She left us only recently, and already San Mateo has gotten way too leafy.

As I drove through that fine Peninsula city in the Bay Area on the way to my grandmother’s memorial service earlier this month, the plants had returned to their old arrogance. Bushes off Hillsdale Boulevard were growing far bushier than they once dared. The trees along Alameda de las Pulgas flaunted branches that hung much too low. All over the neighborhood, flowers breathed far too easily.

Frances Mathews, who passed away a few months short of her 100th birthday, was sweet, generous, and unthreatening—in almost every respect. She was a loving wife to my late grandfather, beloved mother to my father and uncle, popular public school teacher, devoted neighbor, proud alum of UCLA (where she was the only female member of the student fire brigade), leader of parenting classes, churchgoer, frequent wearer of the color purple, and such a klutz that her grandchildren called her Grandma Oops.

But, now that she is in a better place far outside the reach of the California authorities, I can speak frankly: there was a Hyde to this kindly Jekyll. Grandma Oops was a pruner, and not an ordinary one.

She was a harsh pruner, unrepentant about cutting back plants to the nub. If a bushy plant was ever so insolent as to appear in her line of vision, she would not let it go untrimmed. It never mattered if the plants were hers, or whether she had any invitation or legal right to prune. After all, property rights are an abstraction, while a branch leaning too low over a sidewalk is a clear and present danger. As a boy, I was brought along on pruning raids on Laurel Elementary and Abbott Middle schools, church gardens, street trees, and countless private homes.

“Grandma Oops.” Courtesy of Joe Mathews.

The only other Bay Area figure who ever came close to matching her vigilante’s passion for mowing down living things—damn the niceties—was Harold Francis “Dirty Harry” Callahan, the fictional San Francisco cop brought to life by Clint Eastwood in the movies. You could say Grandma Oops and Dirty Harry shared a philosophy. Give an inch to overgrowth or punks, and in no time civilization will teeter.

At my grandmother’s memorial service, her friend, the Rev. Kibbie Ruth, observed that pruning was spiritual for my grandmother, a way to get to the core of life. Because, as Grandma Oops wrote in one birthday note to me, “If you don’t prune, you can never really grow like you should.” And she erred, relentlessly and controversially, on the side of pruning more rather than less. Relatives from Los Gatos to Long Beach cried that she had reduced beloved plants to their stubs.

She was unapologetic in the face of these critics—and for a reason that should resonate statewide.

In life, cutting back is so extremely difficult that one must be a pruning extremist if you’re ever going to overcome the human instinct for hewing to the status quo. That’s true whether you’re cutting a plant or a government program.

California could sure use more of that extremism. Hollywood, in the era of Netflix, is overgrown with too many TV shows and movies we never have time to watch. Silicon Valley is a jungle jammed with pointless startups. Old warehouses across our state have been repurposed as storage facilities, for all the things we Californians accumulate but can’t throw away.

In Sacramento, our state legislature adds hundreds of new laws a year that few citizens know about, much less understand. And lawmakers rarely if ever eliminate old ones. Our tax code and budget are incomprehensible thickets of formulas and carve-outs and exemptions.

What’s worse, our state constitution, with all its guarantees and mandates, makes thoughtful pruning essentially unconstitutional. One of this year’s most important California decisions could be an anticipated state Supreme Court ruling on a challenge to the so-called “California rule,” which guarantees that public employees’ pensions can never be reduced in any way.

Lack of pruning can have huge costs, and not just in dollars and cents. At the heart of our mounting shortage of housing is thick regulatory overgrowth that makes construction overly time-consuming and expensive.

And it may get even harder to prune properly as our state righteously fights the Trump Administration on multiple fronts. We’re so geared up to protect our people and programs that we may have little time or space to jettison those pieces of government we no longer need.

If Grandma Oops is reincarnated, I think she might come back as one of those consultants that rich people now hire to help them get rid of their stuff. As she approached the end, I marveled at how she meticulously disposed of almost everything in her small house, leaving only basic furniture and a few photo albums. I wish I had her pruning discipline. Maybe I could figure out how to work less, or to simplify our home life—currently a mad scramble of children’s classes, sports, and other commitments.

In her later years, Grandma Oops expressed frustration about one living thing that she couldn’t uproot—herself. She had lived too long, she often said, and was using too many of the earth’s resources as she hung on past her prime.

I respected her opinion, but I couldn’t agree. Sometimes in a family tree, you get one branch so special and enduring that you can hardly bear to see her go.

The post Goodbye to the Dirty Harry of Pruning appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

So what possessed me? I’m mild-mannered, wear Anne Klein’s designs, and actually read the Los Angeles Times every day.

Here’s how it began. As a member of Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger’s staff, I gave a speech on the state budget at a downtown Los Angeles club. Afterwards, up came a guy named Mike to ask if the governor still rode his motorcycle and to invite me on a ride with his group of friends. My response was: Not sure about the governor and no!

But he persisted and soon I got on my first Harley-Davidson—behind Mike—with a borrowed helmet and hand-me down duds to go to Santa Barbara for the day. My legs were shaking and eyes fixated on the speedometer. I wondered if I had truly lost my mind—even though it turned out to be a sparkling day at the beach. The residuals of that first ride? Frayed nerves and helmet hair. Not an auspicious beginning.

But it wasn’t my last time. Adventure beckoned. It wasn’t long before I was riding with Mike, wearing a smile on my face and full-on leathers, the best brand of helmets, and Harley glitter shirts.

I am the only woman who travels regularly with the group—a core of 10 longtime friends. We bring wine and luggage and are grateful when friends and spouses, including Mike’s wife, occasionally accompany us by car. Otherwise, it’s just a few changes of clothes for me. Our group includes CEOs, attorneys, insurance brokers, and the like. Mike is a senior vice president at a major brokerage house. Among the group, there are some tattoos—including a full upper body’s work of art—but not many. No Hells Angels here.

I’ve learned that motorcycle culture has its own unique traditions. One is determining nicknames for everyone. It’s a group decision, but be wary. If you say you actually like the new name you’ve been given, you’ve blown it. Forget it. No nickname for you. Usually assigned nicknames reflect something about the person or his habits. Psychologists, take note. Say hello to Buzzard, Stink Bug, Buckle Boy, Three Gallon, Answer Man, and Splinter, among others. Mine? The First Lady—with the upmost respect given to Michelle Obama.

Riding is one of my greatest pleasures. It’s given me 10 brothers who look out for me, and I love them. Each ride provides a new adventure. The focus is on the moment, with daily distractions set aside. Mike and I are not “wired” for sound because talking to each other or blasting music gets in the way of what we are seeing and feeling. I just hit him on the back when need be, to point out a young deer on the side of the road or a particularly beautiful waterfall.

On the road, there is nothing like feeling the wind streaming across your body and the thrill of approaching a hairpin curve. I’ve never been scared, as Mike is one of the best on the road. However, the risks heighten the experience. Yes, we do lane split, but with intense concentration. And, I will not forget a Death Valley trip when Mike said, “Hold on.” That was the first time I experienced traveling well over 100 mph. I feel pretty cool for a great-grandmother.

Harleys are people magnets. Whenever we pull up to a gas station to refuel or go into a café, someone invariably comes over to ask where we are headed and recount an experience of being on the road. Stories and laughter abound. At one motel we stayed in, a staff member was fascinated with our group. Before waving us off in the morning, she turned to me and whispered, “You are one badass.” I had to verify with my grandchildren that this was a major compliment.

We’ve taken many trips through beautiful areas, staying in historic hotels and motels, where we frequently get odd looks. And we always seek out fantastic Italian restaurants along the way. Surprisingly, motorcycling can be good for your wardrobe. We rode through Madrid, a small community not far from Santa Fe, New Mexico. It’s a former ghost town, full of artists, hippies, bikers, and other counterculture types. And, what did I find there? A dress that cost next to nothing, which I wore two months later as I walked the Emmys’ red carpet. No more expensive designers for me.

The coup de grâce for me was our trip this summer to Sturgis, a small town in the Badlands of South Dakota, for the 75th annual Harley-Davidson rally. The guys had been before, but it was the first time for me. Some of us decided to take a leisurely route, heading up Route 1 along the California coast and then hugging the ocean through Oregon and Washington and entering Canada through Vancouver. Then east through Canada dropping down to the Dakotas, traveling 3,300 miles in 10 days. (Don’t worry about my backside. Mike and I ride a big Harley touring bike. For me, it’s just like sitting on a couch.)

The Sturgis experience was almost indescribable. There we were, along with 739,000 other bikers, to celebrate motorcycling. The noise was unbelievable. Spirits ran high. We couldn’t get enough of people watching. Lots of letting it “all hang out” in the crowd—including American flag pasties on breasts of all sizes. There were bars, bars, and more bars—some large enough to accommodate bikers riding in on their motorcycles. Live entertainment, soundstages, and several million t-shirts coming off the shelves. Many races and Evel Knievel-like competitions to savor.

I was asked once if I felt safe while in Sturgis. My answer was a strong yes. Good planning by the rally organizers carried the day. Bikers were respectful, as were the police, who were present in large numbers. DUIs were down this year, and no major incidents occurred. However, there were 13 fatal accidents in the Black Hills area related to the rally that saddened all of us.

What’s next? More trips. Adventure. Fun. I can’t wait to experience the magic of the open road again—and to tell my new great-grandson that yes, your great-grandmother is definitely one badass.

The post I’m a 77-Year-Old Biker Babe appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.