A collection of words

Ever since I was a little boy with a bad haircut, I’d always loved writing and telling stories.

I started out telling stories visually, through cartooning, and, eventually, made up my own sports articles based on real games – using an old typewriter that my grandmother had given me.

By the time I was in high school, working on the school newspaper, I knew that my future would be in journalism.

I started my official career with Contra Costa Newspapers, in 1995, as a part-time prep sports writer for the Valley Times, in Pleasanton. I was raw. I had a voice and a style, but without the skills that come with experience to deliver the story in the clearest, sharpest way. I struggled, found things that worked, struggled some more … but always sought to get better, and did.

By the time I ended my career, eight years later, I was proud of what I’d become – a general assignment reporter who was capable of writing compelling stories on a wide variety of subjects, from Foot-and-Mouth disease and city growth to 9-11 security issues and the county’s last dairy farm.

What I enjoyed the most, though, was finding these stories -- or angles to existing ones -- on my own. A man who repaired typewriters in the year 2000. The county's last almond farm. Two boys who grew up dreaming of playing professional baseball together, their dream severed, and renewed again, after one nearly dies in an auto accident. Then going out there and telling these stories -- with detail.

This is my compilation of words and stories – in no order whatsoever, sort of like a newsroom on many days. I dedicate all of these words and experiences to my son, Caleb.

A parting thought, courtesy of the late Hemingway: “Will work again on the novel today. Writing is a hard business, Max, but nothing makes you feel better.”

Vallejo's Statue is Dry Rot's Captive

Note: This was a story that originated in a local Vallejo newspaper, but I saw lots of opportunities to improve on it. The paper didn't have a sense of humor with the piece, and didn't even get ahold of the artist here. So I dug into it and this is what I did with the story.

By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
Nov. 19, 2002

Gen. Mariano G. Vallejo, a towering historical figure and father of this southern Solano County city, has loomed over a stretch of Redwood Street for nearly two decades.

But the hulking sugar pine statue is now nine tons of rotting pride, a Dead Man Standing.

In short, the splintering giant is infested with termites and dry rot. It's not expected to survive winter, much less a particularly strong gale.

"I understand that Gen. Vallejo has termites," Jim Reikowsky, communications director of the Vallejo Convention & Visitors Bureau, said dryly. "I'd miss the statue if it's gone, but I'd live.

"It wouldn't kill me to see it gone," he added. "It's not historical. It's pretty neat, but not one of those things that you'd get in front of a bulldozer to save."

The unusual roadside figure has become a curious city landmark and an awkward advertising tool since it went up in front of an auto dealership in 1983.

It stands guard outside Team Chevrolet, poking the heavens with a long silver flag pole from atop a rotting stump that makes managers trying to sell $18,000 trucks nervous. Very nervous.

"It's going to hurt someone," said Duane Jang, Team Chevrolet's general manager, while surveying the timeworn effigy on a recent morning.

Jang pointed out the rusted bolts crumbling away from the stump on which the 18-foot-tall statue plants its mighty boots, which are as large as lawnmowers.

"It's sort of a sore subject," he said of murmurs of removal. "We don't want to remove it; it's such a historical thing. But there's no alternative. Someone will get hurt.

"To be honest," he added, fingering the loose bolts, "I think it's standing alone."

The statue of Gen. Vallejo, a Mexican soldier dispatched to the Northern California frontier in the 1830s, was created by Miles Tucker, an artist living in Arnold.

Tucker, 59, was not surprised when told that his statue was fading and falling.

"It was carved out of sugar pine and requires maintenance," said the artist, who added that he would be willing to restore it with wood from a 3,000-year-old giant sequoia -- for a price.

Ron Barber, a Solano County auto dealer, commissioned the piece and had it propped up in front of what is now Team Chevrolet.

Ever since, the expressionless soldier has kept a proud and defiant vigil over a gritty stretch of the city.

Nonetheless, some say it isn't taken too seriously as public art.

"It's unusual. You can call it a piece of folk art, sort of like the things you see in rural areas, like a guy using a chain saw to carve out a grizzly bear," said Jim Kern, executive director of the Vallejo Naval and Historical Museum.

"This is sort of like that, except 10 times bigger."

Without upkeep, weather and critters have chipped away at the craggy monument.

Some folks have suggested dragging the giant across town and displaying him at the museum.

But Kern said he had no room. Nor was he excited about inheriting termites and dry rot.

What about sparing Vallejo's head?

"We could decapitate and maybe put his head in here," he said. "But his head alone is as large as a Volkswagen, which could be a problem."

Carlito Abadi, who owns Sign-A-Rama, works directly across the street from the massive statue.

He finds the decaying general a comforting neighbor.

"It'd be good to refurbish it," he said, gazing at the statue. "It'd make it more appealing. It looks very neglected. But I like the statue."

In any case, no one has emerged to rescue the piece.

Which raises the question: What becomes of the city's infested father?

Alas, no easy answers.

Jang, Team Chevrolet's manager, is waiting to determine what to do, since he leases the dealer site from Barber.

And it'll take a few thousand bucks and a few stiff backs to haul the statue off, when and if that happens.

"We're sort of waiting, to see if someone will step forward," Jang said, sounding hopeless. "But as it rains and moisture gets in there, it'll get worse, I'm sure."

Mare Island LNG Plan Fuels Opposition

By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
Nov. 24, 2002

VALLEJO -- The city is swept up in an escalating clash over a proposal to build a liquefied natural gas terminal and power plant on Mare Island, a former naval shipyard that closed six years ago.

A grass-roots organization is mounting an aggressive campaign to stop the first-of-its-kind project on the West Coast, saying it poses far too many potential health and safety hazards.

The expanding group is going toe to toe with a pair of corporate titans that laud their joint energy complex as an economic windfall for a city poised for change.

Residents are sorting through competing fact sheets and doorstep mailers, directing them to Web sites that either promote the project or highlight its dangers.

Next month, a city subcommittee exploring health and safety issues will release its findings after a 90-day investigation.

The battle over the $1.5 billion plan comes as the growing city of 116,000 talks about a renaissance in which Vallejo would shed its gritty industrial reputation and cater to tourism and young families.

Community leaders are excited about the untapped potential of a former Navy town tucked between the San Pablo and San Francisco bays, with high-speed ferry service and affordable homes.

The city already plans to extend historic Georgia Street to the waterfront and revitalize a downtown long identified by its abandoned storefronts and rampant crime.

But the focus abruptly shifted May 3, when Mayor Anthony Intintoli made a startling public disclosure. He said the city had been in private negotiations with Royal Dutch/Shell Group and Bechtel Corp. to build a liquefied natural gas (LNG) port and 1,500-megawatt power plant on Mare Island.

Four days later, the City Council voted unanimously to negotiate with the two firms exclusively, a meeting that drew about 200 people and kicked off an intense opposition movement.

Faced with growing concern, the City Council voted in August to suspend talks with Bechtel and Shell while the city conducts a three-month health and safety study.

Bechtel and Shell agreed to fund the $250,000 study, with critics skeptical about whether the probe would remain independent.

The five-member committee, organized by Fire Chief Don Parker, is expected to release its findings in a 20- to 25-page report Dec. 17.

"This isn't unlike other very large proposals for development," said Tom Tobin, a consultant hired by the city who serves as the project's study manager.

"It represents a substantial change for the community, with an increase in maritime activities and some increase of risks -- . On the other hand, it offers economic benefits.

"And what's difficult," he added, "is that it will never be a black-and-white issue. There's no line in the sand that says it has to be one way or the other."

The Vallejo waterfront faces Mare Island, a 3«-mile-long peninsula with sweeping views of the Carquinez Strait and San Pablo Bay.

The 5,200-acre island, known as the first naval station in the country when it was established in 1853, is a jewel of future mixed-use development plans. In March, Vallejo took possession of 2,000 acres.

Bechtel and Shell are proposing an "energy center" on the southeastern portion of the island, which would include an LNG port and a scaled-down 600- to 900-megawatt, gas-fired power plant.

The large companies say Mare Island is a perfect fit for such a project because of its protective harbor, deep waters, proximity to the state's main gas line and former industrial use.

Critics say the deep-pocketed firms are taking advantage of the city's poor history of social activism and perceived ignorance, trying to sway residents with slick cards and 60-second TV spots.

The rift keeps gaining momentum.

Supporters say the project would create up to 1,000 living-wage union construction jobs and 100 permanent jobs, while giving Vallejo its single largest investment ever.

About $1 billion would be subject to property taxes, company officials say, stuffing millions of dollars into city coffers to improve schools, parks and roads.

In addition, by 2010 the plant would supply about 17 percent of the natural gas supply expected in California, a state with an increasing thirst for the clean-burning fuel.

"What some people want is someone to come forward and say, 'If we do this, it's a bad idea.' Well, no one is telling us that," said city spokesman Mark Mazzaferro.

But critics, like the fledgling Vallejo Citizens for Planned Renewal, maintain that it's a terrible idea that threatens to shackle the city to a "dirty, unhealthy and blighted future."

In other words, they say, it's a squandered chance to set a new economic path for a city ripe for rebirth.

"We think this could be a great tourist destination, a gateway to the Napa Valley," said Elena Haskins Ducharme, a job developer at Hastings College of the Law, who rides the ferry to work in San Francisco.

Ducharme and others warn that the complex would add "smog-producing" gases and tanker emissions to a county already suffering from the highest rate of respiratory diseases in the Bay Area.

Even worse, they argue, LNG has the potential to vaporize and ignite into a huge fire capable of burning people or buildings thousands of yards away.

Stephanie Gomes, who works for the forestry service on Mare Island, said the giant tankers used to transport LNG offer an attractive target for terrorists.

"They talk about their state-of-the-art engineering, with double-hulled ships. Well, you can't engineer for terrorism," said Gomes, a city newcomer who has actively opposed the project.

LNG, a colorless, odorless liquid, is a natural gas kept at ultra-cold temperatures. When it cools, it reduces to 1/600th of its original size, making it easier and cheaper to transport over long distances.

The product is hauled in 900-foot ocean carriers, which would pass under the Golden Gate and San Rafael bridges to reach Mare Island.

Fears of huge fireballs and terrorist attacks are overblown, officials for Bechtel and Shell say.

"We all have a heightened sense about terrorism. But Shell, in particular, operates facilities like these all over the world, safely, without being targets of terrorists," said Alison Abbott, community relations manager for the two firms.

Abbott, who works out of a restored building on Georgia Street, said LNG carriers have an impeccable safety record with 40,000 ocean voyages and no loss of life.

In any case, the City Council ultimately will decide whether to proceed after hearing from the subcommittee.

If the project gets the green light, it would not begin operating until 2007 or 2008.

Keeping the Old Games Playing

Note: This was one of those "evergreen" stories that journalists often dread: finding a filler story for the paper during the slow holiday period. I loved finding random stories, including this one while I drove through Martinez one day.

By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
Dec. 8, 2002

Bryan Mao is a true pinball wizard, a man whose trusty hands have pried open the antiquated bellies of thousands of feeble machines and made them hum again.

Mao, 45, operates the largest video game repair business in Contra Costa County.

His office is a 4,000-square-foot warehouse in a business park off Arnold Drive, a place where old arcade units such as Space Invaders go for extended play.

Every month, the boyish engineer revives hundreds of sputtering relics from 1950s-era pinball machines to pool tables and jukeboxes.

A humble fix-it business that started in his Pinole garage in the 1980s, Mao's shop has evolved into a full-service practice for nostalgic-minded East Bay customers.

One married couple wanted a Ms. Pac-Man repaired because they had met playing the game.

"Most people in the yellow pages under 'Amusement' fix some things, but they eventually end up here if they can't," said Mao, also an electronics engineer for Surgical Dynamics in Alameda.

The growing $7.4 billion video game market has turned a generation of youngsters and adults into at-home joystick enthusiasts.

Microsoft's Xbox and Sony's PlayStation 2 game consoles have created digital living rooms, leaving once-popular public arcades fighting for quarters.

It also has turned folks such as Mao into a dying breed who cater to a shrinking but loyal group of pinball arcade fans.

Despite calls for help, he doesn't touch the new-generation consoles.

"They use very simple technology. And any time they lower the prices, I think they're using cheaper materials," said Mao, sitting in his windowless office.

"I believe they only want the machines to run a year," he added, "so you'll have to buy new ones."

Mao, though, has plenty of faulty flippers or failing power driver boards to keep his mind and hands operating.

Inside his 7-year-old Martinez shop, dozens of pinball and arcade machines crowd the floors like dead dinosaurs -- Star Trek, Attack from Mars, Bionic Commando and Pool Sharks, to name a few.

Nearby, an entire wall is devoted to hundreds of pieces that he uses to reassemble these 300-pound behemoths: screws, washers, changers, coils, darts, bumper caps and pop bumpers.

"I have 3,000 parts just for a pinball machine," said Mao, who was born in Taiwan and moved to the United States with his family in 1978. "It's a matter of learning how many things can go wrong."

It was his close friend Stan Van, a retired video arcade operator, who encouraged him to start his own electronics repair business in 1984.

"He's a good, honest kid," said Van, 64, who ran a popular shop in Concord for two decades. "I like him. If I were younger, I would have been partners with him."

In the early days, Mao would load his tools into the back of his Chevy and drive to affluent houses in Danville or Lafayette to keep flippers flapping or Pac-Man munching.

He still does "house calls," charging $60 for a service call and $60 for the first hour, during which he usually finishes the job.
Asked about the appeal of these outdated machines, Mao said, "I guess some people want to keep a piece of memory in their minds."

City Sues Brothers to Raze House

By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
Dec. 11, 2002

Jerry Magganas and his brother, Athan, call their rickety and crumbling house "Anastasia," a Greek word for reincarnation.

It is certainly going to take one to revive 1680 Oak Park Boulevard.

Pleasant Hill has sued the Greek brothers over the dilapidated and hazardous condition of their vacant digs, calling on the owners to hire a licensed contractor to tear it down.

It is the final word in a city tangle over the increasingly shabby look of the 53-year-old house, last occupied by a transient caught snoozing in a rear bedroom.

"Nine times out of 10, property owners comply over a period of time," said City Attorney Debra Margolis. "But this is the first time in my eight years here that we've had to file a lawsuit to do it."

Indeed, the four-bedroom house already looks like a wrecking ball has passed through its grungy hallways once or twice.

Holes gape in the ceiling. Cracks in the stucco. Smashed-out or boarded up windows. Rodent droppings. Piles of rubble in each room and in the sprawling backyard lot.

Code enforcement officers posted a notice to abate the debris-strewn property in April. In August, a fire inspector declared the dwelling a fire threat.

"The structure was open and accessible to children and other persons and had large accumulations of combustible debris therein," wrote Robert Davis, a county fire inspector.

Davis expressed concerns about winds blowing flames next door to the Aegis Assisted Living Facility, home to some Alzheimer's patients. A city code enforcement team last month declared the place unsafe and unsanitary.

Police on Nov. 20 chased off a homeless man living inside who had apparently kept warm by building fires in a sink.

The lawsuit, filed Dec. 4, orders the owners to immediately remove all junk and debris, secure the building and arrange to demolish it.

Jerry Magganas, a 51-year-old father of three, was loading garbage from the house into a truck Tuesday. He said he would comply with the order, which he said was spurred by bureaucratic wrangling.

"We don't want the eyesore here. We don't want to live with such a stigma," Magganas said.

Property records show that the Magganas brothers bought the house in September 2000 for $250,000.

Even after the house falls to the ground, the deal remains spectacular: The 19,760 square foot lot has nearly enough legal space for two houses.

Transition Likely to Confuse Vallejo Boy

By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
Dec. 15, 2002

VALLEJO -- Little Shea Brown is just beginning to peel back the layers of his fabricated life, to retrace the footprints of an invisible boy.

He will learn to unmask himself as a recovering kidnap victim. He will learn that his name is Le-Zhan Williams.

He will learn about his teenage mother, who was shot and her corpse and Vallejo bungalow set ablaze -- a homicide that puzzled police for years.

He will learn about his father, a 1990s rap artist serving hard time for armed robbery in a state prison 236 miles away. He will learn that he was whisked away from his biological family when he was only 25 days old.

Finally, Le-Zhan, 6, will learn to sort through his own tangled emotional knots and start a new life from scratch in a city he never left.

It's the beginning of a particularly tough healing process that could last a lifetime, therapists and specialists on traumatized children said.

"You can't just find a kid, go through a complete identity change and not expect some issues to manifest over some time," said Georgia Hilgeman-Hammond, founder of the Vanished Children's Alliance in San Jose.

Le-Zhan disappeared in May 1996, an 8-pound infant swept up by a young woman he grew to regard as his mother.

But Latasha Brown, 22, now stands accused of conceiving a plot to kill the boy's biological mother, Daphne Boyden, and swipe her child.

The boy grew up only a few miles from where his mother was slain.

He is now in protective custody while authorities try to figure out how to reintroduce him to unfamiliar faces: his own family. Riva Lee Boyden, the boy's great-grandmother, is delighted to have Le-Zhan resurface after so many frustrating years but is guarded about what lies ahead.

"I haven't seen him. I don't want to comment about where we're going into all of this," she said. "Right now it's all speculation. And I don't like to speculate."

Strict confidentiality rules prohibit Child Protective Services from discussing specific cases, said Laura Fowler, deputy director of the agency in Fairfield.

"We're concerned with a child's best interests," she said. "Any child we take in we want to place with family members who have the first priority for placement. The closer the relationship, the higher the priority."

It's certainly going to be complicated for Le-Zhan. His father, Lathan "Young Lay" Williams, once a promising rapper, is serving a 12-year sentence for robbery.

Williams, 27, narrowly avoided death before his son was born when he was shot in the head in August 1995.

Adding to Le-Zhan's troubles, the women who reared him are behind bars.

Experts say abducted children often forge tight bonds with their captors, even in abuse cases.

"I think his bigger issue is abandonment, losing the only family he's ever known," said Cecilia Mullaney, program coordinator for the Solano Parent Network in Fairfield.

Recovery will require cooperation from the whole family, allowing the boy room to ask questions and build trust.

"A lot of his (recovery) has to do with his upbringing," said Dr. Kiran Koka, medical director of adolescent services at Mt. Diablo Medical Pavilion in Concord.

"He grew up not knowing his real mother. If he were really nurtured and raised like normal kids, he may go through a lot of depression, anxiety and confusion."

At 6, he may also exhibit more infantile behavioral problems, experts said, or act out when he gets upset.

Nonetheless, most experts say the youngster can recuperate strongly with good therapy and a family that doesn't overwhelm him.

"People can heal," said Hilgeman-Hammond, who was reunited with her missing daughter in 1981 after a four-year ordeal. "Are they damaged forever? I always say to people, 'Don't underestimate the resiliency of the human spirit.'"

Cal Professor Says Coaches Should Kick Themselves

By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
Aug. 20, 2002

BERKELEY -- At a campus known for its esteemed professors and intellectual jousting matches, David Romer poses a question sure to fetch a double-take at any faculty cocktail party.

It's fourth down: Go for it or kick?

The economics professor recently finished a three-year study of the NFL in which he analyzed thousands of plays that agonize coaches.

His paper, "It's Fourth Down and What Does the Bellman Equation Say?," offers a cerebral-minded spin to a game often dismissed as simplicity squeezed into pads and helmets.

In a swift kick to conventional football wisdom, Romer concludes NFL teams could benefit by ditching the conservative nature of fourth-down plays.

"The results are striking," Romer, 44, said. "The analysis implies that teams should be more aggressive ... In practice, however, teams almost always kick on fourth down early in the game."

Romer reviewed nearly 20,000 first-quarter plays in 732 regular-season games between 1998-2000.

He narrowed his interest to the first quarter, presumably when neither team had a significant advantage over the other that could influence play-calling.

He used an economic concept called the "Bellman equation," which helped explain the consequences of trying for a first down, field goal or touchdown.

In the end, Romer was able to calculate the average value in points for decisions made at several specific positions on the field.

For instance, a team inside its own 50-yard line has a better chance at going for it on fourth down and 4 yards or less.

But in 1,100 fourth-downs scenarios that Romer felt teams should have gone for it, coaches opted to kick the ball away 90 percent of the time.

He's not quite sure why coaches are so conservative in calling their plays.

"I don't know. Maybe they hadn't thought of it," he said. "When you hire a football coach, maybe analyzing plays is not as important as being able to motivate players or lead a team."

Romer, who joined the economics department in 1988, has been a football fan since he grew up in Massachusetts. The idea for the project kicked off a few years ago while the professor sat in his Honda Accord, listening to a Raiders game over the radio.

"It was fourth-and-goal, and they kicked a field goal," he said. "Whoever called the game said it was the right thing to do, to take the sure points.

"So I started thinking. It wasn't obvious to me that it was the right thing to do."

In any case, he wants to see his paper published in a major economic journal. But he's not holding his breath NFL coaches will review his report and start re-thinking their decisions on the field.

"I tend to do well in persuading reporters," Romer said. "But when they call coaches, they generally dismiss it."

Maintenance Due at Housing for Disabled

Note: This story idea originated by a call to the newspaper from a person who lived as a housing complex for the disabled. So I looked into it, and found the story much more interesting than was the initial vibe in the newsroom. This story ran on the front page.

By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
Aug. 24, 2002

Disabled tenants at a federally subsidized apartment complex say a history of shoddy management has steered their once promising property into a cul-de-sac of blight.

Lela Sullivan, 70, had to put her bedroom furniture on blocks because of severe patio flooding that sent water gushing across the floor.

A rain gutter project remains unfinished. Rear yards bristle with tall weeds. Part of a roof is weighed down by moss and tiny stones. Fences crumble from dry rot. Fuzzy strips of mold cling to some bathroom ceilings.

Once hailed as the nation's first complex built specifically for wheelchair users, the 25-unit Chilpancingo Vista has slipped into disrepair.

And residents, once too afraid to speak their minds, have banded together to voice their concerns about the 20-year old complex.

"We're tired of complaining. We just want things fixed," said Dawn Bradley, a resident since 1992 who has cerebral palsy.

The property manager, Barcelon Associates Management Corp., in Lafayette, recently finished an annual inspection and is working on a plan to spruce up the place.

"There are issues, just like at any place. But this all just came to head at one time," said Dorothy Maynard, an asset manager for Barcelon.

But residents say their complaints over the years have often been swept aside with promises of "We'll get back to you," even as work orders piled up.

"When you have low-income housing, residents are often afraid to complain because there's no where else to go," said Joanne Bell, executive director of Independent Living Resource in Concord.

"There's a two-to-six-year waiting period," she added, "for accessible, affordable, low-income housing in Contra Costa County."

The hillside complex, located along a stretch of Chilpancingo Parkway, is a cluster of one- and two-bedroom units for people with impaired mobility.

Renters range from victims of serious accidents to those with cerebral palsy, polio and severe strokes.

The units were designed to cater to their unique needs, including lower cabinets and doorknobs, even wheel-in showers and outdoor curb ramps.

A large portion of the tenants' monthly rent is covered by the federal Housing and Urban Development's Section 8 program.

Sullivan, a paraplegic from a car crash years ago, has lived in the same Chilpancingo Vista unit since it opened. She pays 30 percent of her $1,400-a-month rent, but often wonders "where the rest of the money goes."

Because of Chilpancingo's poor maintenance history, she said, she often calls on her four sons to help repair her apartment.

In addition to the flooding problems that affect about eight units, Sullivan said the badly cracked street outside "jars your teeth loose" when rolling by in a wheelchair.

In February, a Pleasant Hill code enforcement officer responding to a complaint by Sullivan wrote that he could declare the complex "substandard, dangerous and uninhabitable."

The residents outlined all of their concerns to Barcelon and HUD in a recent report, which included glossy photos of dry rot, mold and moss-covered rooftops.

In it, they described the tenant-management relationship as "dysfunctional" and accused Barcelon of not presenting an accurate picture when communicating with HUD.

All major work projects must first be cleared by HUD.

Maynard, the Barcelon asset manager, acknowledged past communication breakdowns.

"It's been a matter of people thinking things were taken care of when they weren't," she said. "Things fell through the crack."

While Barcelon manages the complex, Chilpancingo Vista Inc., a nonprofit group, owns the site and addresses concerns with its board of directors.

The board, Barcelon and HUD are all working on a plan to patch up the immediate problems, which include flooding and deteriorating bathrooms.

Workers have already started replacing broken tiles and repairing dry rot in the seven bathrooms, a project that will cost about $50,000.

"This place was in great shape until a few years ago," said Peter Distefano, president of the board of directors. "We were as distressed as (residents) were to find out what happened to this place."

Benicia Mayor's Complex Draws Ire

By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
Sept. 23, 2002

BENICIA -- The mayor's role as a business partner in a waterfront building project along historic First Street has stirred a brew of controversy.

Mayor Steve Messina is a partner in a plan for a three-story, stucco commercial and residential complex in a historic district that dates to the 1850s.

Residents have raised concerns over the project's size and design, as well as the ethics of a mayor who has appointed a large number of the city commissioners from whom he seeks approval.

The 26,000-square-foot development would rise above nearby structures, offering upper-level condo units a sweeping view of the Carquinez Strait.

Messina, 52, says he plans to live there.

But the project has rankled preservationists, raised questions about the mayor and exposed some major procedural mistakes at City Hall.

Now it's being reviewed a second time after the city accepted appeals from a resident who questioned the integrity of the planning and design process.

Critics have blasted the project for what they perceive as its overwhelming size, pink color, odd architectural style and liberal use of stucco. New drawings are receiving better reviews.

Preservationists fear that the project is being hailed as a model for development in a district that helped define Benicia as one of the state's oldest cities.

In addition, some residents wonder whether Messina has a conflict of interest because he has appointed 14 of 19 of the city commissioners from whom he seeks approval.

"Steve Messina is on the borderline between unethical and illegal," said former Benicia Mayor Jerry Hayes, a longtime political foe. "He's rocking on that fence. And either way you fall, it's not very attractive."

Messina, who beat Hayes in the 1999 election, said he has not engaged in any illegal or unethical behavior.

He called the development at First and West C streets a "poster project" because of its high standards and intense public and civic scrutiny.

"In terms of legality, we're probably more squeaky-clean than any project that's gone through here in the recent past."

Messina, his cousin, Manuel Lopes, and Lopes' sister, Stephanie Bray, are partners in the project to develop a family-owned lot at 221 First St.

The weed-choked parcel, ringed by a chain-link fence, has been vacant since 1987. Lopes' 86-year-old mother, Zelinda Lopes, once ran an antique shop there.

"Everyone is making a lot of political hay about this. The mayor this, the mayor that," said Manuel Lopes, 62. "We're trying to do something good here."

The partners plan two buildings, with a peak of 40 feet, including eight residential units, commercial space and 16 covered garages.

Lopes, Bray and Messina officially formed their partnership on Jan. 22, 2001. In April 2001, Messina appointed each of the seven members of a new city advisory board: the Historic Preservation Commission.

Because the elected mayor has the authority to appoint the commissioners, conflict-of-interest questions linger.

In addition to the preservation body, Messina has appointed four of seven planning commissioners and three of five members of the Design Review Commission.

He has also participated in commission meetings on his project, even answering questions.

"There's nothing wrong with a person wanting a piece of property and wanting to develop it," said Hayes, the former mayor. "But normally, you take caution, step aside and not be the front man or salesperson for it."

Messina, who owns a popular ice cream parlor on First Street, said he has neither pressured or influenced any commissioners.
"The commissioners appointed by both me and Mr. Hayes are honest and conscientious," he said. "Certainly, they will do what they believe is right, under the circumstances.

"If anything, they're being too sensitive for impropriety. They realize that they're being watched and need to protect the integrity of their positions."

John Landis, chairman of the city planning program at UC Berkeley, said the mayor did not appear to have a direct conflict of interest unless he were to vote on the project.

"I think it's incredibly bad judgment, but not necessarily a conflict of interest," he said.

The original designs for the proposed buildings also raised eyebrows.

Initially, the trio proposed a three-story, pink stucco structure -- an architecture described as "neo-Italianate," with shingle roofing and metal windows.

In a city founded in 1847, preservationists gasped.

They considered the project a hulking, salmon-colored eyesore, too large and modern-looking in a historic district of single-story, brick-and-wood structures.

Some fear that the development would disrupt the character and small town feel of lower First Street.

Thursday, a Seal Beach-based developer presented drawings to build 46 townhouse units and 7,000 square-feet of commercial space at First and B streets.

"This story is about historic planning and how we protect our buildings here," said Donnell Rubay, a writer and activist whose appeals inspired the city to reconsider the 221 First St. complex.

"If we take this step, we've gone too far."

The city hinted at the project's significance in a July 17 Design Review Commission report, "-- the approved architecture on this site will set the standards for future development on First Street."

That admission prompted swift action by activists, whose concerns exposed a critical planning error at City Hall and led to a successful appeal that initiated design changes.

The city acknowledged that it did not notify Solano County of its intent to formally declare that the project has no significant effect on the environment.

Many nearby residents were not properly notified about key public meetings in July.

In effect, the errors wiped out earlier approval by the Planning and Design Review commissions.

The oversight violated a section of the state Public Resources Code. Now, the project must be presented and approved again, under a fresh layer of public scrutiny.

In an Aug. 28 letter to Messina and Lopes, the city's community development director, Colette Meunier, attributed the error to a combination of recent staff changes and the fact that the city did not often evaluate this particular level of environmental review.

The mistakes, coupled with the mayor's potential influence over his appointed commissioners, have left some Benicians feeling suspicious.

"I think they were trying to push this thing past so that, if approved, it would make it easier for another developer to come in and build something similar," said Rubay, who lives in a restored Craftsman bungalow.

Messina, Lopes and Bray say they have carefully followed all the rules, adhering to 50 specific building requirements in the historic district.

They have also significantly altered the design.

Though they haven't settled on a color, they have added wood siding to break up the stucco facade.

Trial to Resolve Ownership of Record Baseball

By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
Oct. 15, 2002

A 60-second scrum in the stands has spiraled into a yearlong legal saga over a potentially lucrative slice of the national pastime.

It's a case of two men scuffling at Pac Bell Park over a bonanza baseball that experts say could fetch seven figures at auction.

But Popov v. Hayashi is also about the laws of possession, bleacher etiquette, personal honor and the rising tide of excitement over historic sports memorabilia.

And it's a case headed to trial today.

San Francisco Superior Court Judge Kevin McCarthy will begin hearing testimony without a jury in the curious custody tussle over Barry Bonds' record 73rd home run ball.

Alex Popov and Patrick Hayashi, plaintiff and defendant, respectively, have clamored for the rawhide relic since they met Oct. 7, 2001, in a wild, frantic rush at Pac Bell.

Popov, 38, who gloved the ball and lost it in the scramble, says he was mugged and robbed.

Hayashi, 37, says he simply scooped up the loose ball along the right field arcade area, where Bonds had parked his final home run of the year.

Neither side will budge.

"Hayashi will testify that he reached up for the ball like everyone else," said his attorney, Don Tamaki. "He fell down, a face plant on the arcade floor. And the ball was right there, within arm's reach. It wasn't in anyone's possession."

Martin Triano, Popov's lawyer, said his client offered to settle the dispute over a beer shortly after the incident. "Patrick never called back," Triano said. "I can't speak for Mr. Hayashi, but Alex simply wants his piece of baseball history returned."

The first-of-its-kind trial, unfolding as the Giants have captured a berth in the World Series against Anaheim, is expected to last about three weeks.

It promises more twists and turns than an episode of "CSI," with the two sides splitting hairs over what constitutes a catch.

Among the cast of characters expected to testify: a retired major-league umpire, an accident reconstructionist, a whiz in bio-mechanical motion and a few law professors.

Even a tape of baseball bloopers will be shown to highlight the fractions of seconds that distinguish a catch from a drop.

The trial's critical question is whether Popov exercised "unequivocal dominion and control" over the baseball, as a judge put it last month.

Until the dispute is settled, the souvenir sits in a court-controlled safe deposit box in Milpitas.

Popov's legal team will roll out 14 witnesses, who, according to Triano, "saw Alex catch the ball and later came to him because they felt he was wronged."

As part of their case, Paul Finkelman, a distinguished professor at the University of Tulsa College of Law, will testify about property possession.

He is the author of a legal paper titled, "Fugitive Baseballs and Abandoned Property: Who Owns the Home Run Ball?"

"In whaling law, the first ship to get the harpoon in the whale gets the animal," he said, drawing an analogy to what he saw as Popov's legal catch. "They didn't want two crews full of guys with harpoons and sharp knives fighting over the ownership of the whale.

"So, he added, "law steps in to regulate society and make it peaceful."

Tamaki, on the other hand, will defend his client with 10 witnesses, including a retired American League umpire and a biomechanical motion expert who analyzed the video of the incident.

"We've deposed everyone near Popov that day," he said. "And they all say they didn't see any punching, grabbing, scratching or biting -- and they'll testify to it."

Jim Evans, who spent 28 years as a big-league umpire, will testify that fans have been working out ball ownership in the stands for 70 years without court intervention.

He also will describe the definition of a catch, arguing that Popov never had possession before losing the ball in the pileup.
"Until a fan demonstrates firm and secure control, the chase is on," Tamaki said.

A critical piece of evidence is the video footage shot by KNTV news photographer Josh Keppel, whose film captured Popov gloving the ball before quickly slipping into the crowd.

Each side will use the video footage to bolster their case.

The "In" Crowd Converges outside Pacific Bell Park

Note: This was one of those rare assignments that I felt so fortunate to have had a chance to do: Cover the World Series in San Francisco. My job was to tell the story of the fans who went to the park, finding any angle I could.

By Corey Lyons
Conta Costa Newspapers
Oct. 23, 2002

It's perhaps the city's only family-friendly peep show, a breathtaking view of Pacific Bell Park through a chain-link fence.

They call it "the knothole," a wildly popular stadium feature that gives the park an unrivaled sense of intimacy.

But the waterfront area has also become a community gathering place for drifters, boaters, joggers and diehard Giants fans. Tuesday, during Game 3 of the World Series, the area behind the right field wall transformed into a counterculture festival for people who hated monkeys or lacked tickets.

"Rally Monkey, the other white meat," read a sign one woman held proudly.

Hundreds of fans shuffled along the waterfront promenade, clamoring for a quick view of the game or gazing out at a nautical knot of bobbing things in McCovey Cove.

Smells of cigarettes, popcorn and marijuana lingered in the air.

Two blimps, dozens of gulls and banner-pulling planes cluttered the gray skies above.

In a sort of isolated community, the promenade drew a wide cast of characters who carried placards and shouted with bullhorns.

Dozens of craft crowded McCovey Cove, carrying Elvis impersonators and giddy fans who straddled masts for a better view.

A huge line formed along the brick facade, all of whom were waiting for a stint at the knothole.

Adam Tomar, 25, strummed a banjo while waiting in line.

He sold two tickets for $600. "But I still get to see a quick glimpse or two of the game," said the Berkeley man. "I just couldn't pass up the $600."

Normally only 24 people are allowed inside the knothole at a time, with a fresh batch every three innings.

But for the World Series, 100 people were allowed inside the gated room, which offers a spectacular view of right field. Matt Jay, wearing flashing magnetic clip lights on his calf and ear lobes, got inside the area early after making friends with the security staff during the playoffs.

"I asked them, pretend like I'm a hot chick and hook me up," Jay said. He had spent three fruitless hours on the telephone trying to get tickets.

Once the game got started, fans stood in lines six deep to steal a glimpse through the fence.

With World Series tickets fetching $400 to $5,000 apiece, few complained.

A fan who calls himself a "free ticket man" held out hope of joining the other 42,000 throats inside.

This year, he has gotten into 70 of 78 games for free with an ingenious sign made of foam and duct tape: "True fan needs a free ticket."

"It's the true fan part that gets everyone," said Lucas, who does not use a first name.

Instead of grousing about tickets, the fans bonded over their collective hatred of Anaheim's warm-and-fuzzy Rally Monkey. (Hey, the Dodgers weren't available.)

Eric Herlitz quickly became a featured promenade act, dangling a stuffed monkey on a noose for passersby to pummel.

"Spank the monkey," he shouted between sips on a can of beer.

Excited fans flogged the battered toy with their shoes, skateboards, briefcases, even a wheelchair and a motorcycle.

If someone declined to touch the mangled monkey, they heard about it: "YOU'RE AN ANGELS FAN!"

Not far away, Tony DeCoteau stood on a folding chair near the railing for McCovey Cove. He shows up here to scoop up home-run balls. Period.

"This is the best seat outside the house," said the 45-year-old Hayward painter.

"You can see the batter's box from here," he said, pointing through the right field fence. "I get to see the ball hit first. The boaters get us once in a while, but it gives them something to row about."

Big Box Retailer Hits Rift with Residents

By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
March 10, 2002

ANTIOCH - When Wal-Mart opened here in early 2000, the retail behemoth was embraced like a foreign prince in a growing city with a severe shortage of big-box businesses.

But two years later, the relationship between the city and the nation's No. 1 retailer has evolved into a royal pain.

While the giant store generated about $470,000 in sales-tax revenue during its first year, its reputation as a good neighbor has been called into question by frustrated residents and city officials.

Nearly five dozen complaints and a handful of code violations have been lodged against the 134,000-square-foot store in the past 18 months.

The wide range of complaints include noisy, late-night trucks and stacks of foul-smelling fertilizer bags, campers in the parking lot, and an unsightly collection of outdoor storage containers.

Last month, Wal-Mart representatives met with city officials to resolve the issues and improve relations, a move that neighbors viewed as a critical step forward. Each side is hopeful that relations will improve.

"I think Wal-Mart and the city are moving in a positive direction," said City Attorney Bill Galstan, who recently suggested to the City Council that the store's use permit be reviewed and updated. "We've cleared the air. It seems like some of our concerns were addressed. We just need to have some of the rules clarified."

The sprawling store is on Lone Tree Way in southeast Antioch, which is ground zero for the city's housing boom.

"We're not going to let this corporation bully us," said Richard Beaman, an Antioch resident who lives near Wal-Mart and cobbled a few neighbors together to take their grievances to City Hall.

"We've taken the steps to the city and finally got some satisfaction. But we will not be satisfied until we get 100 percent satisfaction."

The issue underscores the increasingly fitful relationship between communities and the big-box retailers that move there.

Cities revolt
It's a perpetual and evolving fight. Residents say big-box stores increase traffic, noise, crime and have the potential to force local merchants out of business.

California cities have sought relief with the ballot to settle the rifts that develop between leery neighborhoods and retail titans.
On March 5, two big-box retail plans were approved and two were defeated statewide.

In East Palo Alto, voters narrowly approved the construction of an Ikea furniture store, a hot-button issue in a decaying city overshadowed by its more affluent neighbors.

Five miles away, voters in Mountain View overwhelmingly opposed the construction of a Home Depot, despite the chain's aggressive marketing campaign.

There, residents living in neighborhoods that wrapped around the proposed 125,000-square-foot store worried that their streets would be choked by shoppers and loud delivery trucks.

In the southern California city of Agoura Hills, residents narrowly approved an initiative that prohibits the construction of any retail building larger than 60,000 square feet. The issue reached voters after residents rallied against a proposed Home Depot.

And in Calexico, a growing border city in Imperial County, voters embraced a Wal-Mart-backed proposal to overturn the limits on the amount of floor space that large retailers can use for grocery sales.

Locally, the big-boxers also have inspired debate.

Some ordinances in East Bay cities - including Antioch - make it illegal for trailers and RVs to establish campsites on the fringes of Wal-Mart parking lots, a phenomenon that company officials have been known to encourage.

Livermore began cracking down on campers at its Wal-Mart more than a year ago, prompting store managers to start posting signs warning customers that they no longer could stay overnight.

Yet droves of shoppers continue to find solace in places big enough to sell tires and TVs under the same roof. And city leaders lick their chops over the impressive sales-tax windfall.

"Neighborhoods across the nation have found out the hard way that stores like Wal-Mart and Lowe's or Home Depot are simply too big and out of scale to be a good neighbor," said Al Norton, author of "Slam-Dunking Wal-Mart."

Norton is also the founder of a Web site called Sprawl-Busters.com, a network for people opposed to superstores whose battle cry is, "Your quality of life is worth more than a cheap pair of underwear."

Unhappy neighbors
But Peter Kanelos, a Wal-Mart spokesman in California, said the chain strives to satisfy its neighbors and said the complaints in Antioch have been addressed and are being taken seriously.

"Wal-Mart tries to be a good neighbor and an active community member," he said. "And as part of that effort, we take all issues to heart."

Nonetheless, controversy has followed the corporate gorillas, which have become familiar symbols of community ire even as they prove to be wildly popular destinations for consumers.

In Antioch, neighbors in the increasingly affluent southeast part of town have grumbled about being jolted from their sleep by the late-night disturbances at Wal-Mart.

A narrow sound wall separates the rear of the store at Williamson Ranch Plaza from rows of houses in a subdivision.

Residents have groused about street sweepers, glaring overhead lights, wailing security alarms, even forklift races in the parking lot.

In addition, store employees began piling large, rectangular storage containers on the west side of the property to alleviate an overflow of seasonal inventory.

In November, city code enforcement officers counted 47 containers there. About 10 remain, with promises to the city to have them removed within 90 days.

The issue provoked Mayor Don Freitas to call a meeting earlier this year with Wal-Mart attorneys and managers to discuss the problems.

"We don't want this store looking like other Wal-Marts, which is why we're looking out for them," said Denise Skaggs, coordinator of Antioch's Neighborhood Improvement Services.

"Their location is the gateway coming into the community from the southwest area. It's a visible store. And we want it to maintain our high standards."

The store has been warned of code violations that restrict trucks from making deliveries between 10 p.m. and 7 a.m. It also has been told of an ordinance that prohibits trailers "as living quarters except in a mobile home or a trailer park."

Skaggs said she will be checking on the store weekly to ensure the retailer is abiding by the rules of its use permit, which is expected to be reviewed again by the city Planning Commission.

City officials are trying to better understand how to manage a big-box retailer. It hasn't been easy.

"I felt like I had failed," Skaggs said of the city's early relationship with Wal-Mart. "But we've had no previous history to go on. This is a whole new ballgame. We're kind of shaping our own future."

War on Terror: National Alert System

By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
March 13, 2002

Homeland Security Director Tom Ridge unveiled a color-coded terrorist warning system Tuesday that strives to wire the country to a universal plan to identify threats and thwart potential violence.

The five-tier system, with red being the most urgent, addresses widespread public criticism over a handful of vague terrorist alerts issued by the government since Sept. 11.

Those alerts were widely panned for inciting fear without offering any useful guidelines with which to prepare for potential attacks.

Ridge outlined a sweeping federal plan in which five colors would be used to identify the severity of threats, each of which would trigger a coordinated and prepared response.

A red alert, for instance, would involve closing public and government buildings and other safety precautions that were put in place immediately after the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.

The lowest-status warning is green, followed by blue, yellow, orange and red, which was described as "a severe risk of terrorist attacks."

Federal, state and local officials would be allowed to devise their own response strategies. They have 45 days in which to provide comment on the alarm system.

While Ridge urged state and local governments to adopt the plan, the former Pennsylvania governor does not have the authority to force them to do so.

"We, too, must take new measures to protect our cities, our resources and people from the threat we face today, the threat of terrorism," Ridge said in a speech at the White House.

Hundreds of police departments and communities were notified of the system Tuesday. In addition, they were told the country is in a yellow, or "elevated condition" of alert that will probably not be reduced for years.

"We should not expect a V-T day, a victory-over-terrorism day, anytime soon," Ridge said. "But that does not mean Americans are powerless against the threat."

Nonetheless, many law enforcement agencies already operating under a "heightened state of alert" since Sept. 11 wondered whether the new system would add protection.

"These announcements are intended to make people feel better," said San Pablo Police Chief Douglas Krathwohl. "Everyone is trying to think of something to do. If there are no specifics and you don't even have the resources to man a department 24 hours, what can you do?"

Other police officials questioned whether they would qualify for federal aid for additional training and materials under the early warning system.

"We need money for things that will help us communicate in a coordinated fashion if something does happen," said Richmond Fire Department Battalion Chief James Fajardo.

In a more specific cost assessment, Alameda County authorities estimated this year that they need $18 million in funding for anti-terrorism planning and training.

Meanwhile, Gov. Gray Davis thanked Ridge for developing the plan. He praised the Bush administration for incorporating some of the suggestions made by California officials.

Davis said he met with Ridge in December and asked then if the state could launch its own warning system. Ridge told him to hold off while a federal plan was developed.

State officials had recommended a staged-alert system with numbers one to four, modeled on California's power shortage warning system.

The drafting of the federal warning, coupled with last month's approval of the "Safe Skies" program that trains California Highway Patrol officers to provide additional security on flights within the state, shows that the Bush administration is responding to California's needs, he said.

"I asked two things of them since Sept. 11, and both times they have answered in the affirmative," Davis said of President Bush and Ridge.

On Tuesday, most local agencies appeared willing to embrace the Homeland Security Advisory System as a valuable tool that could clarify the seriousness of a threat.

"If they put out an announcement nationwide and we have a red alert, we can gauge how serious it is right away," said Lt. Jim Knudsen of the Alameda County Sheriff's Department.

CHP spokesman Steve Kohler agreed. "We want to get the best information possible and get it out in a way that can assist us quickly. It sounds like a step in the right direction."

East Bay residents, however, seemed split over whether the new system would better prepare a community against an attack or further add to the vague messages that have persisted for months amid a backdrop of fear.

"It sounds better than a general alert, but we still wouldn't know how serious it is," said Steven Halloran, a security guard at the Contra Costa Federal Credit Union in Antioch.

"We'd like to be tipped off if there is the threat of a biological or chemical attack," he added, "but without knowing for sure, we're still in the dark."

Half of Bay Area's Roads in Poor Shape

By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
March 15, 2002

The condition of major streets and highways nationwide is a major pain in the asphalt.

The twisted maze of urban streets and freeways in the Bay Area is in particularly bad shape, with 50 percent listed in poor condition, according to a study released Thursday.

Nationwide, nearly one-fourth of urban roadways in the largest cities are cracking and crumbling away, costing the average motorist about $358 a year in car maintenance.

San Francisco and San Jose were ranked among the top 10 large cities in America whose seriously decaying roads cost frustrated drivers about $600 a year.

Boston's pockmarked streets were ranked worst in the country, followed by New Orleans and Los Angeles.

"Motorists in our nation's largest cities are in for a rough ride every time they drive unless needed road improvements are made," said William M. Wilkins, executive director of The Road Information Program, or TRIP, which released the report.

The grim study is titled "Rough Ride in the City: How Poor Road Conditions Increase Motorists' Costs."

It illustrates a kind of pothole purgatory in which more drivers are paying more money to navigate roads that are deteriorating rapidly.

TRIP analyzed information from the Federal Highway Administration, which provided data for the 10 largest metropolitan regions in the country. Cities with more than 200,000 people were also researched.

"We have a system that's kind of wearing out," said Larry Fisher, executive director of Transportation California, which lobbies for road construction. "Most were built in the 1960s and now require an awful lot of maintenance."

The report concluded that only 5 percent of 917 heavily traveled miles of roadway in the San Francisco-Oakland region were in good condition.

"The timing of road maintenance and rehabilitation is critical to ensure that it occurs before a road deteriorates," the report stated.

"Repairing a road in poor condition is approximately four times more costly than repairing a road in fair condition."

But Jim Lawrence, acting deputy director of maintenance for Caltrans in the nine-county Bay Area, said road construction remains a booming business here.

About $500 million to $600 million worth of roadway construction projects are being planned in the region over the next four years, he said.

"Overall, the roads in the Bay Area and statewide are in good shape, by our own inventory," said Greg Bayol, a spokesman for Caltrans.

"We have about less than 10 percent of the state highway system in need of repair at this moment," he added. "And those areas are in line for work now."

Stuart Cohen, director of the Bay Area Transportation and Land Use Coalition, said the report appeared to be too narrowly focused.

"Given so much repaving out here, I figured we'd have more than 5 percent of our (major) roads in good condition," he said. "You can't call it a comprehensive assessment by not doing all of the roads."

In California -- which includes four of the 10 regions the report described as having the poorest road conditions -- highway construction remains a serious issue.

State voters on March 9 overwhelmingly approved Proposition 42, which dedicates sales tax on gasoline to highway and transit projects.

Signs of Beauty

Note: This is a story I came up with simply after noticing all the city "greeting" signs in Eastern Contra Costa County. I thought it would be really interesting to do an overview of this, which I hadn't seen done before. So ...

By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
March 24, 2002

The roadside sign, splintered and weathered, is a relic of a simpler, slower era in East County -- "Welcome to Antioch, Gateway to the Delta."

But Antioch is no longer a passage to more interesting places. It's a destination for scores of new homeowners priced out of other Bay Area markets.

And in a city growing quickly and trying to shed its rural image, the greeting sign off Highway 4 is no longer embraced as a symbol of civic pride.

"Frankly," said City Attorney Bill Galstan, "I think it's a little tacky."

City slogans and welcome signs, which first popped up along railroad tracks and roads a century ago, are enduring hallmarks of small-town America.

But as many towns evolve into cities, these self-marketing tools are being regarded as either hokey jingles of yesteryear or important messages that help capture a community's charm.

"It was a real rivalry, in the old days, to have a sign up," said Bernard C. Winn, a retired farmer who wrote a book, "Arch Rivals," about welcome signs.

"It was a real status symbol to identify a town," added the 81-year-old San Francisco resident. "Today, it's kind of nostalgic."

Indeed, city signs with personalized messages, or "tag lines," are increasingly difficult to find, especially in the Bay Area. In East County, however, long known for its agricultural heritage, quirky city slogans remain.

Brentwood calls itself "In the Land of Plenty," which, today, could easily refer to its vast assortment of subdivisions. Knightsen, a farming community on the county's eastern edge, proclaims that it's "Still God's Country."

For motorists heading east on Highway 4 and into Oakley, a green-and-white sign introduces people to "A Place for Families in the Heart of the Delta." The sign sits in front of a long lineup of scrap metal dealers.

Oakley, a growing suburb of 26,000, incorporated in 1999 and immediately began grappling with its identity.

The city hired Julie Patterson of San Francisco to design the Oakley emblem -- a scarlet oak leaf, it turns out -- and develop a slogan.

Patterson spent a summer day touring the area, soaking in the subdivisions and the sun-splashed fields.

Later, in her office, something struck her. "I kept saying that it was such a great place for families," she said, referring to the city's emphasis on affordable housing. "Then I said, 'It's such a great place for families, right here in the heart of the Delta.'"

Bingo. Carolyn Hays, president of the Oakley chamber of commerce, thinks the slogan will stay -- for a while, at least. "I like it," she said. "I'm not sure if it sells the city or not, but it's warm-hearted."

In Antioch, city officials are not getting warm and fuzzy feelings over the "Gateway to the Delta" sign, which sits alone in a green field off Highway 4, west of Somersville Road.

Give Mayor Don Freitas a sharp hatchet and he may even use it.

"It's the worst sign the city can have," he said. "It smacks of the 1930s or 1940s. It's very rural in nature. We need to develop something that residents can be proud of."

Freitas envisions a more technologically-advanced version that could advertise the city's chief asset: its proximity to the San Joaquin River.

In fact, he said, the city's entire sign inventory should be reviewed again, possibly leading to street-name changes that better reflect the fast-growing community.

Of course, no one said city greeting signs would come without controversy and heartache.

They reflect a place that affects and identifies everyone, often leading to passionate protests or civic activism.

The liberal-minded coastal city of Santa Cruz recently had a shark-size spat over a new "landmark" River City sign. On Sept. 12, 2001, a 15-by-30-foot, yellow-and-blue sign made its debut near Highway 1, which led drivers toward downtown Santa Cruz, where merchants have struggled for years.

But as soon as the $83,000 behemoth popped up, folks howled in protest. Arguing that it was large and ugly, the city arts commission voted 6-1 in January to tear it down, which would add $15,000 to $20,000 to the tab.

Recently, Santa Cruz' City Council voted to explore how to dismantle the sign and whether anyone else would be interested in buying it.

"I think it spent a few days on eBay," said Tasha Loveness, a Santa Cruz arts administrator, "but the top bid was only $3,500."
In American Canyon, meanwhile, residents there can't wait to showcase their new greeting sign.

The chamber of commerce of the close-knit Napa County town cobbled together $10,000 to create its own unique community placard.

Plans were made to put the 10-by-12-foot sign reading "American Canyon, Gateway to the Napa Valley Wine Country," on Highway 29, where thousands of wine-minded motorists drive by every weekend.

But Caltrans rejected the sign as being too large. So organizers reversed course and tried to persuade several local property owners to display the sign near the highway; everyone passed.

"It's kind of like a welcome sign that's not very welcome," said Dale Osmond, the chamber's chief executive officer.

Now, the sign sits in the rear yard of the Vallejo business that created it, gathering dust until a temporary or permanent home is found.

Pittsburg, too, is trying to use signs and slogans to advertise its blue-collar charms.

About seven months ago, a colorful, 10-by-32-foot mural filled a billboard off Highway 4, near Railroad Avenue, that read, "Developing Power for the Future."

City leaders are trying to tout Pittsburg's fledgling power plant industry.

Local artist Francis Pallermo designed the primary sign, which shows a diverse group of people clinging hands, but also includes a few buildings and the "power" message.

Pallermo, 54, also created several other images that could be interchanged to promote city functions such as the Seafood Festival.

"I had to make some compromises," he said of the primary sign. "I wouldn't have thrown the buildings in there. I would have stuck with the people, which makes it more dynamic.

"But," he added, "they paid for it. And it's probably being seen by more people than any artwork I've ever done."

Apologies

By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
Dec. 18, 2002


It's a couple of simple words that cause politicians in peril to squirm like, well, politicians in peril: I'm sorry.

In recent days, the outcry over maligned Sen. Trent Lott's racially insensitive comments and Berkeley Mayor Tom Bates' "papergate" theft case illustrate the growing public demand for acceptable apologies.

Yet politicians often wrestle over the right words -- or any words at all -- to express remorse for their damaging blunders.

From Clinton to Condit, once promising careers can sputter and stall unless a personal blooper is appropriately patched.

"There is an art to what you say -- and there's often a clever parting of language or twisting of words. Politicians seldom say, 'I'm sorry,'" said Bill Whalen, a research fellow at the Hoover Institution at Stanford University.

Political analysts and public policy experts say lawmakers in limbo may want to start rethinking their strategies.

Their advice? Move quickly to identify the mistake, 'fess up and clear the air as soon as possible. Then, cross your fingers.

Faced with an Oval Office sex scandal, former President Clinton agonized over the issue a few years ago. He finally asked to be censured by Congress for his "errors of word and deed."

Experts say the "granddaddy" of effective political contrition occurred Sept. 23, 1952, an incident regarded as the "Checkers speech."

In it, Richard Nixon, then an upstart California senator, delivered a brilliant televised speech that secured his place on the Republican ticket as Dwight Eisenhower's running mate.

In quelling questions about $18,000 in gifts, he went so far as to itemize everything he had received, including a "little cocker spaniel" dog named Checkers, whom his family was "gonna keep."

"Nixon's speech worked because the public was not so jaded in seeing politicians apologize in that manner," said Susan Rasky, who teaches political government reporting at UC Berkeley.

"By the time we got to Lott, after all this prehistory of Clinton and Monica, we've seen it all before."

Indeed, the public appears to be increasingly frustrated by those who fail to grasp the gravity of their missteps.

Former Rep. Gary Condit's once powerful grip on central California loosened during the investigation into the disappearance of Chandra Levy, a federal intern with whom he had an affair at the time she vanished.

His one-time protege, Dennis Cardoza, captured the congressional seat last month. Condit lost in the primary.

"It all depends on when you do it and how you do it -- and Gary Condit never apologized," said Sherry Bebitch Jeffe, a political science scholar at the University of Southern California.

But while coming clean may sound like great advice, the severity of a mistake and the level of sincerity can take a wrecking ball to any finely-tuned apology.

Lott, a Republican from Mississippi, delivered his fifth apology Monday. He initially said he was being "lighthearted" when he commented that the country would have been better off if it had stuck with segregationist policies.

So far, the escalating issue has further wobbled the Senate majority leader's political footing.

"I don't think that, in Lott's situation, or if someone is caught embezzling or making a bribe, an apology works," said Ted Radke, who teaches political science at Contra Costa College.

Whalen, of the Hoover Institution, agreed.

"One of the problems with Lott is that it became far too protracted," he said. "He should have come right out of the chute after he did it. Instead, he let it boil all week long."

Bates, the new Berkeley mayor, agreed Thursday to accept theft charges for swiping 1,000 copies of the Daily Californian newspaper that endorsed his opponent, Shirley Dean.

In his first meeting, he apologized to "the Daily Cal, my supporters, my family and, most of all, to the people of Berkeley."

Nonetheless, some are still calling on the liberal Democrat to resign over his baffling lapse in judgment.

"He apologized right away. But there's a point at which even if you apologize, the offense may be considered so stupid or cast such doubt that people want to recall you," said Rasky, the lecturer at UC Berkeley.

Clinton, the first elected president to be impeached, somehow managed to beat the odds.

"He's gone on like nothing happened," said retired Assemblyman Lou Papan, who sponsored a state law that allows people involved in auto accidents to apologize without the words being used as confessions of guilt in civil cases.

"There's an immunity there that distresses me with some individuals."

Honey, They Shrunk the Film Supply

Note: This is one of occasional first-person columns I'd put together to run in the Features/Entertainment part of the paper. It was a fun way to do a different kind of writing.

By Corey Lyons
Feb. 1, 2002

BLOCKBUSTER VIDEO has increasingly taken on the look and feel of a toy store.

The only thing missing is Giggles the Clown, who could greet visitors at the door with a 24-inch Kit Kat bar and a previously viewed copy of "Free Willy" for $5.99.

I loathe Blockbuster. Everything about it. Its size. Its shameless, monopolistic corporate strategy. Its limited selection of movies, especially independent titles.

I've even grown to loathe the blue-and-tan uniforms worn by employees, which, apparently, is the proven color combination for corporate success in America.

But I don't want to sound bitter. I simply expect more from a global empire with a $5 billion bankroll.

Candy, not movies
The Dallas-based video behemoth is taking over the world with blue-and-gold fun houses that provide more king-sized candy bars than documentaries.

Seriously. You can find a giant Snickers bar or an endless lineup of video games for Xbox and GameCube, but you can hardly find an art-house film that generated some buzz.

Of course, lesser-known titles like "Bully" or "With a Friend Like Harry" may require five rentals before a profit is turned.

In any case, the thrust of my recent anti-Blockbuster campaign began during the holiday season.

A friend had given me a $25 gift certificate to the world's No. 1 video retailer, from which I had disassociated myself years ago, vowing never to return. But the card was free. Years had passed. So I decided to use it.

Recently, I walked into a local Blockbuster, shielding my eyes under the intense glow of overhead lights.

I had showed up to look for one of a handful of critically acclaimed films that never made it to local theaters as well as a documentary for my wife.

I circled the store three times, temporarily losing my way in the Nintendo maze. Finally, I approached a befuddled clerk to ask whether they had carried documentaries.

She looked at me as if I had asked her to explain the premise of "Lost Highway."

Then, she whispered, "We don't really have that many documentaries."

Translation: Good luck in your future travels.

Wow. Can you believe that? The world's No. 1 video retailer does not do documentaries.

I guess that explains why there were approximately 862 copies of "Pearl Harbor" crowding a far wall.

Market penetration
Now, I've never been confused with John Nash Jr. But simple mathematics helps explain why Blockbuster dominates the video rental industry.

According to a recent study that I just made up, there are approximately 1.2 Blockbusters for every person living in the United States.

And for most people, that's a good enough reason to sign aboard and make every night a "Blockbuster night."

Consider the company's written mission: "To be the global leader in rentable home entertainment, by providing outstanding service" -- Would you like a $6 box of Goobers with that rental, friend? -- "selection, convenience and value."

OK. They do provide convenience. Because there is probably a store 16 feet from where you're sitting right now.

But while the company continues to expand like Will Smith's ego, its selection of films appears to have shrunk.

In the late 1990s, the company negotiated with the major studios a revenue-sharing plan that allowed it to stock its shelves with more titles of the same movie per store.

This concept may explain why it's easy to find 250 copies of "Legally Blonde" and impossible to find a documentary about, say, ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics.

Which is why I rent from a local mom-and-pop and Hollywood Video, which has a wider selection of cult classics and independents. And Blockbuster is two blocks from my front door.

But I don't want to sound bitter.

Meter Readers Hoping for New Law

By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
Feb. 2, 2002

Sandy Hernandez is armed with a 24-inch "doggie wand," a mini-telescope and a tiny can of pepper spray clipped to her vest pocket.

With a deep breath, she heads into a crumbling neighborhood near Bay Point that sports more "beware of dog" signs than welcome mats.

The veteran meter reader, whose left arm is crisscrossed with scars from a dog attack four months ago, faces fear every day in a job that some consider perfunctory.

Hernandez is one of 127 Pacific Gas & Electric meter readers who scour East Bay communities to inspect more than 1.7 million utility units a month.

But the job is made more difficult and dangerous by the estimated 225,000 canines that utility workers must face or elude.

Many dogs, snarling and defensive, lie in wait behind rickety wooden fences or bark and growl while trying to chew holes through garage doors.

"We get into the property and the back yards, and for a dog, that's the biggest affront. We're trespassing, in their minds," said Jason Alderman, a PG&E spokesman.

The company is launching a publicity campaign to educate pet owners about a strengthened state law that widens criminal liability against those whose animals seriously injure or kill.

Pet owners are being asked to keep their dogs secured when meter readers arrive on scheduled inspection dates.

The new measure, sponsored by Assemblywoman Carole Migden, D-San Francisco, alters a law that had restricted felony charges to the animal's owner.

Now, felony charges can be lodged against any person owning or having custody or control of an animal involved in a severe attack, such as the mauling that killed St. Mary's College coach Diane Whipple a year ago.

Many meter readers and dog-bite victims hope the revised law will have enough teeth to protect them.

"We don't get extra hazard pay," said Hernandez, who said she is preparing to sue the owner of the dogs that bit her left arm in September. "People need to know that they are responsible."

While it's widely known that canines and letter carriers have had a troubled relationship for years, utility workers venture into the same communities and face similar dangers.

Dogs have bitten and seriously injured about 800 PG&E employees, particularly meter readers, over the past decade in Northern California, Alderman said.

Some workers are permanently disabled, including a Livermore meter reader whose ear was partially ripped off by a golden retriever.

In Contra Costa County, 48 meter readers inspect 681,000 meters every month.

They are required to carry "doggie wands," wooden batons with a tennis ball stuck to one end that are used to divert an aggressive animal.

Readers use telescopes to peer over a fence to read meters guarded by miffed mutts.

But workers are required to be inventive, and safety is never guaranteed.

In her 11-year career as a meter reader, Hernandez has used a blast of pepper spray to ward off a wily rooster in Bethel Island and her own quick instincts to elude a charging horse in Byron.

A dog bit Patricia Lewis, a PG&E customer service representative, while she was reading meters in Richmond in September 2000.

She approached a house that company records did not indicate was home to a dog. There were no obvious warning signs, not even a food bowl on the ground.

So Lewis, holding a can of pepper spray for backup, opened the gate to the back door to inspect the meter.

Seconds later, a pit bull mix bounded toward her from behind.

"I just started screaming and spraying in the direction of his face, and he bit down on my thumb," said Lewis, whose left thumb ultimately became infected and required surgery. She spent about a month away from work.

Lewis, however, could not persuade an attorney to take the case because it proved too difficult.

The revised law remains flawed, said Los Angeles lawyer Kenneth Phillips[CJL7], who represents dog-bite victims across the country.

The law, he said, does not clarify what constitutes a "dangerous" animal, nor does it make it a crime for pet owners to stand and watch their animals maul someone, he said.

"Everybody in California will have to look at the final outcome of the Whipple case to get a sense of what a dog owner can be convicted of," said Phillips, who operates an educational Web site, www.dogbitelaw.com.

"And that case presents such extreme facts that I'm not sure it will be that helpful."

Truckers Lobby for Age Concessions

By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
Feb. 18, 2002

Post-Sept. 11 security priorities have stalled a trucking industry pilot program that would put 18-year-olds behind the wheels of big rigs.

Nonetheless, the three-year plan is still being considered by the Federal Motor Carriers Safety Administration, which collected and evaluated public reaction last year.

Federal rules now require truckers to be at least 21 to haul cargo across state lines.

The Truckload Carriers Association, which represents long-haul carriers, seeks to show that qualified 18-to-20-year-olds are mature and safe enough to handle the job's grueling demands.

The plan sparked a national debate that pits a growing industry's severe shortage of drivers against the grim statistics of teen-age motorists.

"It would turn truck drivers and American motorists into guinea pigs on the road," said Michael Scippa, executive director of San Francisco-based CRASH, or Citizens for Reliable And Safe Highways.

Trucking-industry pilot programs have a history of undermining safety in trying to address needs, Scippa said.

"They create regular exemptions, which make Swiss cheese out of uniform truck safety," he said.

Trucking officials propose a program in which only the most qualified and skilled young drivers would be selected to participate.

About 1,000 drivers between the ages of 18 and 21 would undergo 48 weeks of classroom instruction, in-the-cab training and apprenticeship. No driver would be able to climb behind the wheel alone until he or she is 19.

"There are a lot of 18-year-olds doing far more complicated jobs than driving trucks," said Virginia DeRoze, director of education and training for the Virginia-based trade association.

DeRoze pointed out that 18-year-olds drive big rigs up and down U.S. highways in 40 states, including California.

"It is interesting to note," the association's petition reads, "that an 18-year-old in Texas can drive a commercial vehicle from Houston to Abilene in interstate commerce, a distance of 419 miles, but not an adjoining city separated by a state line."

If successful, the plan could pave the way for permanently lowering the age requirement for truckers, a possibility that makes safety advocates and insurance agents bristle.

"This amounts to a risky experiment," said Russ Rader, a spokesman for the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety. "We know that young drivers, whether in passenger vehicles or large trucks, are riskier drivers."

Studies have shown that large-truck drivers under 21 are four to six times more likely to be involved in fatal crashes, Rader said.

While large trucks account for 4 percent of registered vehicles nationwide and 8 percent of the total miles driven, they were involved in 12 percent of all fatal vehicle accidents in 2000.

The numbers don't support safety advocates' fears, said Robert Hirsch, president of the Truckload Carriers Association.
"Our position all along has been that we're not looking at all young drivers."

The Federal Motor Carriers Safety Administration has not indicated when it would make a decision. It would happen "soon," said an agency spokesman, Dave Longo. He would not elaborate.

In any case, the federal safety agency will make its recommendation to the Department of Transportation.

The proposal was put together by the carriers' association to expand the pool of drivers in a field that continues to grow while interest in trucking has waned nationwide.

According to a recent Gallup survey, the trucking industry must hire 80,000 drivers a year to keep up with a trade made increasingly larger by e-commerce.

In addition, the government's new "hours-of-service" rules will require the industry to hire an additional 49,000 drivers a year, according to the trucking association.

Trucking officials argue that, other than lowering the age requirement for commercial drivers' licenses, no alternative exists to recruiting more young people.

"By the time a young person reaches 21," the petition read, "he or she has most likely already chosen another career."
But Scippa of CRASH said the industry has only itself to blame.

Truckers, he said, are asked to work for low wages, and to endure long and irregular working hours under what he called "deplorable" working conditions.

"Until those factors are remedied, recruiters will continue to come up short," he said.

Roger Ury, director of American Truck School in San Pablo, said about 16 young men every month enroll in his three-to-four-week program to learn the trucking trade.

The rigors of the industry, he said, will always chase potential drivers away because the job demands a certain type of personality.

"You need to be footloose and fancy-free," said Ury, who has directed the school for seven years. "No girlfriend, no marriage, no family. Just someone looking forward, with great vengeance, to see the world."

Another sizable hurdle the industry faces is increasing national scrutiny and concern over big rigs and their drivers. About 5,000 people die every year in accidents involving large trucks.

The Highway Patrol will soon begin a crackdown on reckless big-rig drivers.

"These clowns just won't slow down. There is not a day that goes by that we don't have a truck-involved crash," CHP Commissioner D.O. "Spike" Helmick told Associated Press last week.

In a memo sent to his 6,700 officers, Helmick said that the CHP had to overcome an image problem that it does not enforce traffic laws on truckers.

Whether or not the federal agencies endorse the plan, trucking officials promise to keep fighting.

"If we don't address where these drivers will come from," said Hirsch, "at some point this industry will come to a screeching halt. People don't respect how much the industry affects the country, day-to-day, minute-to-minute."

Where We Live: Brentwood

Note: This was part of a special section in which we profiled the cities in our county. I wrote the following lead story on Brentwood, and found myself increasingly obsessed with learning everything I could about the city to help frame the story the right way.

Contra Costa Times
Section: Special Section
Published: 03/02/2002

By Corey Lyons
Times Staff Writer

Often, Jim De Fremery will climb into his 1992 Nissan Stanza and drive through the pastoral foothills to investigate the latest subdivision to cover land once tilled by wheat farmers.

The 88-year-old retired farmer and land developer moved to Brentwood in the 1930s and built the city's first subdivision, 24 houses on half-acre lots, around World War II.

"Many times, I've driven through these new subdivisions and just get lost. I'd have to look at Mount Diablo to see where I was," he said.

The conception of a man getting lost in a city that he helped build illustrates the immense growth that has transformed Brentwood from a rural community into a sprawling suburb.

De Fremery, a widower who lives alone, sat in a recliner in front of a crackling fire inside his two-story farmhouse on Lone Tree Way. He said that he found the city's growth "incomprehensible."

"I sort of regret building the subdivision," he said. "In a sense, so many have been built since then that it's no longer an agricultural place. I used to see so many nice trees. ... Nothing seems to slow it down."

No longer the rural burg of far eastern Contra Costa County, Brentwood is the third-fastest-growing city in California.

In search of larger and more affordable homes in a country setting, thousands of people have descended on this historic city whose roots date to the state's earliest days.

Out here, residents appreciate a country lifestyle with a spectacular view of the eastern base of Mount Diablo and a short trip to the Delta and its thousand miles of river channels.

Fresh fruit is sold from roadside stands and, in the spring, the fragrant smell of blossoming orchards lingers in the air.

In the summer, families gather in triple-digit heat to participate in several community events, including CornFest, a three-day festival of farm culture that attracted more than 40,000 people last year.

A quiet past
A few decades ago, Brentwood was a rural whisper of tomatoes and tumbleweeds, a far-flung farming community beyond the din of urban life.

The city, which incorporated in 1948, remained a quiet agricultural hub until the early 1980s, when developers and bulldozers plowed over the vast open land.

In 1980, there were 4,434 people living in Brentwood. But the population nearly doubled by 1990, and the city grew by 208 percent during the past decade, according to the 2000 Census.

Intrigued by the idea of raising a family in a new house with a country backdrop, the number of homeowners in Brentwood increased from 63 percent in 1980 to 81 percent by 2000.

The bustling city is now home to more than 23,000 souls, an interesting melange of farmers who grew up there and a new generation of affluent suburbanites.

The city's Latino population goes back generations. Many farmworkers from Mexico came to Brentwood over the decades, and in 1980 Latinos were 39 percent of Brentwood's population. That has dropped to 28 percent, still significant, and a growing number of Latinos are firmly ensconced in Brentwood's middle class. But low-paid farmworkers are still part of Brentwood's fabric.

Today, those who clamor for a piece of Brentwood's small-town flavor are contributing to its new look as an evolving suburb.

With a proliferation of gated communities and its roads crowded with sport-utility vehicles, the city is dealing with the aftermath of a cultural collision.

Persistent gridlock greets thousands of early-morning commuters heading west on Highway 4 or south on Vasco Road toward Livermore or Silicon Valley.

Farmers often have trouble crossing busy streets in their slow-moving tractors.

Downtown, fertilizer shops and antique stores are being replaced by day spas, chiropractors and upscale Italian cafes.

"It all sounded good until it got here," town historian Kathy Leighton said of the city's rapid growth. "I know people who won't go downtown at 3 p.m. because of the traffic. On the other hand, you couldn't get lox, bagels and Irish cream coffee downtown 15 years ago."

Search for affordability
The population explosion in Brentwood is part of a statewide trend in which more and more people are moving to cities on the fringes of the metropolitan Bay Area.

While the nine-county Bay Area region grew by 786,051, or 12.7 percent, over the past decade, the Central Valley has grown even faster as residents stretched their commutes in search of cheaper digs.

In Brentwood, developers are constantly laying asphalt over sun-charred fields that used to produce wheat, cherries or almonds.

Residents are still caught short when they see a new street cut through the green foothills, leading to a sprawling subdivision, its promotional pennants snapping in the soft breeze.

Pig farmer Bailey Neff operates under the shadow of his sizable neighbors. His four-acre ranch on Minnesota Avenue is nearly devoured by nearby subdivisions, including Spinnaker Ridge Homes and Lyon Groves.

But the San Francisco native, who moved to Brentwood in 1990, said growth gives the city an unrivaled financial boost that separates it from many communities.

"Once you have the money, you have the amenities," said Neff, trudging across his mud-spattered property to check on his pigs. "Things have changed and, from my point of view, for the better."

In some ways, it appears, Brentwood is not a destination but a confluence of possibilities, carved out of the countryside.

Real estate agents woo newcomers with promises of spanking-new three- and four-bedroom houses from the low $200,000s to more than $300,000.

They tout "luxurious" master suites with marble vanities and spacious walk-in closets. They roll out a wide array of options, including concrete tile roofing, automatic sprinkler systems, vaulted ceilings and cabinets in maple, cherry or oak.

Lyon Rhapsody is the name of a new subdivision of salmon-colored, single-family dwellings off Brentwood Boulevard, with an office on a new street called Whispering Oaks Court.

On a recent foggy afternoon, Bob and Irene Schaefer, middle-aged parents from Antioch, visited Lyon Rhapsody to explore a possible future in Brentwood.

Bob, an electrician for a railroad company in Oakland, scanned floor plans in an office lobby and discussed with his wife buying a new house in Brentwood.

It sounded like a good investment, he said, but it also provoked important questions about his family's quality of life.

What elementary school, if any, would best serve his daughter? How would he and his wife handle a potentially nasty commute on a two-lane road out of town?

"It's all about choices and sacrifices," Bob Schaefer said. "But we're just looking around so we can make an educated decision."
A few minutes later, Irene Schaefer seemed to hesitate.

"As new as they are," she said, holding a roll of blueprints, "I sort of doubt we'll do it."

Amber waves of grain
Because the city often feels so new, many newcomers are not aware that Brentwood occupies an important chapter of early California history.

Dr. John Marsh, an early state settler, arrived in the fertile region of eastern Contra Costa County in a covered wagon in the late 1830s.

Soon, he started sending letters across the country in which he invited newcomers to an undiscovered paradise of rich soil and warm weather.

Marsh bought Rancho Los Meganos at the eastern base of Mount Diablo, and played a critical role in spurring migration to the Golden State.

His spectacular sandstone mansion, built in the 1850s, is now a state treasure that still stands on a stretch of Marsh Creek Road, just outside the city limits.

Over the years, Brentwood became widely known as a top-notch wheat producer whose products were shipped all over the world.

"They recognized the value of agriculture here very early," said Leighton, who grew up on a ranch in the area. "By the early 1860s, there were huge wheat farms here. Then, the railroads came."

By 1890, East Contra Costa had become the largest wheat producer between New Orleans and San Francisco.

"Wheat was shipped overseas to Europe," said Leighton, author of "Footprints in the Sand," a book about East County history. "It was so hot here that wheat did not contain much moisture. It traveled well because there was no mildew."

Today, downtown Brentwood is an increasingly upscale community of nail and wellness salons, cafes, even a wine-tasting business.

Locals regularly meet at Caffe Bacio, where owner Mayor Mike McPoland, wearing a blue apron, will serve a political statement or a steaming latte.

McPoland's restaurant, dubbed "City Hall Annex" by the city's staff, is where Brentwood's movers and shakers hobnob about new development or close deals over hickory-smoked turkey sandwiches and chicken-and-dumplings.

New people, new ideas
On a recent morning, BMWs, Lexus sport-utility vehicles and Mercedes jammed downtown streets, an indication of the city's evolving socioeconomic position.

"We want to become a go-to place downtown," said Steve Cropper, a co-owner of Brentwood Wine Store, which opened on First Street in November.

He and his wife, Jane, moved to Brentwood in 1990 because it had an honest rural charm that reminded them of their home in Berkshire County, England.

"We wanted something closest that we could find to our roots," said Cropper, leaning his elbows on the caramel-colored tasting bar inside his shop. "At the time, Brentwood was the closest. And in some ways, it still is."

As the city spreads its wings, no one can predict whether Brentwood will be able to preserve its farm ambiance.

De Fremery, the retired land developer who founded the Brentwood Rotary Club in 1949, said few people recognize him anymore when he makes a trip downtown.

And when he opens a kitchen window at his circa 1890s farmhouse, he can hear the growing city bearing down on his doorstep.

Only a few hundred yards from his country house, near De Fremery Drive, the Brentwood Park subdivision, with approval for 245 homes, is taking shape, one ringing hammer blow at a time.