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. |
