Meet Pioneer Pete — part trail-worn storyteller, part back-porch historian. He’s the kind of fella who remembers things most folks forgot or never heard to begin with. Carries around an old almanac, not for farmin’ — but for feelin’. It don’t track frost dates or tides. It tracks the mood of the land. When the air gets heavy with old mistakes or the breeze feels like change, that’s the kind of weather Pete knows best. Every now and then, he’ll pull up a stool, tip his hat, and say, “Lemme tell y’all what really happened.” So pull up a chair — the coffee’s hot, the stories are true, and the sky’s just right for rememberin’.

Well now, let me tell y’all a story that don’t sit easy in the saddle — one of them tales folks like to leave outta the textbooks, but Pioneer Pete remembers, sure as a cold bean breakfast.

Wasn’t but a morning like any other down by the old church plaza in Los Angeles — La Placita they called it. A place where families gathered, kids chased pigeons, and men in dusty boots waited for work. The kind of place where if you sat still long enough, you’d hear a grandmother telling stories older than the hills.

But on that morning, the wind didn’t carry laughter. It carried boots. Badges. And a whole mess of trouble.

You see, the city slickers — lawmen and feds — came in like they were rustlin’ cattle. No warning. No how-do-you-do. Just rolled up and boxed folks in like a trap had been set. Right there in the heart of a neighborhood.

Mamas were clutchin’ their little ones. Old timers were tryin’ to make sense of it. Young men, eyes wide, lined up like fence posts, all told they didn’t belong — even if they were born just down the road.

All told, near 400 souls got swept up that day. Packed off to Mexico — even though a good number of ‘em were U.S. citizens. Born here. Raised here. Same as you or me.

And that was just one morning.

Over the course of those hard Depression years, upwards of a million folks of Mexican descent were deported or pushed out. Some say more than half of ‘em were citizens. Not that anyone was checking too carefully.

They called it “repatriation,” but that’s just a fancy word for get on outta here. Folks were scared, and when fear gets behind the wheel, justice don’t steer so good.

“When the country got hungry,” as I like to say, “it forgot its manners. Blamed the cook, ran off the neighbors, and wondered why the table felt empty.”

Now, I ain’t tellin’ this story to sour the soup. I tell it ‘cause some truths don’t wear shiny boots. They come with worn heels and dust on their coat. And if we don’t keep ‘em alive — well, reckon we’re bound to trip over the same rock twice.

So next time someone talks big ‘bout patriotism, ask ‘em who gets to be counted in. And who got counted out.

Now pass me that cornbread — history goes down easier with a little sweetness on the side. Especially when it feels like we're making the same mistakes.

Over yonder in Europe, a mighty bold headline:
"27 Nations Pledged to Peace of Europe in Geneva Manifesto."
Sounds noble, don’t it? Nations arm-in-arm, promising not to throw boots or bombs at one another. They said it loud and proud: they’d study peace, hold hands (figuratively speakin’), and come back in May to talk some more. But if you listen close, you’ll hear the ghost of ol’ Pete mutterin’, “A paper promise is only as good as the ink holds.”
We all know how that story turned out. A little over a decade later, Europe was once again a smolderin’ battlefield. But that January morning, folks dared to believe unity might just stick.

Back home in the States, things weren’t so united.

The big fellas in Washington were grumblin’ over Prohibition. A Senate inquiry was brewin’, wonderin’ whether President Hoover had steered a commission's dry law report with a heavy hand. The President swore up and down he hadn’t meddled — said his “mind is open,” though some thought that sounded a bit like whistlin’ in the wind.

Meanwhile, the banks were in hot water.
Turns out, big-time bank directors had been borrowin’ millions from their own banks without much oversight. One feller alone racked up more than $4.5 million — without anyone really sayin' yes or no. “Book juggling,” they called it. Pete just calls it slippery hands.

Down in San Joaquin County, local officials were bending the Prohibition rules by letting folks brew drinks with up to 13% alcohol. You could almost hear the corks popping behind closed doors.