Sacramento Valley
I’m thinking of the farms and communities of southwest Iowa. I spent several summers and one very cold winter there on my Uncle Clarence’s farm. I learned a lot about how to work and how to get along. Like all communities, there is unique culture; an unwritten code of conduct for the field. It’s different from the Johns Manville Factory where I would be worked in Chicago just a few years later. (a summer job).
Crus’in the valley, I’m thinking of the fantastic scale of the agriculture industry here. Those “field hand lessons” of my youth continue to impact my perceptions of “place; and people”. It influences places I choose to visit. It influences those I feel comfortable approaching and talking with.
As I leave Chip and Heather heading south, Moto’s inclination was to turn east not west. Sure, Zumo is screeching “wrong way” in the head set. That’s because Chip had outlined the Grand Golden Gate Triumphal Tour on Zumo for me. But we have been switch-backing in the mountains for two weeks. Moto’s plan is to jump into the Sacramento Valley and cruise. The Valley; that land of “milk and honey” envisioned by every settler passing through Casper headed west is at hand. (Now the pioneers move up from the south.)
My expectation: to sense and interpret the “bread basket of the world”. I wanted to see farming on a scale grander than I know in Iowa; a scale just seen in Nebraska, or the Columbia River Valley. I’ve made friends with the Methow region of Washington. I’m ready to be impressed.
So its east on I-80 toward Sacramento. At some exit along the way, we turned south into cabbage country.
The funny thing is, in lieu of enlightenment regarding the grand dynastic haciendas, that core of the mega plantation, my interest fell instead to field hands.(Its like going to Mexico planning to jet set with elite and end up living with the Indians). Had I the invitation, I would have gladly spent the day in the field, laying irrigation pipe or picking cabbage with the crews; paying for the privilege if necessary. It was the call of the hand more that the empire builder that piqued my fancy.
Hands are hidden in plants, back stooping to the task is the scene. Many have the same red skin I saw, in Mexico years ago. Im thinking roots of Omec, Toltec, Aztec. When I was in Mexico the locals dressed stylishly modern, but lived in grass huts. The barnyard is just outside the door. How do they keep their feet clean? How do they come into the market at Oaxaca and not have pig manure on their shoes? Don’t seem to smell.
I’ve had my close encounter of the Red kind: In ’73 I’m poking around at the Monte Alban Ruin in southern Mexico when columns of Zapotec Gorillas come streaming out of the jungle. They carry M-14’s,16’s, and every other make of firearm, each with their machete. Back then they were known as the Zapatista Army of National Liberation.
Green Fatigues wearing red faces comes up to me. Green fatigues wearing red faces begin fingering around in my pack. (I consciously chose not to to take a contrary posture at this time). “Why am I there?” Red faces grunt in a tongue I struggle to understand. They parley.
I figure I’m in trouble. Minutes pass. Seccaros, Rivera, Orosco; I conger images of those great painters and their paintings; they flashing through my mind like, I have heard, memories flashing before death. The stories they tell of not so long ago. Revolution in full color: Silent militias moving through the jungle, resisting the oppressive Diaz. Had nothing changed: “The peon playing out his role in the great drama against the “Hombre”? I’m living the dream.
I’m being directed to the jungle’s edge. Getting uncomfortable. We’re there. So, what’s this? More talk. Finally, we communicate. “Do I want to buy some artifacts?”
By the way, in 1994 the government eventually cracked down on Zapatistas; they finally had their mini-war, and lost.
I’m scanning a cabbage crop of many hundreds of acres. I’m envisioning Cesar Chavez organizing the migrant labor into unions, standing tall and united against “the man”. Has anything really changed from those days? You bet, you should see the very excellent cars parked at the end of the rows.
I’m reminded of the field hand code: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. If one person is working- everyone works. When you take a break-we all take a break. Each does his best within his capability and that’s good enough. If someone is wavering, you give them a hand-before they fail….
I spend the day zigging and zagging the valley. I see great tree groves, English walnut trees spliced onto black walnut roots. I see avocado, and pecan. I see healthy walnut trees being cut; by the acre. (Someone’s lost a contract for access to the water). Access to water is the key to this valley. I see massive wind turbines lined and emerging from the ground like they may have been planted and taken root there. It cost something to plant and water that crop!
I smell freshly turned earth. The smell of veggies freshly picked; those soured and cast aside. I smell blossoms; I sneeze often to celebrate the pollen. I smell fertilizer, and pesticide. (Don’t wrinkle your nose. It may be bad for your health but the smell isn’t bad at all). This land is an olfactory bonanza.
How do I get access to people when they are like distant islands in these vast fields? In Florence, all I had to do was find a place to sit and paint; the people came to me. In the valley you stop at the fruit stands. The fruit stand is where the old timer migrates when the stooping hurts too much to tolerate. Tenders of the stands are not only experienced, but they are eager to talk, and in English if necessary. We talk.
Sometime in mid afternoon, gorged on fruit, nuts, and cola, I have my last lecture for the day. A fine old gentleman tells me of the great King River Valley watershed, riparian rights to water, the spillway, irrigation strategy, and the Fresno area agra-business dynasties.
It was a great day for day-dreams, conversation, and cruising. I’m headed back west to the coast.
Where discussion can take place
