Letter from San Jose 2.

Redwoods and Persimmons.

DATELINE: Tuesday, December 17, 2002
San Jose, California

By Todd Marshall

It had been raining for several days here in the Bay Area, so I was delighted to wake up, look outside my short-term bedroom window, and see the sun. The recent storms brought winds and rain that made the trees shake their angry fists and the sun hide its cowardly face. Today the sun was there, bold and brave, casting a guilt-free light on the storm's aftermath of debris: wind-blown leaves, broken tree branches, and waterlogged drains.

My friend suggested we go south to Santa Cruz for the afternoon before the next spell of rain. We headed out about an hour before noon, taking California Highway 17, a twisting, winding, curvy road that takes you from the San Jose valley up over the Santa Cruz Mountains and then down into Santa Cruz. I hate this road. It is a four-lane highway with a cement partition in the middle to keep the speeding cars from running into each other. The good news was that my friend drove and I could look out over the mountains and not worry about the other vehicles. The road takes you through cities, towns, villages, and forests full of Eucalyptus and even Redwood trees. It was peaceful drive and, aside from the occasional unexpected curve, passed without incident.

In the Middle of a Redwood Forest.

We arrived in Santa Cruz and headed for the true destination, a little town called Aptos. This is where my friend would meet an acquaintance and take care of some business. When we drove up to the house I automatically reached for my video camera. I wanted to capture this sight. After getting permission from the householder, I started to get on tape the sights my eyes were beholding. This unpretentious house was situated right smack dab in the middle of a Redwood forest. My taping can attest to the colossal size of these trees. Some of the trees were twice or three times as tall as the house. I almost wrenched my back trying to get what I thought was the tallest one on tape.

The recent storm had somehow managed to fell a tree in the backyard close to the house. The family was in the process of clearing away the tree. They had sawed it almost in half, leaving the center of the tree exposed. The core of the tree resembled the color of an orange or bright pumpkin. While still enthralled with the massive tree, I was invited to walk out the back door and go onto the patio. I was not ready for this. They had built the patio so that you would feel as though you were in the forest itself. In fact, several Redwood trees come right up through the deck! The only view you had from the patio was that of the forest. I felt so close to nature. I really had no choice since I was standing right next to her.

I noticed the detail of decorative touches on the patio. I saw the huge, hollowed out seashells, the exotic plants, the bird house with sign on it saying, Pine Valley Cafe. Soon my mind drifted as I imagined myself on early summer mornings, sitting outside and reading the newspaper, surrounded by this beauty. If I lived here I would awake every day and listen to the stillness of the woods. I would nestle under the canopy of trees and commune with nature. I would lose myself in this place. This endless sea of trees.

Persimmons and Princess Dragon.

It was our last stop for the day. We were going to Aromas so we could pick some persimmons. My friend once owned the property there, but recently sold it on one condition: that she could return and pick some of the persimmons so that they wouldn't all rot and go to waste. These are not your average garden-variety persimmons, I might add, but a special delicacy known as Japanese Apple Persimmons, which grow only in California and Japan. The man of the house had agreed to the persimmon picking deal, so my friend was given carte blanche to pick away. Earlier that day we had tossed three boxes and two fruit pickers into the car. Mentally we were prepared for the task.

The owner of the home was not there we arrived, but his partner was. She came to the door, this redheaded lass, with a condescending look of disapproval. Her face seemed to express utter disgust at our presence. I knew what she was thinking, but my friend didn't seem to let her attitude distract her from her purpose: picking the persimmons! Four trees were covered with these orange delights. If you have never eaten persimmons, I can only describe them as a cross between a mango, peach, and melon. Some may not agree with my description, but it's the best I can do.

We began to pluck the persimmons off the tree, sensing that the sooner we picked and split, the better. All of a sudden we heard a soft but demanding voice fly out the house, bounce off the hilltops, and land on us with a cool numbness: "Leave some for us."

Who Is the Master?

My friend, no doubt, didn't feel strange there. Until the recent sale, the land had been in her family for decades. She was only doing what she had done for years. I had visited her there several times in the past and was also still not in the total frame of mind that this land no longer belonged to my friend. Both of us got lost in the past and forgot about the new master.

I never once felt at ease. Instead, I felt the spying eyes of the woman with the scarlet-ginger hair. They were hot on me all the time I was picking persimmons off the trees. We filled the boxes, and my friend, in a friendly gesture, took a few persimmons over to the woman and offered them to her. "Just leave them on the porch," echoed a voice from behind the rusty screen door.

My friend conjured up enough nerve to ask for a bag to take some of the cactus flowers, something else that the owner of the home said she could do. The woman reluctantly gave her a bag, "Anything else?"

Nature's Call and the Last Straw.

Yes, there was something else: I'll call it the last straw. I was thirsty that day, and drank my share of water and juice. Under the shade of the persimmon trees in the gathering afternoon, I began to hear Mother Nature's call. I mentioned the sudden need to my friend, who asked the woman with the scarlet-ginger hair if outhouse was open.

"No. It is locked. We are using that for storage."

Ok. Five minutes later I couldn't take it any longer. Yes, I should have driven to the local gas station. Yes, I should have just held it in. However, reassured by my friend's prompting, I ran behind the barn and answered the call. I had barely finished my act of 'vandalism' when I looked up to see Princess Dragon with the scarlet-ginger hair, who chided, "We would really appreciate it if you wouldn't do that."

I felt just a little bit ashamed. I felt just a little bit shocked. All I could say was, "I'm sure." She could read my tone of voice, which announced that I was not about to apologize for relieving myself behind the barn.

The woman looked at my friend and lightly scolded, "Is that all?"

Mine, Yours, and the Artificial Divide.

In the car I told my friend that I just wasn't thinking, but now I wonder. There was Princess Dragon, stalking me the entire time, and I had the gall to take a leak behind her barn! The barn that once belonged to my dear friend. The same place where I had answered the call of nature many times before. Was it really the same barn, or had the change of ownership also changed the very nature of the place? If Princess Dragon was worried about me marking my territory, she was way too late. Been there. Done that.

As we drove away I noticed a look of relief in the body language of Princess Dragon. The interlopers were leaving at long last! She had regained control of her realm, the world she so carefully creates and protects.

We are taught to draw lines, set up boundaries, and mark territories. We call things "mine" and "yours". We categorize people by neatly placing them groups so we can deal with each of them differently. We sing the song of peace and unity, but we dance to the rhythm of conflict and division. I, for one, go against that grain, that flow. When I do, I can only end up being chided and scolded until I get where I belong - on the other side of the artificial divide.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Todd
can be reached by E-mail at
toddm@mail.uca.edu