Over the years I have been accused of being a “tree hugger” more that once. Personally I associate the term tree hugger with the nuts that spike trees and hurt loggers, stage sit ins to save some worm or sit up on billboards fasting until some developer stops bulldozing land. Being called a tree hugger seemed like my friends were calling me crazy or something.
When I was growing up in Southern California, I remember smog alerts and days where the sky was so brown we couldn't see the valley from our home in Tarzana Hills. The area I lived in has a little pull off area that is featured in movies like “Valley Girl” They must have filmed right after a Santa Ana wind blew all the smog to Lancaster. I can't remember ever seeing stars at home in Tarzana. Surfing at the beaches of California meant coming home with tar spots all over your feet from the oil wells off the coast and scrubbing off the oily layers off goop that would stick to the Zog's Sex Wax on your surfboard. When my parents couldn't take it any more we would get on the Catalina ferry boat or drive up to see our family friends, the Bushnell's, in Bass Lake California which is just outside Yosemite.
