011 - Modern Pioneers (2 - Coming and Going)
The Last Apricot Tree Under the Mountain
If you were not born in Brentwood, how do you get here? A depression. A war. And the least market research ever.
I still don’t think I have the whole story about my dad’s parents. How does Grandma, the straight-laced daughter of a lawyer from Ogden, Utah end up moving away from both of their families to Oakland, California with Camper, a street tough who used to sneak down to Salt Lake City trying to pick up some extra money as a prize fighter? (Somehow I could pronounce Grandma, but Grandpa came out Camper and it stuck.) I never got it out of them. Something tells me he was the sweetheart, and she was the wild one.
Because when I knew them, that is how they seemed to me. He was mild-mannered, and she was feisty. I think they followed the railroad looking for economic opportunity. Camper was a manager at a Safeway grocery store, and when he was passed over for a promotion, they opened a neighborhood market and deli 15 miles west of Brentwood in Pittsburg, California. At the end of World War II, Camper had passed through Pittsburg’s Camp Stoneman on the way to clean-up duty in the Pacific Theater. He thought it was a nice place. It turned out he thought it not just nice, but perfect.
They bought a house in a predominantly Italian neighborhood. Apparently German and Welsh short people were welcome (Camper was 5’-2” and Grandma was lucky if she was 5’ even)! They raised three kids, made their closest friends, and hosted every Thanksgiving where we played football on the narrow streets while waiting for dinner. We still eat Italian sausage and potatoes on Christmas Eve just like their neighbors taught them. And a fried chickpea paste pancake called ‘pinelli’ on Christmas morning. That neighborhood supported the store, helped with PTA scholarships for Dad’s schooling, and were Dad’s first and most loyal patients when he hung his dental shingle all the way out in Brentwood.
And the store supported the neighborhood. When the mills went on strike, you could run a tab at Heights Market. If you were a little short in the pocket or your man hadn’t come home for a while, you could get some food that never made it on the tab.
When my grandparents lost their lease, Camper joined the Teamsters delivering groceries. Sometimes my grandfather would pick me up after school and take me on his deliveries to small grocery stores in Oakley, Brentwood, Byron and Knightsen. He almost always had a toothpick in his mouth and would split a stick of spearmint gum with me.
Grandma joined Dad’s dental office and taught him how to ‘run a damn business.’ They skip all that in dental school. I still remember the day she was teaching me how to sign my name like a ‘professional.’ “Jeff, they will not take you seriously, if you don’t take yourself seriously.” She wasn’t all business. She was fun and loved a good time. You got a glimpse when every once in a while, she would grab my grandfather and they would ‘old-time’ dance. They never forgot the steps, and I could glimpse a 16-year-old girl ready to break out of convention and expectations.
I loved hearing the stories of the many nights my grandmother and her best friend would wait in the dark at the Pittsburg Golf Club listening for their husbands to come in laughing and shouting as they looked for their golf balls in the twilight. Her retelling was better than the story, and I would often start laughing well before the punch line, such was her joyful energy.
After his funeral, my grandmother loved telling me stories of her beloved little tough guy. They were still in the house in Pittsburg. At that time, you bought your house and paid it off! She offered me something out of his closet. I chose his sports coat that he wore to church. A couple of weeks later, I was wearing it when I stuck my hand in a pocket. I found a toothpick and a half stick of Wrigley’s. Thanks, Universe.
She lasted a lot longer, but not better. For a lot of that time, her sharp, tough mind went missing. Hey Universe, that was a very dirty and nasty trick.
My paternal grandparents left everything behind to find a future for their family. They started in business without any examples or help, teaching the family to stick together through thick and thin. Like her pioneer ancestors circling the wagons, my grandmother felt completely at ease pulling my fiance aside and informing her that Thanksgiving was at 38 Panoramic every year for all time, no ifs ands or buts. It was an awkward conversation on the drive back to my fiance’s house as I tried to explain the work that we had ahead of us on this issue.
After such a shocking first chat, you may be surprised to learn that almost forty years later, my wife gets a little stuffy if anyone skips out on this holiday. She had her own pioneer heritage and might have been a bit more like my grandmother than she knew.
Now, when I look back and see the times I have jumped into the unknown, I say a prayer of thanks for those two rascals. And then I go and practice my signature.
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.