The first inclination is to be simply transfixed as the smoke clears and the wreckage gradually comes into focus.

As far away as Del Norte County is from Sacramento, it’s hard to imagine a populace more affected than ours by the state government meltdown.

Those of us who work for the state — more than 1,500 at Pelican Bay State Prison alone — are now dealing with 15 percent pay cuts and impending layoffs.

Those of us who depend on social services funded by the state — and there are many in our relatively poor community — face the loss of critical aid as more impacts of budget cuts filter down.

Then there are the college students who will pay higher tuition and fees to attend more crowded classes — if they can even enroll in the classes they need as the higher education system shrinks.

It happened while Laura and I were in Carmel recently. Our hosts were big fans of the San Francisco Giants, and their games were on TV every night. They play in a beautiful stadium by the bay. They’re blessed with great pitching, including last year’s Cy Young Award winner, a kid with floppy hair who looks like he belongs in a skate park instead of  a ballpark. And they are, after all, something of the local team for those of us dwelling in Northern California.

I found myself developing a rooting interest in the Giants, and this is more complicated than it sounds, because what about my Colorado Rockies? Before coming to Crescent City I lived for four years in Colorado Springs and made several sojourns to Coors Field to watch Denver’s baseball team. They were loaded with young, home-grown talent and went on an incredible run to the World Series at the end of the ’07 season, winning 21 of 22 games. Their logo still emblazons the license plate frame of our Jeep, and “CR” stitching decorates two of my best sweat-stained hats.

And here’s the worst part: the Rockies and the Giants play in the same division, and are locked in a struggle for the National League’s wild-card playoff spot. Who would I support if it came down to, say, a one-game playoff between the two of them?

This weekend, the parks will be getting some much needed attention courtesy of the Wild Rivers Coast Leadership Class sponsored by The Ford Family Foundation in its multi-year commitment to building leadership in the region.

The class, specifically designed to include both communities (not to mention two states), has been working since last September to develop a tangible leadership building project, including planning, designing, fundraising and implementation. Due to the unique make-up of the 27-member class and the connection between the two communities, the class chose to implement the project as mirror images in both Brookings and Crescent City at their respective Kidtown parks.

Improvements will consist of rubberized pathways for access in both parks, new chips for the Crescent City park and an access ramp at the Brookings park, in addition to some smaller cosmetic upgrades.

The leadership class recognized the importance of these two gems as  stepping stones to improving community health in our region, especially given the pride of ownership that they produced when they were first built by community hands more than 10 years ago, as well as the fact that children need places for safe healthy recreation.  Kids remain a cause that everyone can wrap their arms around.

It was another coastal town, and a new occupation. Actually two new occupations: personal assistant and beach bum.

I think I did OK at the former during the two weeks Laura and I recently spent in Carmel. While she was on window display in one of the town’s many art galleries, oil painting and generally attracting a crowd on the sidewalk, I shot photos to inspire future paintings and made sure she got coffee in the morning and lunch at midday. I even drove to nearby Monterey to procure art supplies.

As for being a beach bum, I showed promise for about a week before washing out. After leaving Laura to her painting, I’d drive the half-dozen or so blocks to the white sand, haul out my beach chair, towel, morning newspaper and book, and set up shop. The unseasonably sunny weather helped with the transition to this new way of life. I was actually shielding myself with sun screen and a giant umbrella as I plied my trade.

Part of the job, I soon discerned, was image magnification. This involved putting down the reading material, picking up the binoculars, and peering in three directions: out to sea, where pelicans dive-bombed for fish while smaller birds by the hundreds formed and reformed flotillas; up the coast, where well-heeled duffers scooted their carts across the fairways of Pebble Beach Golf Course; and down the coast, where there was almost always a volleyball game on the sand and dozens of surfers on the water.

I recall another great newsman, Edward R. Murrow, who shined and then faded in much the same way. He had the tenacity and spleen to hold up the mirror, eventually defeating an American monster named Joseph McCarthy, but he couldn’t halt the invasion of the newsroom by ad/ratings-driven entertainment and sensationalism that, quarterbacked by CBS President William Paley, steamrolled him like Sherman’s march through Atlanta.

So too, Walter Cronkite. Pushed into retirement by Paley at 65, ironically at the height of his popularity, “the most trusted man in America” was forced to give way to a CBS youth movement in the form of Dan Rather.  From my teen years to adulthood, I watched as Mr. Cronkite pulled off both the tough and joyful chronicling of our national experiment and experience — from presidential assassinations to the civil rights movement, convention and campus unrest to a walk on the moon. Only once in memory did he ever allow his emotions to drift into editorialization — briefly describing the insanity of war and a failed military action 10,000 miles around the world, which, given not his popularity, but his ultimate veracity and our belief in it, caused Lyndon Johnson’s decision not to eye a second term, with the fateful words, “If I’ve lost Cronkite, I’ve lost Middle America.” 

Independence Day couldn’t have come along at a better time, and if you’re reading this on the Fourth of July, you’re within range of a great place to celebrate the holiday.

For one day at least, Crescent City’s annual extravaganza of small-town Americana is just the antidote for a citizenry that may be wondering if its politicians, especially those who ply their trade in Sacramento, have what it takes to lead us through tough economic times and a flat-out meltdown in state government.

Wave to your friends and honor the veterans as a noisy, colorful parade proceeds down H Street. Check out the diverse treasures of artists on display in the Cultural Center. Immerse yourself in the daylong cornucopia of vendors and entertainment spread out at Beachfront Park. And cap it all off by finding a good spot to take in a seaside fireworks show tailored to explode mostly beneath any clouds that may come our way.