No John Steinbeck here. Never-the-less, a blog entry regarding family and travels during a rare return to my natal state. I joined with my sisters and parents at the home of my sister Wendy in Fresno, ostensibly gathered for the scheduled memorial for my Aunt June in Aptos, south of Santa Cruz on the central coast.
Brother-in-law Barth rented a van to carry the six of us. The van turned out to be heavily dowsed in noxious 'car freshener' to the point of making us feel our olfactory lobe had been violated. We dubbed our ride, "The Stinkmobile". In the morning we cut west across the Valley, quickly crossing the San Joaquin River, then following a two-lane Madera County road surveyed and paved true and straight in Cartesian grid fashion of all the surrounding agriculture land. Patchwork sections of 40, 160, 320 acres; peach orchards, almond and pistachio orchards, alfalfa, onions, vineyards and fallow dusty land in drought and lacking sufficient irrigation water. Interstate 5 North, cutting over the velvet folds of the Coast Range past the severely drawn-down San Louis Reservoir. Over Pacheco Pass, there off to the side of the road, across the creek is crag of rock jutting conspicuously upward maybe 200 feet from the otherwise rounded topography. I, somewhat unimaginatively, always thought of it a 'Castle Rock' and dreamed of conquering it one day. My dad remembered as we passed by, "that's where you found $5". Indeed, in 1976 in the springtime with a tank of gas and a newly minted driver's license of my own, I did indeed scale 'Castle Rock' with Blake and Steve. The creek and hillside was thick with orange bellied California Newts, and at the top of that crag, Blake found a $5 bill in amongst the Mountain Laurel in a cleft in the rocks. No worry of Alzheimers with Dad.
Cresting the pass' summit and down the other side, the fields were no longer neatly sectioned in Jeffersonian townships, but followed the fertile contours that tucked and stretched around the winding valleys where all flat terrain was cultivated in fields of strawberries, lettuce and other vegetables that are good for you, or in level orchards of apricot and plum. Above the Maher house where we gathered for an afternoon remembrance of Aunt June, the cool marine air with its pewter sky was thin, allowing intermittent sunlight. My Aunt June had died in April, just days before my mom was scheduled to visit her sister - as she had expressed to me, "for perhaps the last time". My cousins, Carolyn and Grant and their spouses had worked hard to put together a fine and fitting event, with stories, song, and wondrous food. We said our good byes to assembled kin not seen for some decades and set to return via Los Banos.
First we needed a pit stop. An institution outside of Holister, California is the long-time-ago fruit stand, known as Casa de Fruita. It has now morphed into
a caricature of its former self and is an over-the-top den of kitsch. Every department of this decadent tourist trap is labeled in self mocking, "Casa de ..." For the coffee shop, it is Casa de Coffee, for the kiddie train ride, Casa de Choo-Choo" ad naseum. We had to stop - not only for the bathrooms, but for the chance to buy something.
I once had a favorite mug, with the Casa de Fruita logo emblazoned opposite the handle PLUS my name "Mark" below the label. Never leave a long-handled spoon sitting inside your favorite mug while it sits on the counter top, otherwise, your arm will swing wide, hit the protruding spoon handle and dash your favorite mug to the floor. Shattered. So sad. Now, a chance to recoup my loss after all these years. We parked and I headed for Casa de Redemption to find a ceramic mug with the colorful logo, and hoped against hope that I could select from an assortment of pre-painted mugs bearing common names.
What?
Among all of this merchandise, not a single ceramic mug?
Not a one with a Casa de Fruita logo?
Nothing with common names of Michael, John, Sarah, Robert, Cindy or Mark!
I found a glass coffee cup with a subdued logo on it, and as I mulled the reality of no redemption of the shattered bygone favorite beverage holder; my sister said, "You know, that could be your Christmas gift - why don't you let me pay for that." So, I did. Maybe a small amount of redemption with a bubble-wrapped piece of kitsch.
Meanwhile, sister Sheri, always lured by kitchen sundries and baked goods, found fertile ground for her credit card at Casa de Pies. A berry pie was placed carefully in the rear cargo space as we all loaded into the van and headed for dinner in Los Banos.
Dad was buying, and I, being the eldest had the responsibility to make a decision for dinner. I suggested we dine at the Wool Growers Hotel, a noted Basque restaurant on the edge of town.
In jagged contrast to the marine fog in Aptos during lunch, now back in the San Joaquin Valley we found it to be 102 degrees hot in the setting sun. Barth of Basque descent, had never been to the Wool Growers, Dad who had travel up and down the Valley during his long career had heard of the Wool Growers - but had never been there. Only I, a long tall Texan out of Scandinavia had been before. Inside the waitress beckoned us to come down and fill in the chairs along table row #3. This is family style, we only take cash. A carafe of red wine is set before us and then the choices begin, for the main course you can have: lamb, roast chicken, prime rib, new york steak, pork chops or ham. Everybody gets bread and butter, a soup, a salad, french fries, mac & cheese before the entree arrives. For dessert, chocolate or vanilla cups of ice cream. A massive meal. I figure it was a special occasion for all of to be gathered together, so let's make it a memorable meal. Done - maybe over done.
We waddled back to the Stinkmobile sitting in the evening heat, Sheri's berry pie in the cargo hold was discovered to be again bubbling and baking. Twice baked pie. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing twice. Right? I'd do it all again - except I'd prefer to ride in a less pungent vehicle.
Brother-in-law Barth rented a van to carry the six of us. The van turned out to be heavily dowsed in noxious 'car freshener' to the point of making us feel our olfactory lobe had been violated. We dubbed our ride, "The Stinkmobile". In the morning we cut west across the Valley, quickly crossing the San Joaquin River, then following a two-lane Madera County road surveyed and paved true and straight in Cartesian grid fashion of all the surrounding agriculture land. Patchwork sections of 40, 160, 320 acres; peach orchards, almond and pistachio orchards, alfalfa, onions, vineyards and fallow dusty land in drought and lacking sufficient irrigation water. Interstate 5 North, cutting over the velvet folds of the Coast Range past the severely drawn-down San Louis Reservoir. Over Pacheco Pass, there off to the side of the road, across the creek is crag of rock jutting conspicuously upward maybe 200 feet from the otherwise rounded topography. I, somewhat unimaginatively, always thought of it a 'Castle Rock' and dreamed of conquering it one day. My dad remembered as we passed by, "that's where you found $5". Indeed, in 1976 in the springtime with a tank of gas and a newly minted driver's license of my own, I did indeed scale 'Castle Rock' with Blake and Steve. The creek and hillside was thick with orange bellied California Newts, and at the top of that crag, Blake found a $5 bill in amongst the Mountain Laurel in a cleft in the rocks. No worry of Alzheimers with Dad.
Cresting the pass' summit and down the other side, the fields were no longer neatly sectioned in Jeffersonian townships, but followed the fertile contours that tucked and stretched around the winding valleys where all flat terrain was cultivated in fields of strawberries, lettuce and other vegetables that are good for you, or in level orchards of apricot and plum. Above the Maher house where we gathered for an afternoon remembrance of Aunt June, the cool marine air with its pewter sky was thin, allowing intermittent sunlight. My Aunt June had died in April, just days before my mom was scheduled to visit her sister - as she had expressed to me, "for perhaps the last time". My cousins, Carolyn and Grant and their spouses had worked hard to put together a fine and fitting event, with stories, song, and wondrous food. We said our good byes to assembled kin not seen for some decades and set to return via Los Banos.
 |
| Casa de Fruita Pit Stop - and so much more |
What?
Among all of this merchandise, not a single ceramic mug?
Not a one with a Casa de Fruita logo?
Nothing with common names of Michael, John, Sarah, Robert, Cindy or Mark!
I found a glass coffee cup with a subdued logo on it, and as I mulled the reality of no redemption of the shattered bygone favorite beverage holder; my sister said, "You know, that could be your Christmas gift - why don't you let me pay for that." So, I did. Maybe a small amount of redemption with a bubble-wrapped piece of kitsch.
Dad was buying, and I, being the eldest had the responsibility to make a decision for dinner. I suggested we dine at the Wool Growers Hotel, a noted Basque restaurant on the edge of town.
 |
| Suneson Family Dines Family Style at Wool Growers Basque Restaurant |
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