I’m not leaving here anymore.”
George chalks up his affection for Carson Valley to his friends.
“I love to talk,” he said. “I won’t say I’m treated like a king, but you get the idea. I’m open and I speak freely. I love talking to people—sitting down, telling stories, letting them get my sense of life—and they find me exciting… like you did. I’m open-minded, and I just get along with people period. That’s my nature. That’s how I’ve been all my life.”
One thing George had no problem talking about was race, and what it’s like being black in Gardnerville.
According to the U.S. Census Bureau, nearly 81.6 percent of the current population of Douglas County is white; 11.8 percent is Hispanic; 2.2 percent is Native American, and 1.8 percent is Asian. Approximately 0.9 percent of our 47,118-person population is black.
“Overall, people don’t treat me differently,” George said. “Very rarely I can sense it, but I don’t make an issue of it. It’s been very rare in my 14, 15 years here. Occasionally, maybe I walk up and sit down at a machine in a casino, and some guy gives me the feeling, the look, something. So I speak, I be courteous, and eventually he gets up and leaves. I’ve had that happen, but not often. It’s the only thing I’ve encountered.”
I asked George about Confederate flags, which occasionally pop up in town, in front of homes or around license plates. That Nevada, “the Battle Born State,” was granted statehood during the Civil War as a Union ally is a fine irony not lost on George. I asked him if he thought the flags were racist symbols.
“With some, it can be. It depends,” he said. “It’s a Southern thing. When I see that, they’re letting me know they’re from the South or have lived in the South or that’s their nature, or it’s not personally from them but maybe from their parents and the way they were raised.”
He said Confederate flags don’t bother him.
“You have to remember that when I grew up in the South, that’s the way things were. When I see it in the younger generations, I feel it was instilled in them by their parents. And that’s all they know. What’s instilled in me and the way I am I got from my parents. And my parents were just open. I never take anything like that personally. I feel they have that right, so be it, and I have my rights.”
I asked him about the recent protests in Ferguson, Miss., and New York City, revolving around the police deaths of two black men. George said he doesn’t involve himself in politics.
“Being in the military taught me not to get involved in politics. Things matter to me personally, but I don’t get involved. The bottom line is I feel whatever those people are doing, on both sides, they have their reasons, and they’re entitled to that. I’m a firm believer in respecting a person’s rights.”
After our interview, George took Andres and me into his garage: a veritable man cave with a tidy workbench, pool table, TV, and, in the center of it all, a shiny burgundy ’52 Chevy. With a certain relish in his voice, George told us all about the engine, a 350 V8, the automatic transmission, the custom leather bucket seats, the retro yet sleek speedometer. This was the car from his calling card.
“Late at night I’m out dusting and polishing it, and my wife says, ‘Boy, you spend more time with that car than with me.’”
The car is clearly George’s passion, and once you’ve talked to him about his childhood, it’s easy to understand why.
“I was a teenager when I bought my first car, but I wasn’t old enough to sign for it. My sister signed for it. When I got back from the service, my brother had sold it. I said to myself that one day, when I’m retired, I’m going to make that my hobby. I’m going to find a ’52 Chevy and make it my way.”
George bought this ’52 Chevy in Modesto, and then, with help from a friend, tore it down and rebuilt it to his liking. He now cruises to local car shows with his wife, as well as to restaurants and casinos.
“Trophies are not important to me,” he declared. “I don’t need a trophy to validate what I’ve put into this car. I know what’s in there, and I know what my car can do.”
At the end of our visit, I asked George if he considered himself to be in the “golden years” of his life. It was a silly question, the kind of question a 33-year-old journalist would ask. He answered with his distinct chuckle, low and felicitous, then with some oddly inspiring words.
“Golden is not golden,” he said. “I take my time now. In my mind I want to do this and that, you know, but I can’t because my body is saying no… Each day I wake up is a blessing.”