Near California

Bakersfield, Kern Riverbed 

I am taking an art class from a fellow named Art Sherwyn.  You can look him up; he is good, has written books, gives art retreats, and classes.  I went with him last summer on a camping art retreat in Sequoia Forest (near the national park, but not the national park).  I have scars to prove it.  I don’t mean from him, although let’s say we have different styles, like him being good and me being mediocre and sometimes just realizing that is a little scarring (but all part of the process of getting real and learning something).  But in June during the appreciating heat of the new summer the biting flies come out, and let’s just call this hatching of flies plague like, and being there in these June days was a lot like being an Egyptian from a Sunday school lesson.  You get the picture.

Puddle in Riverbed

I returned home one night early, swollen and deformed with some dirty attempts at landscape pastels.  Memorable. 

Anyhow, I signed up for a class once again, but carefully selected an indoor experience at our local and tiny Bakersfield Museum of Art.  I am limping along and wondering what in the world made me sign up for 6 weeks of humility, or humiliation depending on how I try to spin it.  Humility is maybe a good kind of hard that makes you want to try more, but humiliation is hard and it can be a little defeating.  It takes a careful balance between teacher and student and I cannot seem to find it.  But what I am enjoying is the group of 20 people who are also taking this class.  I am amazed at the natural talent and I love seeing how hands and brains working together can produce meaningful art.

Near Paso Robles

One of the women in this class has a lovely accent and tremendous talent, of which I am envious. I kept trying to guess her accent in my head: Italian, Russian?  No, when I got the nerve to ask, she is Columbian, from Bogota.  Her husband is with Occidental Oil Company, which in Bakersfield speak is Oxy. (Like, “He works for Oxy.”) She has been here 6 years.  And as if I needed proof that 6 years may make one a true Bakersfieldian, when she asked me if I liked Bakersfield and I said it is nice, but I missed nature (which is my best and least offensive answer), she responded by saying, “But the good thing is it is near California.”  She meant Bakersfield is near so many other Californian cities, but I think the way she said it is more apt. 

Cambria, CA

Fiscalini Ranch Preserve, Cambria

I mentioned this before.  I have heard regularly the best thing about Bakersfield is how close it is to all the other places.  Meaning the best thing is leaving and going somewhere fairly close by (meaning 2 hours or more).  And this is true. Keith and I went to the coast near Paso Robles last Saturday and it was 2 hours and we spent the afternoon hiking above the Pacific and watching the porpoises jump in gray arcs above the waves.  No kidding, it was amazing.  Just 2 hours away we saw nature and porpoises.  And (add Bethoven’s 5^th da da da dahhhhh) then we returned to Bakersfield, which thankfully, or on the bright side, is near California.

Seasons

I have been meaning to write, and actually I am always meaning to write, but I  just can’t seem to make myself sit down long enough. But meaning is not doing. So it is early morning, still dark, and Keith is still sleeping and writing has been on my mind.

What I have been meaning to write is about food and it is funny how often I am thinking of what is next to eat and what I can create and who I can give it to, or how can I possibly eat all this food.  I have been painting food, and when I am not sketching quick renditions of Lucy the dog and Keith, I am contemplating just how beautiful kale looks when the sun shines on it, or lemon slices, or fresh baked loaves of bread, or… you get the point. 

Walking Trail with Pumps

It doesn‘t help that I have moved to the land of abundance.  Right now we are in the middle of citrus season (or near the end I should say, although my Meyer lemon is still full because I haven’t come up with a good plan yet).  I made 16 jars of marmalade (Meyer lemon and undetermined-type orange from the neighbor’s tree) and I have been eating marmalade on oatmeal, toast, and I haven’t tried sweet potatoes, but that sounds good too.  I try sneaking marmalade into Keith’s food as much as possible and I am looking for cakes or tarts or whatever that a spoonful of marmalade will round off.  I have also been giving it away to neighbors and tennis partners and other new people in my life in this new town.

Then there were the green tomatoes.  Throughout last summer, my tomato garden set one tomato; one.  I added fertilizer.  I sprayed with organic pesticides (is there such a thing? That is what the label said.).  I watered, I stopped watering, I watched and waited and nothing; day after day, week after week.  Then in mid October when the temperatures dipped below 90 degrees, I got ready to tear out the plants thinking despite my efforts I had given things a more than fair dose of time and patience and effort.  As I grabbed the viney, barren stalks, I saw tiny green baby tomatoes hatching all over the place, like 20 weeks was the perfect amount of time, rather than the 2 ½ months promised on the little white tags with pictures of perfect tomatoes and with singular instructions like full sun, which made every thing sound easy.  My North Carolina tomatoes were lovely. I knew it wasn’t me (or at least I didn’t want to admit it wasn’t me).  Stupid sandy loam, stupid worm infestations, stupid mineral deficiencies.  So needless to say, I left the vines to produce these late toms.  And I waited.  And waited.  And although the tomatoes got bigger, they never turned pink or hopeful or anything.  Then December arrived and our first warning of frost, the vines had to go.

Yet, couldn’t I salvage something?  I wondered and then at the library I found a book called The Forgotten Skills of Cooking by Darina Allen who runs a cooking school in Ireland.  Green tomato Chutney…there it was in all its glory. The perfect recipe to bring value to my hours of tending to the stubborn vines.  I have now given that all away too and I discovered in the process that people generally prefer chutneys over marmalades. Maybe you do too.  But I personally find the look of topaz colored preserves more appealing than brown gobby stuff, although the brown gobby chutney was very good with cheddar cheese.

Marmalade

I can’t ignore the seasons in a place where fruits nearly explode in my face.  For Christmas one of my neighbors gave me pomegranate jelly from his pomegranate tree and another a bottle of just pressed olive oil from his olive trees.  My other neighbor brought lamb chops, her husband is a shepherd or something.  Have I moved to heaven, albeit a dry, industrial heaven?  In a few weeks time, right after Easter, the usually heavy air here will begin to smell of citrus blossoms and for one week our poor air quality town (worst in the U.S.), smells like sweet goodness.  Then the strawberries come, and the apricots come and then the figs and then the pomegranates and then, and then, and then it all begins again.

Almond Season

It is the middle of almond season in Bakersfield and, because of consistent hot days, the season is long (August to December).  Pistachios (98% of them are grown here in California) are ready too.  What does really mean?  If you were to be in southern California and found some fresh (rather than roasted) nuts, they would be “in season.” But that really is not a definition, and I don’t remember if I have had a fresh, in season nut ever.

Interesting food choices in Bako.

Maybe the idea of season has fallen by the wayside. We all spend a lot of time indoors these days and the only thing to indicate fall sometimes is a new T.V. lineup.  It is the season for that too.  Thank goodness for farmer’s markets that keep us all in the know.  However, we of course can get almonds, strawberries, cabbage, or anything really no matter what time of year it is and time begins to blend into one continuous season.  Which reminds me of Bakersfield because it is summer all the time here and not the kind of summer that makes you want to kick back and lie in the hammock.  Actually summer isn’t the right word for things here in the no man’s land of the south central valley.  I think Heat would be a better name for the season. It is October 1 and today’s high is going to be 100 degrees.  Everyone says it is hotter than normal, but I don't know if I believe them.  

Black Widow Keith caught

Another sunny day.

It hasn’t rained at all since April. Nothing. Just blue sky day in and day out.  According to Wikipedia, we have an average of 191 days per year of clear skies. I now understand what it means to have too much of a good thing.  My tomatoes look like choked weeds because I can’t seem to get the watering right and the worms have settled in to feast on the dying remnants.  Despite the record crop of almonds and pistachios that the area is experiencing this year, Bakersfield hardly feels like a fertile landscape.  Looks are deceiving.  While Kern County is experiencing record crops (thank you diverted Kern River), my backyard is experiencing a record crop of black widow spiders, which makes sitting in the backyard a risky venture, but I don’t want to anyhow, it is too hot.   

Keith spends most of the 110 degree days here out in the oil field.  I spend most of the 110  degree days hiding, hoping I will adjust to hotter than hot.  Last week we had one day that was only 94 degrees, which seemed cool and fall like. Lucy the dog arrived in May and has spent time hiding with me although sometimes she goes to lie down on the hot pavement to prove a point, or maybe she is just better at accentuating the positive than I am. 

We have now been in Bakersfield six months, only 3 ½ years to go (as per our contract, but maybe not reality or maybe so).  Keith has been completing training sessions in Houston with titles like Work Overs, Well Control, and Cementing.  He said before he left recently that he was excited about the cementing training.  I stared at him blankly because what can you say when someone is excited for five days of cementing training?  How fascinating seemed too obvious of a lie.  He also did something with a simulator the week before, and has taken many tests.  I have no real idea of what he is doing and when he tries to explain my mind usually gets stuck on the introductory comments that contain acronyms like IDK and WAYTA, which I made up for “I don’t know” and “What are you talking about?”.

We traveled to northern California in August (Mendocino and San Francisco) and enjoyed 60 degree weather like it was a big glass of cold water.  We left our windows and doors open whenever we could and at night in the Bay Area we listened to the fog horns blow sonorously throughout the night. It was lovely. All the while a breeze blew across our faces.  Heaven in northern Cal.  So as I said before the greatest thing about Bakersfield is there are some nice places about 2 hours away and even better places 5 hours from us (San Francisco).  That’s drive-able.

Here are a few other adventures we had this summer including a visit to Sequoia National Park with Keith's sister and her family.  (Sequoia is three hours away.)

Much and Little

We are settling into our new California life, and even as I type California I have a hard time believing that this is home, at least home for now.  We are now officially living a sort of nomadic lifestyle; we go where there is work for Keith loading up all the this and thats of our life and setting out for whatever is next.  This next is California, and although I am at just the beginning of my exploring, what I have already seen is clearly a crown jewel in our American landscape.  Mountains, sea, desert, giant trees, fertile land, and creative minds.  Where else can you walk a sidewalk with the golden names set in stars in the hubbub of Hollywood, and by the end of the day and a car trip away be in what feels like the remotest place on earth: Death Valley?

Where I take Lucy the dog swimming.

Our new home is Bakersfield, settled in the southern end of the San Joaquin Valley amidst dust, endless carrot patches, orange and almond groves and oil derricks.  The land of plenty, Bakersfield is rife with produce grown along the city borders. Lemons fall into my yard daily from my neighbor’s tree (I wish their oranges would fall over here too.) And the back alley has forlorn, heavy-laden apricot trees that Keith and I pilfer from for our morning fruit.  I just made 6 jars of apricot preserves and could make at least 100 more, but I won’t because that would be ridiculous. 

Dry Bed, Kern River.

Yet with all the abundance of this new place there is a dearth.  The city’s Kern River is a dry creek bed with all the water being diverted for agricultural use.  A dry bed runs through the entire town, sort of reminding us that water here has a productive use beyond a simple visual joy.  Many homeless people live in the dry bed because I see their bikes and grocery carts lodged in the sand.  And for all the produce here, it is hard to find good produce at our grocery stores, because the best seems to be shipped out to other places. Our weekly farmers market downtown is weak and poorly attended. 

Yet everyone says Bakersfield is great because of all the attractions that are two hours away.  I mean everyone, even our realtor.  We are not the town people come to; we are the town people go from.  To escape the exhausting heat, the town appears to empty itself of life over the summer weekends. The normally busy breakfast spots are quiet on Saturdays and Sundays while most Bakersfield folks hit the cooler beaches at Pismo and Morro Bay. 

More dry bed, Kern River, near our house.

Historically Bakersfield’s history is as rough and tumble as it’s settlers.  “Okies” settled here during the dustbowl, they came to work the crops for the low pay that now the Hispanic field workers tend.  The Basque came too as sheepherder’s and they brought with them their food so that the most popular restaurants are Basque, with oxtail stews, pickled beef tongue, seasoned beans, and cheap wine.  Working men’s food.   But before the crops, there was oil, in 1865 oil was discovered in the area and the area burgeoned with oil workers: roughnecks, roustabouts, toolpushers, derrickhands, and the like. Today, the Bakersfield area is one of Chevron’s oldest assets with incredible margins with unconventional approaches.  And other oil companies have planted themselves here including Aera and Occidental and other smaller producers. Keith is currently working in the oil fields just north of town (in an area called Oildale) and some of the wells are over 100 years old.  The energy future of Bakersfield looks bright as more and more resources are being discovered (natural gas and shale fields abound on a greater scale than in North Dakota, so the local paper said).    

Montana D'Oro, 3 hours away from home.
Much and little.  I am getting to understand in a new way how resource rich communities that are migrant based give their hearts and souls for the bright produce departments in your town or the gas in your tank.  It is far more profitable for you to have fresh carrots on your shelves and it is far more profitable for us to have a dry bed running through town so that the precious water in this hot and dusty place can water the crop’s green hills that circle our town.  I cannot express how much I now understand the need for gratitude when I sit down at my dinner table with fresh vegetables, olive oil or butter, cheese and olives or whatever meat my freezer offered up.  There is sacrifice invested in my meals and yours. I am not trying to preach, because I am acutely aware of my position as a taker rather than a giver.  I sit here at this little computer desk and type my thoughts while young men and women are standing out in the in scorching heat picking my dinner.    Seriously, look on the side of your bags of Bolthouse carrots or Tamara and Antle celery.  Check out your bag of almonds.  The chances that your food came from Bakersfield or Kern County are pretty great.  

Winter Home

The Christmas tree is down and the neighbors finally removed the bright lights from their house perimeter. Christmas has sputtered to an end and our days are vacillating between unforgiving, unrelenting cold and mild and promising not cold (but not warm).  I went out the other night to meet with some new friends and my car thermometer read -5 degrees, which turns out far above how cold it got around midnight, -22 degrees.  Two days ago it was 40, nearly 60 degrees warmer. Temperatures are a protractedly discussed topic around here and maybe in North Carolina too these days.  We spend time thinking about temperature as much as we think about what is for dinner (and if you know me, you know that is a lot of time). I am always wondering things like, “Is it too cold to run outside?” or, “Can Lucy handle the cold today?” Even, “How many layers of clothing will it take for me to get outside today?” or, “Can we drive in this weather???” “Did you pack the candy bars in case we break down?”  --My mom always kept Hershey almond bars in the car during the more cold Minnesota winters. We never broke down, but the thought of eating Hershey bars between chattering teeth put a rosy spin on the idea of breaking down.



Old messy bath



The bathroom is finished! The goldfish mural has been subscribed to the trash heap, where maybe the mice are enjoying it. The two-layer linoleum has also been disposed of and a lovely mosaic tile has taken its ratty place. Keith does fine work, if I do say so myself.



We ventured south to Colorado over break for a 5-day getaway. Keith’s uncle has a cozy cabin high (9100 feet) near the Sangre de Cristo mountain range. The weather was lovely and we got to hike to near 12,000 feet, which was hard and great at the same time. The roads near Keith’s uncle had deer, big horned sheep and castles—no lie. Look up Bishop’s Castle so you can get a good idea of the kind of person who built this rock and steel wonderment. Keith and Jim (his uncle) went all the way to the top while I clung to the side nervously.



Bishop's Castle



Bishop's Castle



Now we are settling into Keith’s last “spring” semester. We have a few things to finish at the house before we can put it on the market in August and we have the summer before us in really very little time. Time is flying and just as I am starting to think of Butte as home it seems we are beginning to near the final chapter. One more year to enjoy our new friends and the lovely Montana mountains. I was thinking this morning how little things like running into someone you know at the grocery or on the hiking trail are little things that add up to making a place feel friendly and more like home. And how being friendly brings friendliness into life and how even though I might live in a dozen other places between here and when, just a simple thing like meeting someone on my daily walk will make a new place feel accepting and good.