I think that when we pay attention to our wounded and ask “Why?” we find an agenda for change and even the angry energy to attempt what is necessary for change. And what are we called to do? Celebrate the winners who didn’t get hit, or take care of the wounded that did and see to it that it never happens again.

George S. Stranahan

I recently heard George described as “the biggest heart in the Valley.” I also recently heard George describe himself as an alien. “It’s part of morality not to be at home in one’s home. It’s part of morality to not just say this is my home and it’s wonderful, and cozy, and warm,” he says. “It’s the pilgrim shit – still seeking and searching. There’s no there there for a pilgrim.”

In the loft space of his Woody Creek barn, George conducts his business among his catalogued photographs and papers, wide-format digital printers, and a collection of computers, including his hand-held Sony (which seems to be failing him lately). More than by any of George’s professions or passions, which include, but are not limited to: physics, photography, ranching, education reform, social venture entrepreneurship, community organizing, publishing, and beer and whiskey-making, it is by how George fashions his life that he will be remembered.

In his self-proclaimed elder role, George began reflecting on his life and contemplating his death about three years ago. Now at seventy-five and a half (at the time of this writing), he is opening himself to being caught, as much as he has been running as well as a successful outlaw can.

Successful outlaws [have] been chased at one time or another and [have] enjoyed the chase. A chase is exciting for both the chased and the chaser. My mother didn’t share Rousseau’s belief that the natural child is innocent, she believed the contrary. Her assumption about her own six children and fifteen grandchildren was that they were up to no good, needed to be watched carefully and caught before they perpetrated the evils on their minds. She was my chaser, the one out to catch me.

After my insistent prodding about when he was going to share his stories with the world, George accepted my proposal to help with getting his words out there. With hundreds (perhaps thousands) of printed and digital pages filled with essays, lessons, letters, recipes, plans, quotes, organization charts, stories, and philosophical meanderings, I was handed responsibility of organizing his writings and correspondences to tell the tale.

When I told my ingenious husband about the challenging and marvelous opportunity, I asked him to come up with a title for the project and a name for the website. I think he nailed it. He said, “One Hell of a Life.” When I emailed George with this possible URL, he responded with his legendary friend and neighbor Hunter S. Thompson’s “good line” Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride. Well, the URL for Dr. Thompson’s axiom has already been snagged by some guy trying to write a book about his own adventures with marijuana. But more notably, the suggestion was just another indication of George’s evasive nature. We were setting out to document George’s personal utopias, and yet he was directing attention to his (in)famous buddy who had left behind plenty of memoirs.

So, I am sticking with “One Hell of a Life,” as much as it might offend George’s sense of humility. I am sticking with “One Hell of a Life” because nowadays, more than in any other time in history (of course, everyone must think this during their working days), it is critical that we learn how a life of privilege (which George has been fighting his entire adulthood to make right) can be one of loyal servitude on behalf of one’s community, rather than of material accumulation on behalf of one’s inflated ego.

My greatest wish is that I can do this alien’s experiences on Earth a little justice before he returns to atomic dust, and that you will buy into the ride.

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