Christie Balcomb

04.06.06

Eng 380

Seasons in the Land of My Childhood

When I was six years old, my father decided to follow his pastoral dreams and buy a twenty acre property up along the Russian River in Sonoma County, over eighty miles from our home. Even living in Pacifica, a coastal suburb of San Francisco, my parents pushed the limits of “city life” with the back yard crammed full of vegetable garden, chickens and two goats. Each year we seemed to collect more of a menagerie, busting the seams of our city lot, irritating more neighbors which further contributed to the purchase of the farm. So every weekend of my childhood was spent up on the farm, this new world of activity and scenery, my paradise for which I would endure the purgatory of school in Pacifica during the week. Although I spent the majority of my time in suburbia, I feel that my roots are so deeply sunken into the earth of the farm that not even a fearful windstorm could dislodge them. Throughout the seasons of the past fifteen years: summer, fall, winter, spring, I have acquired a vivid collection of stories and memories to last a lifetime.

Summer was always the best part of the year: no school, warm weather, daily adventures with friends, and when I could spend the most time up at the farm. Summer mornings were cool, but you could feel the stifling midday heat to come. Sunrises were greeted by the sounds of the little birds asserting their importance in the world, and by the rooster chipping in his two cents. No matter how hot it got, the shade of the bay trees surrounding the house provided blessed cool for sticky and heat prickled skin. The fields, bleached pale gold and brown by the sun rippled in the breezes. The sheep grazed their pastures, gleaning what little nutrients remained in the parched skeletal grasses. One of my daily chores was to feed the itchy, fragrant alfalfa hay to the sheep, lugging the awkward and bulky flakes from the barn.

If the afternoons were too hot, I would race down to the Russian river with friends to play in the refreshing green water. We would watch people plummet from the bridge into the water far below, thinking how different a jump that would be in the flooded winter. Summer afternoons passed tranquilly, sitting under the bay tree in the back of the house, eating fresh fruit and cheese and complete meal salads made by my mum. She subscribes to Wendell Berry’s doctrine of the “Pleasures of Eating” and prides herself in using our own produce for meals, pointing out, “Those are our cherry tomatoes, and the eggs from those chickens over there, and the apples are from that tree, and the grapefruit I picked this morning, too!” We had a thriving orchard in our peak of productivity, growing many varieties of apples, pears, stone fruits, zucchini, tomatoes, melons, and berries. One summer I collected all my meals from the generous fruit trees, taking a few bites of an apple before tossing it to an eager sheep.

The evenings in the summer time hold the strongest memories for me. As the dusk deepened, the sky purpled from the east. The honking of bull frogs in the pond became the evening soundtrack. The stars would appear one by one, illuminating my night dark canvas with each pin prick of light. Orion’s belt and Pleiades reign supreme as my favorite constellations and I always know where to find them in the sky above the farm, however it takes me a bit of searching anywhere else. Friends and I used to embark on walks in the balmy summer nights, holding hands in the blinding night of the forest, feet rustling the dry leaves along the path. We clung close to each other to avoid running into trees or fences along the way. Like Thoreau, we took delight in walking, meandering to our usual destination during these night escapades. On the top of a hill, there is a moss-covered eruption of rock from the earth in the shape of a throne. This was our spot, though not our property, it belonged to us in the moment as did the kingdom laid out before us, illuminated by the silver light of the moon and stars. Here, Wendell Berry’s “Peace of Wild Things” reigned supreme and I would come out to this rock each night “and feel above me the day-blind stars, waiting with their light” until nights chilled, signaling the end of this carefree season.

Fall brought the dread of impending end of summer, back to society, back to school and cliquish children who became unbearable teenagers. The fun times of summer walks and splashing in the river became memories to fuel me through the week. However my fun seemed to dull, things in nature were yet in full bustle in preparation for the coming winter season.

The afternoons of golden sun created fat clusters of grapes, bursting with the sweetness of the summer sunshine. Table grapes hung in heavy bunches from vines around the house, easily plucked when going to and from the front door. There is nothing better than a handful of plump red flame grapes whose taut skin cracks with the first bite, exploding sweet juice in your mouth. In addition to the fruit, my father also planted grape vines for making wine: Merlot and Gewürztraminer, not as good straight off the vine. In Georgic poems this was a time of good cheer and revelry, “with viny autumn laden blooms the field, and foams the vintage high with brimming vats,” another invitation to join in the fun of the simple countryside. Unfortunately, there is much more to wine making than indicated by Vergil, mostly undertaken by my aunt who smushed grapes and strained the skins and flesh from the juice, who checked alcohol and sugar levels in the five gallon water jugs placed around the wood stove to ferment, and strained the final product from the dregs. One record year my aunt was the proud producer of thirty-five gallons of organic, home-made wine, each bottle with a hand-written label “CJF FARM – 2004.”

I think Wendell Berry would nod his head at our attempt at self-sufficiency, what better way to enjoy nature than by cultivating it and reaping the ample rewards? I say attempt because and much as we produce, we are not able to consume all and much of it then goes to waste. However as simple and rewarding as the pastoral life may be seen, it is a demanding master. Grape vines must be pruned, fruits picked before spoiling, and sheep must be fed for they exclaim loudly when neglected. Fall seemed a time when there was much to do, but not enough time to accomplish before the chilling wetness of winter.

Winter in the land of my childhood was another adventure. This season in the Russian River was wet and gray. Dreary days of rain saturated the fine clay soils of the area resulting in the typical winter floods. These same soils which produce such fine Sonoma County wine create temporary lakes among the vineyards. The rows of stakes supporting the grape vines are rain gauges, measuring the depth of the flood waters in the low regions of land. I have a painting hung in my mind of sunset during a flood, like Aldo Leopold’s evanescent “Green Pasture.” The waters mirror perfectly submerged oak trees and rows of wooden stakes peeping out from the shining surface, turned liquid silver and bronze in the diminishing sunlight.

Although mostly wet and dreary, winter days held great potential for wonderful walks in the woods. My friends and I had an annual tradition of a “flood-walk.” The cabin fever of staying inside, watching movies and playing board games would overwhelm us, forcing us out into the fury of nature. We would explode out of the house and into the rain, screaming and delighting in the freedom of the open world. We would set off into the forest, shielded by the canopy from most of the rain, but yelping as a particularly large cold drop of water would drip down our necks from the glossy Madrone leaves above. A flood walk consisted of finding a stream and following it back up to its source. Often the banks of the stream would be too steep or too slippery, so we would end up trudging through the pulsing stream itself, splooshing in large puddles, laughing sopping wet when the depth of a pool was miscalculated. Though not coming from a glacial source, the water was surprisingly chilly, but the invigorating exercise of hopping from rock to swinging branch and chasing each other through the forest took precedence in our minds over care about frozen fingers and toes. Those were earthly worries that would be addressed back home with warm clothes and hot tea. We were too occupied turning over decaying logs, watching the disrupted community scatter in chaos and confusion at our intrusion.

The forest floor itself, was amazing to look at closely, a delectable cake composed of layers of Madrone and Manzanita leaves, pine needles and humus, a feast for any soil dwelling creature. Underneath the oak trees you could also spot leaves in small humps and if you peeled the layers back very carefully, you could be rewarded by the discovery of hidden gold: a chanterelle mushroom. My family has a tradition of taking a walk on Christmas morning to a very special oak grove, returning to the house with baskets overflowing with fragrant delicate orange mushrooms. C. ciberius , or the Pacific golden chanterelle mushroom is common in Northern California, found under Coastal Live Oak (Quercus agrifolia), Douglas fir trees, and California Bay trees (Umbellularia californica) (Fries, L., 2002). Many different varieties of chanterelle and associated hosts are found along the Pacific Northwest of America (Grossmann, E.) and are also found on the Central Coast, similar in foliage and climate. These gourmet fungi are sold for up to $40.00 per pound at farmer’s markets in San Francisco and are featured on the menus of elite restaurants. This kind of fortune compounds the rewards of living out in the country.

The changing season from winter to spring is a magical transition. Soggy dark soils begin sprouting vibrant green buds. The depressing slate gray and brown fields spread with a jade glow from the bottom of the hills with the deepest soils up to the tops of the most exposed hillsides. Even the trampling of the hooves of the sheep cannot prevent the thousands and thousands of determined blades of grass from having a chance to meet the sky. Paying more attention to grazing management recently, I notice the damage that our broken-mouthed sheep have upon the pastures. Having few or no teeth, the sheep pull tufts of grass including the roots, leaving little holes and killing the grasses instead of biting and tearing the blades above the soil. This is a management issue solved by culling the older sheep, or rotating the animals faster through the pastures as I have learned in my sheep management courses at Cal Poly. I always feel slightly overwhelmed when I come back to our way of life after learning the golden ideals of livestock production. The problem is: how can we get rid of Star, Dolly, Molly, Oreo and the rest? I cannot live like Wendell Berry and do not find pleasure in eating someone I know, actually finding it highly repulsive. Therefore, we manage our limited feed availablilty and reduce damage to pastures by providing supplemental feed year-round.

Spring is the time of rebirth. Jealous of the emerald flush of the pastures, the flowers bloom in chorus, competing in loveliness. The orchard is full of blossoms, white and pink of apples, asian pears, plums, peaches, and almond trees. The air thrums with industrious honey bees collecting nectar from blossoms with leg warmers of golden pollen. Drinking the scenery of the pulsing life of springtime, it is easy to see how the romantic pastoral poetry was born. The common theme of invitation to share in the magnificence of the natural beauty at the farm overwhelms me at times, wanting to emulate Marlowe’s Passionate Shepherd and extend to someone to “Come live with me and be my love.”

But then again, I am caught in conflict in my desires. The blooming trees, the frolicking lambs, the fresh air, are all things that I wish to share with people, to show how lucky and fortunate I am. On the other hand, I am selfish. This is my own little world, my very own Walden. Without any outsiders I can feel like nature is performing just for me. Without a soul around, I feel akin to Aldo Leopold, “the sole owner of all the acres I can walk over.” I can pretend that not only does the land belong to me as far as the eye can see, but that I belong to it, constant reciprocation and communion. Bringing in a visitor can burst that happy little bubble, shrinking my world back down to the scant twenty acres.

Late winter and early spring is the time for shearing. The fleeces must be removed before the weather warms, resulting in cotted wool from itchy sheep rubbing damp fleeces on tree trunks and fence posts. For the past fifteen years, I have stood alongside my dad while he is bent double over a sheep as the wool comes off in folds like fluffy goose down. I stood, poised to take the electric hand shears from him if a sheep wriggled out of his control. As the years passed, I grew stronger, able to ease my dad’s aching back by taking over after shearing to trim hooves with metal clippers and administer deworming medicine. This year, after much goading from my mum, I finally sheared three sheep on my own. Shearing is back breaking work, but fairly exhilarating and rewarding to watch a naked sheep run off, skin wrinkling and twitching, unaccustomed to the feel of the cold.

Each time coming back to the farm I am nostalgic for the childhood that I spent here, fearful than it can never be the same. In a way, with many of the sheep nearing the end of their lives, barns becoming dilapidated, fences falling apart, it does feel like things will never be as good as when I was a child. But recently coming back home, I realized that the connection that I have to this land is so strong that even when the physical features change, the feelings are still there. I look to the California Redwood grove at the bottom of our property, where a stump remaining from loggers many decades ago was estimated to be six hundred years old at the time of death. From all around the stump has arisen an amazing cluster of trees, now towering over their deceased ancestor. This is a symbol of growth, change, and longevity. The world changes around me, but the farm will always be home, it is incorporated in my being and cannot be removed.

References:

Grossmann, Emilie: Cantharellus formosus Corner, E.J.H. Mycological Collections, Oregon State University. Accessed on 02.19.06 http://scarab.cordley.orst.edu/shrooms/webpages/text/can_for.html

Fries, L.: Cantharellus cibarius, The Fungi of California, 1996-2002. Accessed on 02.19.06 http://www.mykoweb.com/CAF/species/Cantharellus_cibarius.html