Raging Rails and Campfire Tales

I worked construction jobs up and down California with my wife. We lived frugally, finding the least expensive apartment next to the construction site, and denied ourselves luxuries to save money. My wife, Ping, was planning for the future which included starting a family.

Ping is of Chinese ancestry. She’s a brilliant civil engineer and businesswoman. We met in college. She’s been a loyal wife following me from job to job working my way up the construction career ladder beginning as a contractor remodeling homes and graduating to helping build multimillion dollar industrial buildings.

I was the winning bidder for the build of a lifetime to construct the dock high, 100,000 square feet warehouse building for trucks delivering the intermodal containers from the railroad hub which was nearby.

This warehouse and others like it would provide twenty thousand jobs, create new home development, and provide millions of dollars in tax revenue.

Inside the warehouse, local people desperate for employment, would remove the goods from the containers and ready them for trucks to pick up and deliver to stores throughout the Western United States.

The construction site is located about two hours from Los Angeles, two hours to Vegas, and near the Interstate 15 freeway connecting the cities of Southern California with Las Vegas. The freeway passes through the Mojave Desert with few off-ramps and even fewer people.

Unbeknownst to those speeding along this desert stretch of Interstate 15, the barren desert serves as a hub for two major railroads transporting goods like a major artery whose failure would present itself like a stroke upon the economy.

The warehouse would firmly establish our family construction business and would be the first of many more projects to follow.

We decided to use the earnings from the project to purchase our dream home and Ping would become a stay-at-home mom which was her desire.

We decided to live on site in a RV. It had all the comforts of home, and we were able to tap into the electrical pole and a water line already in service. I installed a septic system which would be pumped out and removed at the completion of the job.

After dinner, we’d sit around a fire pit and gaze up into the stars. The flames leaping about provided a warm, comforting embrace within the dark barren desert. It was our practice to read fairy tales to our unborn child with the belief our voices would become familiar to our baby.

Strange occurrences would happen unexpectedly day or night. Despite no wind or earthquake reported by the USGS, the RV would shake. When the wind blew, we heard the faint music of a flute riding the wind as if sending us a warning.

I was placing stakes in the ground as boundary markers when I came upon a patch of dense chaparral and cleared it in order to place my stake. I found a weather worn wooden marker resembling a tombstone. I could only make out a partial description of something written in Chinese calligraphy.

It was customary to notify officials whenever artifacts are found as lengthy archaeological examinations must be completed always delaying, and in some instances, preventing construction from proceeding.

When bodies are found, it’s necessary to notify the police who summon the coroner, and another type of investigation will postpone construction. The cost and construction timeline of this project would suffer by any investigation. My clients would not tolerate any delays.

I decided to take a shovel and dig into the ground to discover what might lay below this faded tombstone hidden by chaparral for decades.

I found the remnants of a termite eaten box which concealed a long-braided lock of hair, a wood flute, glass mirror, and a bag of rice.

I photographed the contents and placed a wooden cover over the grave. I replaced the chaparral to camouflage the burial.

Our dilemma was saying nothing and completing the mega warehouse on time or turn it over to the authorities who would stop construction pending an investigation. If we chose the latter, I’d be fired and word would spread throughout the industry that I was a “troublemaker.” I’d have no choice but return to replacing roofs for a living.

Ping investigated the history of the property by checking the library but found nothing. The city permit office performed a customary check dating back hundreds of years and found no permits or documents relating to any buildings on the site.

The former ownership of the ten-acre site was a trust representing a California family with roots dating back before statehood. The trust sold it to my client who would build the warehouse and lease it to a large logistics tenant eager to occupy the building.

In many California towns, there is a family-owned Chinese restaurant handed down from generation to generation. “The Elm Tree” was a Chinese restaurant inside a brick building with a shuttered rooming house from frontier days on the second level.

The family opened the restaurant at the end of World War Two. The interior was traditional for a Chinese restaurant including red and gold wallpaper with a smiling Buddha greeting visitors at the door. Ping and myself visited with Norton and Emma Chang, brother and sister, whose parents founded the establishment.

We sat and enjoyed dinner with them, but we didn’t share my discovery. Norton and Emma recounted stories told by their parents.

“Tens of thousands of Chinese immigrated to California during the Gold Rush to work on the Transcontinental Railroad during 1863-1869. Some of the workers were children. They lived in harsh conditions and were subjected to racism. The railroad connecting these parts with Los Angeles was completed in 1850. We call the railway the ‘Raging Dragon’ because it roars with the din of boxcars hurtling along the track’s day and night causing the ground to tremble. Imagine only dirt roads and nothing but vacant desert land around these parts. There were no towns, no courts, no newspapers, nothing but a camp of immigrant Chinese railroad workers toiling day and night seven days a week. The local economy consisted of mining and agriculture. The Caucasian property owners, mine workers, and outlaws seeking refuge in the high desert harassed and stole from the Chinese railroad workers who were making no more than twenty dollars per month. Your property has always been a vacant lot for as long as we can remember. You might consult a Feng Shui expert who is very well known. She goes by the name, ‘For Good Feng Shui, Call Sandy Shi.’”

Sandy was a hippie driving a vintage Volkswagen camper. She was an attractive, slightly built woman, who led an interesting life as a professional photographer, world traveler, writer, and Feng Shui consultant to the “rich and famous” but wasn’t the type to “drop names.”

Sandy wore comfortable black silk pajama style clothing accented with beautiful jade and gold necklace, bracelet, and rings. She wore her silver hair in a long-braided ponytail. Sandy preferred high performance sneakers.

“I can see from your blueprint all of the entrances to the warehouse face South! Prosperity flows through entrances facing North, Northwest, and Northeast. I’m feeling very bad vibes about this land. Something terrible happened here.”

We walked to the gravesite, I removed the camouflage and opened the deteriorated wooden box.

“The tombstone is Chinese. I think the name may be ‘Ling,’ and he was from the Guangdong province of China. Many of the railroad workers immigrated from this province. Judging from the wooden flute, broken mirror, small bag of rice, and the long-braided hair resembling the ancient Chinese male hair style of ‘Queue’ or what Americans call a pigtail, all of this belonged to a man. The front and sides of his head would have been shaven, and this long Queue would have hung low on his back. The mirror and rice are included to ensure the deceased could find the afterlife and be fed. I recommend you not move forward with this project.”

“Our future is dependent upon the success of this project. I’m pregnant, Susie. We want you to find the truth about this property. We’ll do the right thing but must be certain.”

“Your request is outside my normal services, but I appreciate your circumstances and will attempt to guide you. You must trust my methods, however, as they may appear unorthodox.”

“Tell us more, Susie.”

“I will make a potent tea for us to consume made of ancient Chinese herbs with mind expanding capabilities which may reveal the history of this land and the life of Ling. We’ll consume the herbs blended inside a tea, sipping it under a clear sky with a full moon in front of a raging fire.”

“I’m uncomfortable, Susie.”

“Don’t be fearful of nature’s gifts and the wisdom of the Chinese medicinal practices, Brent. I’ve been experimenting with these psychedelic herbs since my student days at Berkeley in the sixties. Since Ping is pregnant with a baby girl, she will not drink the tea.”

“We didn’t know the sex of our baby. How did you know?”

“I don’t have an answer, Ping. I just received a ‘vibe.’”

I got a call the following day from my clients who were anxious to “break ground” and ordered me to schedule the earth moving machinery which would forever disturb the land.

Ping was impressed by Susie and demanded we schedule with her immediately.

Susie arrived the following evening bringing with her a full moon and clear night with a slight breeze stoking the flames from the fire pit.

“I’ve pulverized Chinese seeds named ‘Langdang’ and ‘Yungshi.’

“The herbs enable us to communicate with spirits, see devils, and drive away evil.”

“I’m a beer after work kind of guy, Susie, and don’t do drugs or smoke pot.”

“It’s a very low dose, Brent. I’ll place the pulverized seeds which are a powder into a pot of hot tea and will let it steep and become infused with the psychedelics. To achieve maximum benefit, it will be necessary to: first, create a stress free and relaxing environment. The evening desert is perfectly silent except for the sound of the breeze whipping through the chaparral and occasional howl from a coyote. Ping can make comfortable beds including pillows and warm blankets from the reclining lawn chairs which she will place facing the firepit. Second, we must all have clear intentions and focus our minds on our objective which is to discover the history of this land and Ling’s identity. Third, research has shown that those who approach the experience with a positive and optimistic attitude are likely to have positive outcomes.”

“I’m still nervous, Susie.”

“I enjoy rice wine and hit my bong before ingesting the psychedelics. Others take a sedative or a stiff drink to relax.”

“I’ll take a shot or two of my celebratory whiskey, Susie.”

Susie and I sat upright in lawn chairs. I felt a comfortable buzz overtake me after a couple of whiskey shots.

“Stare at the flames dancing about and attempt to find lost souls. Hold my hand, Brent. You and I will take this journey together for better or worse. Let’s begin.”

I was a young boy playing inside the crowded Chinese tent city with my sister on the construction site almost two centuries ago.

Our father, Ling, was a widower and accomplished flutist. He was the representative for the illiterate immigrants to the Caucasian railroad foreman who feigned attention and never passed on the requests for provisions made by Ling nor his cost savings construction advice honed from laying tracks in China.

Father organized teams of workers with experience in different occupations to provide necessary services to the hundreds of workers. He made certain the food rations were equally distributed and organized a central kitchen for food preparation. He was voted the honorary mayor of the tent city.

In the middle of the night as the camp slept, a vicious hoard of property owners, miners, and desperados attacked the camp with knives, hatchets, and guns. Father told us to stay inside the tent as he went to persuade the mob to disperse. He was butchered before our eyes. My sister and I ran from the tent and into the brush as the Chinese were slaughtered.

The assailants disposed of the bodies by placing them in a pile and cremating them.

A drunken party ensued into the night as the flames grew taller reaching into the night and the fire would have been seen for miles. Nobody came to the rescue and nothing of the bodies would remain except dust to be carried off by the wind.

My sister and myself were determined to bury the memory of our father. We were too young to carry or drag his lifeless body without detection so we gathered a knife, mirror, bag of rice, his flute, and a wooden box. I ran to my father and cut off his long-braided hair. We dug a grave with our bare hands, placed his hair, mirror, flute, and rice into the box, buried it, and ran into the desert towards an uncertain future.

I became conscious finding a moist towel on my forehead. Susie and Ping were already up and about talking about child rearing.

“How are you, darling?”

“There was a terrible massacre on this land, Ping. We watched our father get murdered by an angry mob who burned the bodies of the Chinese railroad workers. I held my sister’s hand, and we ran into the desert together, but I can’t remember anything more. Where’s my sister?”

“There is no sister, dear.”

“Please allow him to vent his emotions, Ping. The experience is still too real for him.”

“Where did you go, Susie?”

“I was with you all along, Brent. I was your father, Ling. I experienced the unspeakable horror through Ling’s eyes. I felt his love for you both and his devotion to the community. You were named Yong (Brave) and your sister was named Mei (beautiful). Ling died with love in his heart despite the hatred all about him. The souls of the dead remain forever at this place and the property is doomed for failure. I recommend you abandon the project as harm may come to those who inhabit the warehouse entombing the souls beneath its foundation.”

“We’ll be sued for breach of contract by walking away from the project, Susie.”

“How do you feel about moving forward, Brent? I’m willing to suffer the consequences which are nothing compared to those who lost their lives at this place.”

“Without mentioning our association, I’ll bring this to the attention of my friends at the Asian Pacific Law Center who will place an injunction upon this property preventing any disturbance. A fence will be placed around the property and teams of archaeologists and historians will begin a comprehensive study of the property. If your client contests, in about five years of litigation and bad press, they’ll pay to make this property a memorial park. The lawyers will get you released from the construction contract by your inability to complete your obligations called ‘Frustration of Purpose.’

“Go and live your young lives happy, healthy, and prosperous. These poor souls will remember your generosity and provide you good fortune in ways you can’t imagine. One last thing. Remove the septic tank before you leave!”

“If you know of somebody who needs a contractor, new roof, or even a fence built, please have them call me. I’ll take anything.”

In the ensuing months, I came to learn Susie didn’t have to “drop any names” because I was hired by her clients to build Feng Shui correct mansions for celebrities and tech moguls up and down the state.

Three years later, we returned to the property for the dedication of a memorial park honoring Ling and the Chinese workers who were murdered. It was a beautiful ten-acre park named, “The Queue Memorial State Park.”

A granite memorial was placed at the northern entrance to the trailhead. It was inscribed with the history of the massacre including Ling’s valiant efforts to organize the workers and recognition of the Chinese railroad workers who completed the railroads throughout the state.

The memorial park preserved the desert landscape but gently included a winding walking path, benches, and drinking fountains for those to appreciate the indigenous flora and wildlife.

We were reunited with Susie, Norman, and Emma. Knowing Susie’s influence, it was no surprise the press corps was reporting the dedication which insured the politicians and railroad executives were in attendance.

We were pleased to introduce our daughter, Mei, and son, Yong to our friends. Susie asked us all to hold hands as she recited, “we are the circle of life, formerly strangers, now family, who came together to create this beautiful memorial park symbolically muting the din of ‘The Raging Dragon’ and preserving the memory of lost souls who shall be honored throughout the ages. I’m feeling a strong vibe that Ling is grateful to Ping and Brent for serving as loving parents in memory of his children.”

Suddenly, a desert breeze swept through carrying the faint sound of a flute.