A Loss

I had to say a goodbye, recently. The relationship was almost two decades old, but the time had come to end it. I had to buy a new wallet.

Now, I can hear the groans, mostly from my female friends. While women may have a wallet inside a purse or a purse alone, it is often part of the larger fashion ensemble. Depending on the outfit or occasion, the wallet/purse will change. But it is different for men. For us, our wallet is more like an appendage or a relationship.

Like many relationships, there is a courting period. You're comparing different styles, colors, and materials. Exotic leather? Ah, look at that snakeskin wallet! Shape and size come into play. Need something larger for the new credit cards or downsizing? All these factors are part of the attractiveness of a new wallet.

After a long courtship or love at first sight, one catches your eye and a purchase is made. Then comes the transferring of items from the old wallet to the new. Decisions are made about what gets put in the new wallet and what is left out. I haven't contacted this person in seven years, I don't really need his business card anymore. I'll move my membership cards to this slot and the bank cards here. And if you're very lucky, you find a folded twenty or the number of that booty call. (Obviously dating myself to a time when the hook-up culture used slips of papers and not smart phones.)

Most men have a preferred back pocket like dressing right or left. The same wallet switched to the opposite side will feel entirely different. But there is an adjustment time even on the same side. The new wallet and your butt cheek have to reach a mutual agreement like a couple and the blankets on the bed.  Eventually the wallet sculpts its shape so that you can sit in the hardest chair and still fall asleep to your significant other's recounting of her day.

Because of this comfort level that is eventually reached, the weight of the wallet becomes an important warning sign when getting dressed. When using the same pants, the heaviness will confirm the wallet's presence. Dressing with new pants requires a ritual of confirming daily needed items like the wallet, phone, and keys. Otherwise, it is easy to accidentally leave without it (unless purposely forgetful so you stiff someone for lunch.)

 There's an old joke about checking for your wallet.

A rabbi and a priest are on a plane that starts to have engine trouble. The trouble continues and it becomes obvious that the plane is going to crash. The two clergy men pray in their own manner, but also urge each other to convert to the other’s religion. The plane crashes and both survive. As they are pulling themselves out of the ruble, the rabbi makes the sign of the cross on himself. The priest says, "See, you made the right decision in converting to Catholicism." The Priest says, "What conversion? I was just taking inventory, testicles, spectacles, wallet, and watch."

Upon leaving the house, the discovery of a missing wallet is an instant threat to one's manhood. If noticed soon enough, it's an inconvenience quickly rectified by turning around and retrieving it, often downplayed by a fabricated need to do something else like check the dog's food dish. But if too far from home and must work the rest of the day without it, one feels like a caveman walking around Saber-tooth tigers without a club.

Then comes the terror if you can't immediately find it. What pants did I have on? Did I leave it at the checkout stand when paying? Did I drop it getting out of the car or did the couch eat it? When eventually found, the relief equals the comfort of an efficient laxative.

Men will not maintain a relationship with the old wallet. Once the new one is found, the old one is discarded. Partly for practical purposes as we will wait until the old wallet is unraveling like a sweater in a vaudeville skit. But we don’t want different wallets for different pants for different occasions. An exhibit of monogamy not usually demonstrated in the gender.

But I have the new wallet and I'm still in the honeymoon period, moving cards to different slots just to see how it looks and feels. The leather still smells like leather. Since it feels slightly different, I’m double checking the pocket to ensure that I have the wallet. Every time I grab it, I know I picked the right one. We are a couple. I am happy.

The Meaning of "A Century in the Central Valley"

Whoops, it is quite obvious that I've blown my daily goal right out of the gate. But all great religions teach that it is never too late to start anew. So here I go.

"A Century in the Central Valley" is a specific reference to when my great grandfather first arrived in Fresno. The whole family moved here in 1915, but I suspect he did a scouting mission before this. Cornelius’s son, Paul (my grandfather) was not born in Fresno, but Paul's son, William (my father) was. I was born in Berkeley before my parents moved back to Fresno when I was toddler.

Cornelius Richert moved around before settling in Fresno. He ministered to congregations of German immigrants and their children and taught the classics and languages. The family lived in Nebraska, Minnesota, and Connecticut before settling in Fresno. Cornelius continued to travel after making his home in Fresno.

He was not the first Richert in the valley. There is a branch of Mennonite Richerts that settled in the Reedley area. There is a common great, great, great, great or great, great, great, great, great – grandfather which makes us some numbered cousins somehow removed. Not being a common name, we've often been asked if we are related. Rather than attempt to explain the distant connection, we would just say no, they're the Reedley Richerts and we're the Fresno Richerts.

Both my grandfather and father graduated from Fresno High, left Fresno to attend and graduate Cal and then returned to Fresno to start their own professions and families. I did the complete opposite by graduating from Las Lomas in Walnut Creek and eventually getting a degree from Fresno State. Though I stayed in Fresno, I started neither a career nor family. Some focus too much on one at the expense of the other; I failed to focus at all.

The three of us did try to escape Fresno at one time in our adult life. My grandfather and I both spent some time in Sacramento after college. He graduated and got a job with the state while I left Fresno and paid the bills by working the line at a T. Applechiligan's. In between one pair of marriages, my dad set up a branch of his law firm in San Luis Obispo but eventually returned to Fresno as well. In the end, all of us stayed in Fresno, less like swallows from Capistrano and more like matter failing to escape a black hole.

There are actually four generation of Richerts buried out in the Mountain View Cemetery in Fresno, which is impressive for this modern age when there is so much generational movement from childhood hometowns. I plan on staying here in Fresno to make the century mark for our branch of the family official. While the Reedley Richerts may still have a presence in the Valley, I am the last Richert of our branch still here. The others have successfully escaped the gravitational pull of Fresno.

So, when I make prissy, witty, sarcastic, biting, critical comments about Fresno, know that they aren't meant to be mean, but more as self-criticism. Fresno is my past, present, and future. Fresno is my home.