Regular readers may recall my GGGpa Joe Donavan, the pony express rider. He had 8 children, 5 boys and 3 girls. One of the oldest boys was Uncle Paul.
Paul J Donavan was born in 1879 in Colorado. By the time he was in his 70s, he was living in a converted bus by himself down in Los Angeles. His wife, Henrietta Hartsel (Sam Hartsel's youngest - Sam and Grandpa Joe were good friends), had died in the early 1950s. Their 3 children had grown. And down to LA moved my dad and his family. My Granddad Wally was Paul's nephew, and always insisted on picking up the bill when they went out to dinner. Paul let him. It wasn't until he died that Granddad found out Paul was actually rich as hell. It always confused Dad why Paul lived in a bus, but this was generally chalked up to the Donavan family's flare for being weird. The real reason is a lot more interesting.
Uncle Paul wrote a book called "Shacks Under the River Bank". I'm trying to figure out exactly when it was written, but Dad says it was several decades before its publishing in 1955. Because no story any Donavan ever told has been short, the book is almost 900 pages long. Granddad Wally had a copy, but somehow the book (though not its dust jacket) was lost sometime in the 60s.
My Grandma Elsbeth, Granddad Wally's widow, moved into assisted living last year. At 86, she still has perfect hearing, but she had macular degeneration and can't see well. She herself is interesting as hell, but hers is a whole different story. At any rate, Grandma Elsbeth gave me all the family genealogy information the family had kept/collected through the years. Among the information was the dust jacket for Uncle Paul's book. My Dad had never read it. Grandma couldn't remember exactly what it was about, but she said it was interesting. Thanks to the internet, I found a copy at a rare/antique bookstore in Brooklyn, and had it shipped to me in California.
Holy. Shit.
Interesting is one way of putting it. Given total scope of its content, finding this book at this moment in U.S. political and economic history, it makes me feel like Uncle Paul was a psychic.
I opened the book, and began by reading its dedication:
"This writing is dedicated to any one of the millions of honest people who live on the shrinking margin of existence, in the midst of the greatest abundance man has known, struggling through their lives against an unseen and un-suspected foe - and, at the end, not one owns the roof over his head nor the bed he dies on."
Holy. Shit.
It was like Uncle Paul reached through the decades, grabbed me by the bones, and shook me. I had to read this book.
I went back to read the book's dust jacket, and another paper slipped out. At first I thought it was a copy of the dust jacket, but it turned out to be the publisher's announcement of the book. I'm still figuring the whole thing out. Knowing exactly when Uncle Paul wrote the book would be helpful. Ultimately, it seems as though this book takes place in a distopian future (now likely past) in which there was no organized labor and the coining of currency/monetary policy had been privatized.
The protagonist resolves, after foreclosure by the Friendly Loan Company on her small home, to expose the swindle that the privatization of public resources has created for everyone. She stumbles upon a group of tramps. People she thought were tramps, in any case. Upon further discussion, it turns out that these men are members of the Local Chapter of the Socratic Society of America. The Society's mission was to find a way to restore control of currency and monetary policy to the Congress. (To be fair, I don't think even Uncle Paul could have envisioned the failures of our current Congress, so he was going on the assumption that the Legislature still worked...)
The amazing part are the Society's members. As it turns out, the "tramps" living down in shacks under the river bank are for the most part very successful businessmen - lawyers, doctors, engineers, professors, as well as miners, farmers and the rest. "Many had incomes from various sources and had chosen that way of life, to be, as they said, closer to God and to men and away from the turmoil and hypocrisy."
Holy. Shit.
There are a number of ways that this speaks to me - on personal, professional, and political levels, and I'm still processing exactly why this all has resounded with me quite so deeply.
First, and maybe most obvious to some, is Uncle Paul's choice to live in a bus. "Off the grid" as it were. People thought Uncle Paul was crazy and poor and a hobo and whatever. But I think he may just have been ahead of his time. At worst, which is still amazing, he lived out his vision.
Second, and even more obvious to me, is my undeniable need to set up a local chapter of this Society. Which may mean going off the grid, but in the sort of way a woman who likes shoes would do it.
Did I mention that Uncle Paul came up with the idea of selling naming rights to stars, and once sued the mayor of Chicago for air pollution because he was putting too much hot air into the atmosphere?...
More to come, but... Holy. Shit.
