The Colusa/Glenn County Line Debacle

Short Fiction

I was born and raised in Colusa County but have worked for over 20 years up in Orland, which is in Glenn County. It never used to feel that far. A 30 minute commute in the morning isn’t the worst way to start your day, if you ask me. After work, heading home, it was more of a pain in the ass, but at least there’s no such thing as rush hour up on our stretch of I-5.

Past a town called Norman, just past it, the county line was marked with a green roadsign. For most of my career I drove past that sign, Northbound on my way to work, and it remained the same. It read: “Glenn County Line.” Simple; no frills. No decorative county-specific illustrations or welcoming sloganry. White letters on a green sign and just the facts.

Southbound it was the same, on the other side of the road: “Colusa County Line.” Both signs were about the same size.

Then, at 6:45 am on a day I’m sure was otherwise the same as any other, I saw that they’d replaced the Glenn County sign with a new one. It was twice as tall as the original had been, because a new addition had been made to its inscription. It now read: “Glenn County Line Where We Honor Veterans.”

I didn’t see any construction team set the new sign. There was no evidence that the old one had ever existed. As far as I’d heard, there hadn’t been any notable veteran deaths, memorials, or anniversaries of significant military events. We weren’t even in any wars, not really. Apropos of apparently nothing, the powers that be in Glenn County had chosen to announce that they honor veterans.

I’d worked in Glenn County for two decades and I’d never thought of it as the type of place where the citizens, institutions, or government officials honor veterans any more or less than those of any other county. Not that I’m accusing the words on the sign of being untrue. It’s more, if anyone ever asked me, “Where do they honor veterans?” Glenn County, California would not be the first place I’d think of. A more accurate tagline, in my opinion, might be: “Glenn County: Where We Produce and Sell Mid-Grade Farm Equipment.”

Five or six days later, on my drive home from work, I saw that Colusa County had followed suit. Their new sign was slightly larger than Glenn County’s new sign and read: “Colusa County Where We Honor Veterans.” The first few times I saw it, I couldn’t help reading the word “we” in italics.

I was impressed and a bit alarmed by the turnaround time. How often did the Colusa County Board of Supervisors gather to discuss roadsigns? Had they convened an emergency meeting to prepare their response? Did they have nothing better to spend taxpayer dollars on?

It took me a few commutes each way to realize there was actually a slight difference in the wordings of the two signs. Namely, Colusa County had omitted the word “line.” When the two signs were considered in contrast to one another by folks such as myself who drove past both regularly, the suggestion was that, in Glenn County, they only honored veterans on the county line, while, in Colusa, it was a county-wide habit.

Glenn County seemed to pick up on the difference, too. They updated their sign to match Colusa County’s. While they were at it, they added a secondary sign beneath the first that read: “Where Visitors Are Always Welcome.”

Seen after hours of tedious road-tripping, this new sign must have felt like a slightly reassuring platitude to weary travelers, at least compared to the cold, veteran-only sentiments of Colusa County’s signage. Maybe someday someone would take the sign as a good omen and choose to stay in the Motel 6 in Willows.

Shortly after Glenn County announced their stance on visitors, Colusa County pivoted. They were in a bind. If they made no attempt to welcome travelers, they would confirm Glenn County’s insinuation of a welcomeness-gap between the two neighboring areas. They couldn’t remain silent when Glenn County had proclaimed their own virtues so publicly. Then again, they could not keep following lamely behind Glenn’s lead like a bunch of copy-cats. People would start to ask, “Do you really welcome visitors? Or are you just saying so because Glenn County said so first?”

So, they chose to set themselves apart.

Their next sign, off to the right of the one about veterans, read: “Where We Still Value Local Traditions.”

Glenn County immediately countered with another that read: “Where Our Past Doesn’t Stand in the Way of Our Future.”

To that, Colusa County responded with: “Where Actions Speak Louder Than Words.”

At this point, people started talking. Mostly, we wondered about the logistics of churning out sign after sign so quickly. How did they print words on metal roadsigns anyway? Could it be done in-house? If so, what house? The county courthouse? If not, did each county have its own roadsign production plant? And if there was only one between the two counties, where did that establishment’s loyalties lie?

A secondary concern was the safety of the roadway. Your average driver, passing three large, official-looking signs on either side of the road, will assume the transportation authorities are attempting to communicate some crucial information. Cars started slamming on their brakes or pulling over onto the non-existent shoulder to finish reading what was posted. When viewers gleaned no coherent instructions from the collection of signs on one side, they often crossed the highway on foot, hoping to get some sort of clue from those on the other side. Now, rubbernecking and jaywalking were problems where once they never would have been.

(Later, someone (it wasn’t clear who) painted a crosswalk across the road and two yellow diamond signs were added on each side: a yield sign and an image of a mother holding hands with her child while walking. Of course, there were never any mother-child duos and it was difficult to know how to yield to a gathering of signs, so these only added to the confusion.)

Called to action by Colusa County’s latest, Glenn County promptly established the Glenn County Institute for Historical and Cultural Awareness. To prove that they meant it, they passed a county ordinance which stated that each citizen of the county would be required to volunteer at least five hours a year, with ample opportunity for additional involvement for dedicated individuals.

On the following Monday, the front page of the Colusa Chronicle announced that the county was divvying up a 600 acre tract of land outside of Norman and selling it for “bargain rates” to “freedom-loving Californians who wish to move to a county that doesn’t tell them how to spend their time.”

Glenn County began construction on two statues outside the county courthouse in Oland: one of Benjamin Franklin and one of John Locke. At first, it was not clear if these were connected in any way to the ongoing standoff. Months later, when the bronze statues were completed, they installed an accompanying plaque, inscribed with the words: “Two great men who understood that for any society to function, more must be asked of its citizens than to exist only for their own good. It is upon this social contract that our strong nation was founded and because of it that we continue to thrive to this day.”

We never found out if these words would have made any difference, though, because, by the time they were posted, half the population of Glenn County had fled South to the cheap land and purportedly more-free pastures of Colusa.

The town of Norman could not withstand the influx of citizens, especially since they had come on the pretense of an entirely anti-interventionist government. By and large, the newcomers refused to abide by any town or county regulations, claiming they had been promised “ultimate autonomy,” a phrase they printed and posted on yard signs throughout their collective 1200 acres (they had banded together to buy out existing local farmers, doubling their territory). After a failed hostile takeover of the Norman Town Council, the new citizens proclaimed self-incorporation of a town of their own, 1.5 miles away. They called it New Norman. Along with calls for “Ultimate Autonomy,” they started posting billboards and selling merchandise with short phrases such as “Personal Liberty” and catchy slogans such as “There’s a New Normal in New Norman.”

Meanwhile, Robert Toledo, locally famous Real Estate Guy and four-term Glenn County Commissioner, gave word that his people were building a new housing development called “Forty Acres and a Pool” on a forty acre plot outside of Willows. Any Colusa County residents concerned by the “anarchistic and unreasonable behaviors of the New Norman crowd could plant a stake in the development (or, rather, rent an apartment in one of the mid-rise brown buildings that would be finished in six to eight months), so long as they were willing to maintain common civility and contribute their compulsory five yearly hours to the Institute, which was also a Robert Toledo Venture. Many folks who had lived in peace South of the County Line for decades chose to take them up on that offer.

Before we could get out of there, though, we had to endure months of mutual suspicion and dirty glances in our own home county. Those of us who just wished things would go back to the way they used to be faced a new shock nearly every day. Or, at least, we shocked ourselves to imagine what was taking place inside the loose confines of the lawless land of New Norman. We didn’t dare enter. We just drove up I-5 through Old Norman like we always had. As we passed the horror zone, we craned our necks, expecting to hear the sounds of metal pipes clanging against burning buildings that weren’t up to code. When we crossed paths with other original Colusans, we shook heads and said, “How are you holding up?” or “Can you believe all this?” We never got into specifics. But behind every conversation, there was the looming fact of What Was Happening in Our County and we all knew it.

They let some of us move into Forty Acres a month early if we furnished our own units. We were glad to go, even if it meant trading sentimental country homes for poorly-lit, angular, sixth-floor, two-bedroom flats. Robert Toledo himself hosted a meet-and-greet barbecue in the courtyard by the pool. He showed us pictures of the day he’d contributed his own time to break ground at the site. Many former Colusans shared concerns about what would happen if those people were allowed to take over that place and Toledo nodded in agreement.

Local NBC affiliate, KGXC, was our one source for measured reporting about the Situation. As time went on, their programming became increasingly focused on what was going wrong in Colusa County, what Glenn County was doing to create a safe haven for those who don’t wish to hop aboard that runaway train, and advice for how to cope with it all. It became must-see TV.

According to the news, as soon as we left, the New Norminians expanded still further until their holdings practically encompassed the entirety of Colusa County. There were rumors of code violations, open-air demonstrations, unsanctioned street festivals, and citizen militias. No one seemed to be working at all or contributing to the betterment of society and yet they continued to expect to reap the benefits of citizenship. In the words of nearly everyone I spoke to, these freeloaders wanted to “have their cake and eat it too.” Well, we could see “the writing on the wall.” Their experiment wouldn’t last long. They had “made their bed” and now soon they would have to “sleep in it.”

The elected officials did dick-all to stop the madness. For as long as I lived down there, the popular notion was that our politicians were feckless and inefficient. Now we had confirmation.

At least, that’s what the talking heads on KGXC said. They pointed out how ironic it was that the good-for-nothing government of Colusa County was proving just how good-for-nothing they were in their inability to govern even those who explicitly wished not to be governed. How many times had we asked them to stay out of our affairs? And now here these newcomers came, and the gov could do nothing but stay out of their affairs. In a way, those “freedom”-lovers in New Norman were proving our point: that the will of the people was not represented by those who hold power over us.

But, the anchors on KGXC were always quick to remind us, this line of thinking could only be taken so far. It was always important to remember that those of us who chose willingly to move into the limited - but orderly! - space at Forty Acres were the ones who actually believed in freedom. If we had stayed in our county while all the rules and regulations became meaningless, that would be its own type of imprisonment. I’m not sure exactly how that works, but those who did know made it seem like it’s supported by some high level political theories. They would always evoke phrases like “Tyranny of the Majority” to support their arguments. I didn’t know. I’ve never been a political person. I just believe in common sense. And common sense told me that what they were doing down there was a bridge too far.

To be fair, things weren’t perfect in Glenn County either. The Institute required more and more of our time. Technically, we each only had to devote five hours a year, but that quota had been set before half the population left. To pick up their slack (yet another example of their laziness), many of us started volunteering 20-30 hours a week. It was difficult labor and we couldn’t always see the ultimate payoff, but we felt it was the least we could do to help out Robert Toledo, who, say what you want about him, had offered us refuge from the chaos in Colusa.

The internet was slow in Forty Acres. But, we would say to each other with a knowing nudge, at least we had internet. Sometimes the building I lived in had a drip. Other residents reported creaks or bangs in the night. The drywall was shockingly weak. At the first tack or nail hammered into it, long fissures would form down the length of the wall. If you tried to hang a frame of any weight at all off the tack or nail that you’d placed, it would crash to the floor and chunks of drywall would crumble down with it. So, decoration was impossible. Most units only had one window. Each building was surrounded on three sides by other buildings, so there was a three in four chance that the view out of your window would be that of another person’s window in another building. They purchased used curtains from the Motel 6 in Willows, so you could usually see pretty much everything that went on in your neighbor’s unit.

We were thankful, though. We knew it could be worse. At least we didn’t live in Colusa County any more.