There can be no dictator without his army."
- Pancho Villa
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Photo by TARMO HANNULA
Pájaro Valley Berry Cake
By SARAH RINGLER
Here is a modest cake that that is pretty and provocative. Not too many cakes call for basil and corn meal. Make sure you have sweet berries. Test them first and add a little extra sugar if necessary. After all, this is a cake.
Initially, all plants began as wild plants. Early humans must have really relished the seasonal berries and fruits since they were only source of sweetness other than honey from the occasional beehive.
Locally, we have blackberries that can be gathered for free by the side of the road or fields. Blackberries this year were a little late due to the cool summer and I had trouble finding a patch that yielded enough sweet ones. For this cake, I recommend using organic berries.
Berries freeze well and can be kept in the freezer for several months. That way you can take advantage of good prices during the season. However, they are never better than picked and eaten right off the plant on a warm day.
Upside-down Berry Cornmeal Cake
2 to 2 ½ cups fresh or frozen blueberries, raspberries, blackberries and/or strawberries (1 cup of the berries are for decoration after you bake the cake)
1 1/3 cups flour
½ cup yellow cornmeal
1 tablespoon fresh basil, finely chopped
2 teaspoons baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt
2 eggs, beaten
½ cup sugar
2/3 cup milk
1/3 cup vegetable oil or melted butter
1 teaspoons lemon zest
Fresh basil for decoration
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line the bottom of an 8-inch round cake pan with parchment paper or wax paper. Grease the sides of the pan and the paper. Arrange 1 ½ cup berries in the bottom of the pan. If you use strawberries, cut into thin slices. Set aside.
In a bowl, mix the dry ingredients: flour, cornmeal, basil, baking powder and salt. Set aside.
In another bowl, beat the eggs, sugar, milk, lemon zest and oil/butter. Quickly stir this mixture into the dry ingredients. Do not over mix. Pour over the berries in the cake pan. Spread evenly.
Bake 40 to 45 minutes or until a toothpick that in inserted into the middle of the cake comes out clean. Cool cake in the pan for 5 minutes. Run a knife around the edge of the pan to loosen the sides. Invert onto a serving plate. Remove the paper.
Carefully drip the frosting over the cake and spread it evenly letting some drip down the sides. Decorate with the rest of the berries and the basil or mint.
This cake can be refrigerated and is also good the next day.
Frosting
2/3 cup powdered sugar
2 teaspoons lemon juice
4 teaspoons milk
Mix the ingredients together. Spread on the warm cake as noted above.
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Send your story, poetry or art: Please submit a story, poem or photo of your art that you think would be of interest to the people of Santa Cruz County. Try and keep the word count to around 400. Also, there should be suggested actions if this is a political issue. Submit to coluyaki@gmail.com
Send comments to coluyaki@gmail.com
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Subscribe, contact or find back issues at the website https://serf-city-times.constantcontactsites.com
Thanks, Sarah Ringler
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