Some postcards by a sentimental army brat, along with a short lived stint as Lieutenant John J. Dunbar.

Notes from Fall, 2007 - I’m near the Richmond Bridge in Point Molate, pulled over in a vacant lot, sketching some old military family houses. I think, given the choice, I’d be sketching the old brick fort tucked behind the trees that I imagine was once lined with cannons, faithfully guarding its corner of the bay. But it’s fenced off along with the rest of this place, so I’m sticking to what I’m allowed to see without being arrested. Still, there’s something about these houses. At the best of times, these were plain, bare-boned residential units. It’s easy to imagine the wives who once lived in them, trying to soften things up with laced curtains and hanging flower pots. Maybe some pinwheels in the garden. But now these houses just sag wearily beneath the overgrown eucalyptus trees, draped in plywood and corrugated metal sheets.

I believe a single architect came up with a single blueprint to cover every U.S. military housing unit in the world. Having grown up in a few of them, a strange familiarity creeps in as I sketch. Sure, they look cold, institutional, and altogether kind of pathetic, but they still feel a bit like home. The feeling passes when a patrolling security man gets out of his vehicle to have me fill out a waiver for stopping.

Later on, I’m crossing the Richmond Bridge to find something to paint in the north bay. Specifically, the Marin Headlands, which sits just below and beside the Golden Gate Bridge, where you can find Fort Cronkhite, Fort Barry, base end stations, and even old missile silos.

I come to realize that many of the bridges in the Bay have some kind of former military station on their doorstep(s). Sleeping sentries of yesteryear. The other side of the Golden Gate, for example, is buttressed by the Presidio and Fort Point. The USS Iowa and a mothball fleet sit tethered and listless in Suisun Bay under the Benecia Bridge. And ah, the Bay Bridge. The Bay Bridge is an Olympian in the triple jump event, hopping from the Naval Air Station in Alameda, with a small skip on Yerba Buena Island before leaping into San Francisco without looking back.

Looking at these places now, you would never think they played a role in my family’s decision to move up here fifteen years ago from Monterey, back when Fort Ord was shutting down and we needed to be near army hospitals to take advantage of my dad’s retirement benefits.

“The Bay Bridge is an Olympian in the triple jump event, hopping from the Naval Air Station in Alameda, with a small skip on Yerba Buena Island before leaping into San Francisco…”

But it’s not all sad news and ghost towns. Some of these areas are now considered historical landmarks, and with a bit of bandaging and a layer of paint, we can appreciate them for what they once were. Other areas are being gentrified and/or gutted and rebuilt. I have mixed feelings on the latter. Mainly because I’m a sentimental packrat - to the point of needing to hang on to entire locations. Still, it’s hard to remain bitter when a tired old building is being converted into a state of the art climbing gym.

And yet, it’s exactly this sort of change that lets me down as I arrive at my destination in the Headlands. It’s a subject I’ve been wanting to paint since the first time I drove by it - a small supply shack, alone in an open field, with cypresses and a large hill towering behind it. Now it’s joined by piles of dirt, stacks of hay, and a fence covered in tarps of an unnatural green tint. I paint it anyway. Who knows, it could be a Starbucks the next time I’m in the area.

Throughout my session I’m accompanied by a lone coyote. I try shooing her off a few times during my setup, but I learn soon enough that she is pretty much desensitized to humans. She’s living on a diet of scraps from tourists that pull over to take pictures of her. Easy hunting for her as long as she remains on the side of the road and poses for the camera now and then. I might have realized this sooner, when I first arrived and noticed her walking up to my truck in the driver-side mirror. But now I’m stuck with her. I can’t be bothered to constantly scare her away, and yet I’m determined to paint my picture. We reach a compromise by each remaining stubborn. I set up my paints and she sits beside me. Eventually, in the same fashion that I’ve learned about her eating habits, she learns that I’m just as hungry as she is. The coyote soon returns to her post beside the road.  (continue reading on next page)

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