Grant Risdon

You have to understand, before I tell you this little story, what kind of person Grant Risdon is. The first time I remember seeing him, he was riding his white horse named Cachagua, a horse he rode everywhere and wore a pistol on his hip. It was said then that he lived in a cave, it was said that he had nearly killed a man. A lot of things were said, some of these things were even true. The first time I remember seeing him, he rode his horse up to the store as I was waiting for the school bus.

He was singing some kind of ballad, sounded drunk, and when he saw the sheriff's deputy car in front of the store he pulled out a whip and began gleefully slashing at the lights on the cruiser. When the deputy heard him out front making a racket, he exited the store and with a weary tone asked Grant, “Am I really going to have to haul you in today Grant?” That was a true story.

Grant, if you were a young kid, was a scary guy. I don't remember if he scared everyone then or if he was tolerated as a colorful outlaw the way he is now. Even the rich people who drive out from town to drink wine at the community dinner now regard him as a kind of harmless local mascot. He is looked upon the way that grungy bar down the street, the one that everyone used to wish would just go away when the neighborhood was rough, is now a cherished symbol of the neighborhood's “realness”, its last vestige of pre-gentrification.

But he, of course, is a real person as well, and these days he does not ride a horse or carry a gun. Once a week he girds himself for the trip and hitchhikes into town to go to the library and do various other errands. He will be the first to tell you that he'd, “rather see these vineyards than a bunch of development.” He has lived in the valley all of his life and dresses like a retired senior when he heads to town. To some extent, he is retired. A retired icon.

Whenever I meet him, I have to remind him that I first knew him 30 years ago, in a much more colorful time. “Those days are gone forever,” he says. He relishes the past as much as I do, accepts the present perhaps even more so.

I picked him up hitchhiking home today. In one hand he had some grocery bags and on his other hand he had a pair of castanets. He told me this story; it's probably true.

“Back during the Vietnam war, when it was going good there were a couple of friends of mine who had gone over and gotten killed. I had a car and a bumper sticker, it said Save America, Shoot a Cop.

One night I was driving over Laureles Grade and a cop pulled me over. When I asked why he said you know why, I think you're drunk. He told me to get out of the car and take a sobriety test.

Well in those days they hadn't perfected the sobriety test yet. What he did was he took his keys, dropped them in the dirt, and said Now I want you to drop down on one foot and pick up those keys.

I said okay but could you back up a little, you're kind of crowding me. He did, so I went down on two legs, picked up his keys, and through them as far off the cliff as I could!

He put me in the back of his car and went looking for the keys. Couldn't find them so he had to call for another cop to come help. They never did find the keys, so they hauled me into jail. The funniest part was the duty sergeant was so mad at the cop. Why the fuck did you think he'd give you back the keys?

They couldn't really say I was drunk but they did charge me with obstructing police work, or whatever they called it.”