Orange County Noir

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History seems slow in the making until we stop for a second and look back on things. Then the past hits the present like a bullet and we all dive for cover.

I first set foot in Orange County half a century ago. Our new Tustin tract home cost $21,000. The dads wore showing-scalp flattops and skinny neckties. The moms sported hardened coifs and dorky glasses. There were orange groves falling fast and Santa Ana winds blowing hard and station wagons called the Country Squire and the Kingswood Estate rolling, kid-filled, down the suburban streets.

Now look at it. How that Orange County became the one we see today is a tale of migration and war and race and economics and even climate. In ways that are not difficult to see, the changes of Orange County have been the changes of the nation. We are all Orange County and it is us.

Like a beautiful woman, Orange County is easy to label but hard to understand. Gone are the orange-packing houses and the white Republican demographics and the four half-gallons of bottled milk left cold on your porch early in the morning. Gone is the John Birch Society. Gone too are Leary and the Brotherhood of Eternal Love.

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