009 - Killing Orchards (1 - Brentwood)

The Last Apricot Tree Under the Mountain

One thing I don’t have in my earliest memories is when exactly they cut down the walnut orchard at the end of Pippo Avenue to make way for houses. All I remember is the utter shock of it. There I stood. Staring at the terracotta rows of stumps piled with tangled wooden limbs and fingers, a ripple of horror racing through my whole body.

More recently, I was surprised by the sight of another very mature walnut orchard laying on its side, roots up in the air like a stiffening dead war horse. They just pushed them all over in an afternoon. Without asking me.

I pulled over. I usually do, riding my time machine back to the first orchard that mattered to me, and the day it went down and away. I have some ideas of why it hurt my little soul so much back then. Now too.

For one thing, I didn’t know that things you counted on could just go away. No one moved away. All of my relatives were alive. My parents were together. No betrayals. No betraying. I just didn’t know something could be gone.

For another thing, I didn’t know how visual I am. The way things look as I walk around, hike around, bike around and drive around, matter greatly to me. I know where I am by how things appear and feel related. When orchards go away, I feel out of place and out of balance for a long time. Where am I? No familiar landmarks? No soul? Even now, when an orchard is lost for any reason: whether for new houses, a change of crops, or to fight disease, the facts don’t matter. I still feel lost, even when I know where I am.

Landmarks for my heart. Shade for my weary bones. Blossoms and fruit to lift me.

Or maybe I was just so little. The walnut trees were old and towering, and I could not see the top. The knurled bases could not be hugged all the way around. The canopies blocked out almost all of the sunlight, and only the bravest felt tall in the dark. The coolness could be refreshing or a chill wind to a tiny, fearful heart. The rancher machined the dirt flat so the machinery could sweep up the walnuts at harvest. If a boy got run over, he could be made so flat that his parents couldn’t see him unless, perhaps, they were standing right on top of him. But, then, only if they looked down.

How could something so much larger and more magnificent than me be wiped out with such ease? My very first taste of mortality? Impermanence? Change? Death? That was probably it.

If they could do that to all those trees, to that old orchard, they could do it to me.

Or maybe when I walked by, I could hear the wooden chorus hum the orchard poetry. Could anyone else hear the refrain? It was all too quiet without the trees. Who will sing when all the orchards are gone?

Editorial and Advance Reader Contributors: Mark Wallace, Alisha Price, Heather Bergevin of Barrow Editing, Mette Ivie, Bonnie Wach, Francoise Boden, Mark Berg, Mike Hammer and Kathy Toelkes. Special thanks to Bill Davis for a kick in the pants that only a friend from your old stomping grounds can give you. Mt. Diablo and Apricot Tree painting by the talented and local artist, Greg Hart.