010 - Moving Way Out (2 - Coming and Going)

The Last Apricot Tree Under the Mountain

When I was a tow-headed ten-year-old boy, something surprising happened. We moved from our tiny Brentwood neighborhood to a place a few miles into ‘the country.’ I had no idea that, except for the few other small farming communities out in the far east Contra Costa County, everyone to the west of us would always think, regardless of city limits, Brentwood was already ‘the country.’

They still do. It doesn’t matter how big our Target is. According to folks in the western part of our county, what in reality is an hour drive from Walnut Creek, is still a ‘will we ever get there?’ distance for visiting high school sports teams. Saying that I moved to the country was confusing to outsiders, so I stopped trying to explain.

At the time of the move, I didn’t even know my parents had been looking. As we rode out to see the new-to-us location that first time, I was vaguely aware of a shift in my reality. By the time we returned to Brentwood that day to start the frantic pack and move, I had connected to a sense of magic and wonder at Eureka Avenue that I have never lost.

Our subdivision on the south side of Brentwood was surrounded by walnut and cherry orchards with a field, usually lettuce or wheat, right on the backside of our street, the edge of civilization for a Brentwood citizen. We moved to three acres of commercial apricot trees surrounded by the familiar fields and orchards, but with barely a neighbor in sight. Those two miles felt like twenty, like we were way out there.

As a pre-teen, the open space and freedom to roam, taking care to watch for country dogs that were happy to deliver some meaty puncture wounds, formed the foundation of my wonder. Irrigation canals, ponds and pipes became motes, castles and breastworks. At the end of the sparsely populated road was a creek that wasn’t blocked by private property. I could walk the half-mile to my piano lessons at the end of lane and after, slip into the creek for polywogs, grown-up frogs and cardboard forts hidden by wild berry bushes.

As I grew older, the astonishing view of Mt. Diablo from the east, with all of her many faces, began to replace my love of boyhood fantasy and adventure. Sunrises. Sunsets. Storm clouds. A dusting of snow. Windblown, crystal clear or blurred by dust from the tilling fields. Glowing like hades when she was literally on fire. You could see her from hours away in almost any direction as she let you know you would be home soon enough.

Today, there are maybe ten of those original 220 apricot trees left, replaced by shade trees. The remaining apricots have long since lost their commercial value, and we should have put the survivors out of their misery years ago, but we cannot. We let the trees tell us when the last branch of fruit is too heavy, or when they cannot withstand the latest windstorm. The dogs down the lane are chained up. There are farm houses every hundred yards now. The creek flows less often as irrigation and weather patterns change. I have only gray hair left from that blond ten-year-old head. While I have physically moved away and returned a couple of times, I have always remained in my heart.

Over the decades, reality and the city have relentlessly closed the ‘way out there’ gap. We are protected by county ordinances designed to preserve agricultural land but can now hear the lives of those living in subdivisions just across the dividing line canal. While the sources of the original boyhood romantic connections fade, the tokens remain. Regardless of distance, I hope Eureka Avenue and Mt. Diablo will always retain the power to conjure those first inklings of possibility, well after the last apricot tree fails and my witness fades like the mist off the creek in the face of the late morning sun.

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.