Ninety Years on the Land

Uncle Vernon & Aunt Grace - July, 2007

Tomatoes

They are ruby or golden, burgundy, orange or crimson. Some grow in small orbs clustered like grapes on a Tuscan vine. Others are meaty and hefty, their stem grasping the plant with determination to remain until fully ripened then yield to the gentle pull of a gardener's hand. They're often curiously named - Black from Tula, Brandywine, German Queen, Taxi, Siletz and Sweet 100. Whether hybrid or heirloom, determinant or indeterminate, each variety produces a delicious prize for the one who puts spade to earth and plants and nurtures a tomato vine.

In some parts of the world there was a time when the tomato was considered poisonous. What a shame for those who lived in those cultures to be bereft of the best of summer's garden treasures. A home-grown, vine-ripened tomato tastes sweet and tangy at the same time. It's firm and meaty but juicy. It's healthful, and eating one can make you feel pretty good even if you weren't feeling your best. Bacon, lettuce and a home-grown, sliced beefsteak tomato seasoned with salt and pepper sandwiched in between slices of toasted white bread slathered with mayonnaise is just about guaranteed to cure whatever ails you, or at least make you stop thinking about it.

Tomatoes are one of summer's greatest garden treasures.

Hurricane Ridge, Olympic National Park

WEEK 14 - I Know Who We Are...

The talented humorist, storyteller and author, Garrison Keillor wrote, "We need to write, otherwise nobody will know who we are." I believe this now that I've taken the West Los Angeles College business English class, Business 31. My instructor required each of us to write a blog every week and share it with the class. These writing exercises forced me to engage in a great deal of introspection and face some very painful experiences in my life. The writing assignments have also allowed me to discover that I have the ability to put pen to paper and share my interests, joys and heartbreak with others. I didn't know that I would so very much enjoy creative writing.

Before my Business 31 class started, I had at least a passing knowledge of nearly all of my classmates as they are all colleagues. Now, however, the gift of their words has allowed me to learn something special about each of them and to know them better.

Arturo's blogs showed me two of his strengths: his physical ability to train for and run in marathons - four of them to date - and his capacity to share difficult and heart-felt emotions with his classmates that stemmed from the illness of a beloved pet. Lisa audited the class at the start of the semester, but an unfortunate accident prevented her from continuing her participation. Her one blog explained to us the scope and importance of the filming industry in California. I wish she had been with us throughout the entire 14 weeks. Dwayne's writing opened a window to look into the life of a person who is of strong moral character and who believes in doing the right thing. He shared insightful analytical pieces on the subject of basketball, a sport much enjoyed by him. Then there's Shirley - always smiling and joyful Shirley who created a MySpace page. Her entries allowed me to understand the depth and importance of faith in her life, and that she's forged and maintained exceptional long-term relationships. Terence, a tall and talented photographer, father, and dedicated professional - his writing made me laugh. And I mean, really laugh when he shared a story about a trip down the lumber aisle at Home Depot and described the passion it evoked in him! You'll never live that down, Terence. And there's Bahston Joe. Laker-lover, techie and dad. He shared stories of the sweet nostalgia he has for his childhood athletic experiences and how he loves to create similar memories for his own sons.

Of course, none of this would have been possible without the instruction of our fine teacher, Isidra. She challenged, chided, encouraged and nurtured us this semester, requiring us to face weekly writing assignments and periodic extemporaneous and prepared speeches head-on. She is a creative, patient instructor who took what could have been a semester's worth of tedious memorization, and turned it into laughter-filled sessions of camaraderie and learning. Thank you, Isidra for believing in each of us and encouraging us to do our best.

I know we will all leave the library meeting room next week as better spellers, writers, speakers and grammarians. I will miss our fun Monday nights. Take care everybody!

WEEK 13 - I Love LA!

I originated in the Windy City - Chi Town - the city of Upton Sinclair's legendary novel about the meat "hacking" industry. When I was three, I was relocated to the South - Atlanta, Georgia - where I subsisted mainly on cornbread and red beans and rice. I saw blue gum people and heard Geechee spoken and by the time I was six, I could tell you the color of the people who lived on the "other side of the tracks" and knew what the KKK meant when they burned a cross on some body's front lawn. Gratefully, my daddy moved us "compass north" to Ohio. (What's round on the ends and high in the middle? OhiO!) We moved to an orderly community of conservative homes filled with White, Anglo-Saxon Protestants who never did anything interesting or daring.

When I was 10 my father announced, "We're moving to California!" My mind raced in anticipation like a Sooner at the reigns of a Conestoga wagon. "Yippee! We're goin' to California!" I thought of the gold rushin' 49'ers, the dust bowl Oakies, and the Donner party who resorted to cannibalism to realize their dream of standing side-by-side in the golden land of milk and honey. I devoured every book in the Wickliffe Elementary School library that had anything to do with California, and can still remember writing "California or bust!" in crayon on our shipping boxes before they were stowed in the Allied Van Lines trailer.

It snowed that early December day we left Columbus, but the sun was shinin' bright in LA when our plane skidded to a stop on the tarmac at LAX. I remember riding up the 405 freeway, seeing the giant donut sign on Manchester Boulevard, Christmas wreaths on palm trees, and my father gesturing toward the Valley with an outstretched hand saying, "this is home" as we drove through the Sepulveda Pass. Coming from mid-western, cornfield flat-land, the San Fernando Valley and surrounding San Gabriel Mountains were like paradise found.

Since that day in 1971 I have loved Los Angeles. Everything I want and everything I don't is right here in this 469.1 square miles, infested with nearly 4 million people. Despite all its problems, I'll take this city over any other place you can plot on Google Earth. I'll even take LA's traffic 'cause I know where there's lots of people there's traffic. And, where there's people, there's stuff. Lots and lots of it. As for LA's people - they're certainly diverse - from the street corner mariachis of Boyle Heights to the young, crowned beauties smiling and waving from the Rose Parade Queen's float, to the brothers selling bean pies on MLK, the entertainment industry's royalty partying in their hillside homes, to the scab-faced, anorexic tweakers of Hollywood. LA is rude and gritty and rough, but at the same time it's also refined - full of history, culture, entertainment, world-class hospitals and universities, gardens, libraries, five-star restaurants and scenic vistas. Like I said, there's lots of stuff in LA. I know many people don't agree with how I feel about the City of Angels and would love nothin' more than to pack up and get the hell outta' Dodge, but for me, LA's the place!

View from the London Eye