My childhood was idylic. I began along a big river, fished, hiked, swam, rode rowboats and dodged the game warden with fish caught with a bent pin on a bamboo pole. When I was 9, my family moved to the Vineyard. Vineyard is a census-designated place in Sacramento County,
California, United States. It is part of the
Sacramento–Arden-Arcade–Roseville Metropolitan Statistical Area.
It is made of hills and bottomland. It is prairie. I made new friends. It has a creek, which all my friends named after themselves --but we collectively called it "The Creek" and
possessed ourselves in humor and patience.We left. Over the next 40-50 years, several of my friends and I moved back --retired from jobs in the big world. Dave, Floyd --yes Floyd, we never pretended to be anything but hicks--and me. This is what we see:
Big machines carving drainage for upland developments. The Grand Cat's ass is pointed spang in the middle of our woody end. Wildlife is fleeing: it is Exodus. Exhibit A:
Wild turkey, tall--
--to keep tabs on her kids:
Norma has piled thickets for wildlife to feel safe in. She is preserving some respite for creatures to conduct their lives in least fear. She knows where the huge machines will tear the earth and wild things trust her. Every day we get new
émigrés.
Yes, we have a yard so rustic it was turned down by editors of the Sierra Club Calendar, but it lets wild things live out their lives. I have interviewed wild things and asked what what they like least about getting older. They answer, "Well, it's time-consuming!" We all laugh, and go on living.