Boonville The Novel – For Fans of Robert Mailer Anderson, Boonville, Anderson Valley

Of the dozens of quirks I have that my wife puts up with, the one she chuckles at is my affinity for seemingly odd locales. Tombstone, Arizona: I’ve consumed volumes about the OK Corral gunfight and all the characters – minor and major – associated, and have visited on several occasions. Kalapana, Big Island, Hawai’i: One of the 4 places Jake Halpern highlighted in one of my faves, Braving Home. A little oceanside Hawaiian village that was nearly wiped off the map by Madame Pele’s wrath, Kalapana’s only transgression was being downhill from the Pu’u O’o vent of Kilauea Volcano. I’d live there in spite of this, if I could.

Boonville, California.

Having spent my formative years in nearby Sonoma County, Boonville was a curious stop on the way to Camp Navarro, a summer camp for Boy Scouts two towns north on Highway 128. Camp counselors knew (or pretended to know) Boontling, the local pidgin created around the early 20th century to fool outsiders. We chuckled as passed through at the few signs in Boontling (Horn of Zeese, or cup of coffee, and Bucky Walter where the word “Telephone” should have been over the phone booth).

However it wouldn’t be until 2001 when my fascination with Boonville would come full bloom, which was when Robert Mailer Anderson came out with Boonville. A sharply funny piece that skillfully interweaves the pastiche that is rural Northern California: rednecks, hippies, and those in between that are trying to get away from…something. As soon as I read Anderson’s introduction where he tells hippies verbatim to “eat shit”, I was hooked. No offense, earthy types.

Since reading Boonville (several times), I’ve visited Boonville about three times; the last time just this past weekend. I’m itching to go there again, spend the night for the first time, see if I can get hammered with locals and somehow end up collapsing on the yellow divider lines on Highway 128. Wooden squirrel statues optional.