Farmer?

“Yeah, my dad is a farmer – want to make something of it?”

That’s what I felt the years at Franklin Elementary School in Santa Monica, where my friends’ dads were all “businessmen,” whatever that was. They wore the infamous white collared-shirts to work, and suits, or so I thought.

My mother, the pianist, caused raised eyebrows, too, but musicians somehow fit the Los Angeles demographic better than farmers. Especially when the farm was 500 miles north in the tiny Dust Bowl settled twin cities of Marysville and Yuba City.

My handsome papa, hazel-eyed and slim-bodied, wore khaki – all khaki. Long-sleeved khaki work shirts, pressed and starched (yes, by the Chinese laundry in Marysville) khaki work pants, rounded leather work boots with plain white cotton socks that came in packages of six. He topped it off with a soft white Panama hat – real Panama.

He was very particular about the hat. We drove 40 miles to Grass Valley once to find a soft new Panama at a particular haberdashery, which probably served the Gold Rush towns the previous century. He found one just to his specifications with a thin black ribbon around the middle. He was so pleased with the hat and the day was so fine, we ended up driving further east 50 miles into Nevada. I was 11, and that was the first time April and I had been out of California. It was a sunny day, but mountain air is colder, and I remember feeling the chill as we walked in our little cotton sun suits through the lobby and theater with the strip show (I saw it) to get to the fancy buffet at the Cal-Neva Lodge. Later I found out it was owned by the Mafia, or at least that’s what reporters for magazines like Look, which was as big as Life Magazine, said.

By the time I got to junior high school, the “farmer” label was beginning to sound interesting to my friends. I found out when my friend Carol saw a boy I liked while we were up at the farm for the summer. She wrote that she casually told him that I was “at the family’s ranch.” She said he asked lots of questions about it. Years later I heard he moved to Oregon to raise horses.

Highway 99 Revisited

I surprised myself with the pleasure I felt driving north on Interstate 5 to Davis after a peaceful end of the year with Mom and the family in Santa Monica. Highway 5 was built in the early 1970s just to the west of California State Route 99, known to long-time travelers as Highway 99. During my childhood in the 1950s and 60s we drove Highway 99, which stretches almost the complete length of the vast Central Valley, linking the many little agricultural towns and cities.

Alan and I were happy to be on the road, with dog Taj alert and nuzzling Alan’s ear as he drove. Conversation gently died as we passed leafless orchards already reaching for spring, with new branch growth visible. Out of the corner of my eye I was looking for that hint of pink that occurs even before the buds show, but stopped myself when I remembered it was only January 1. Maybe last fall’s plentiful rains mean the process of renewal is ahead of schedule?

Before I-5, It was a 10-hour drive up Highway 99 to our farm in Yuba City, and we often broke up the trip with an overnight stay in Fresno. The Park Motel was slightly off the main drag, across the street from the zoo and adjacent to Lee’s Chinese Restaurant. The big thrill was a visit to the zoo if we arrived before it closed, followed by a swim in the motel pool. We joined other families and truckers at Lee’s for dinner.

Fresno’s sweet and quiet zoo was the setting for one of our family lore stories. One hot June afternoon we stopped at the Reptile House before walking to the tiny savannah-like area of the leopards, lions and tigers. Nearby was the giraffe quarters, adjacent to a barn that housed the animals’ feed. A giraffe had managed to lean his (or her) long neck over the fence and reach a bag of grain through the barn door. We caught him in the act, munching on mouthfuls of grain. The tall critter decided to share the booty and began leaning into the adjoining elephant’s area, passing the grain from his mouth into the elephant’s trunk.

“Look at the giraffe sharing!” my mother said, leaning back into a big laugh.

My father broke into his trademark wide grin.

“Girls, take a look at this,” he said.

Four-year-old April was on Dad’s shoulders while I held his hand. I’m sure the elephant was grateful for the extra ration of feed; what stays with me is the warmth of Dad’s hand, my mother’s delighted laugh, and our pleasure in witnessing a scene of generosity just off Highway 99.