“As they departed on the poet’s highway home, / they could not simply come home, fit in, / and settle. / There was nothing left of the infrastructure into which to fit. / So they are / summoned by this poetry to / the hard work of reconstruction.”
— Walter Brueggemann, “Journey to the Common Good,” 2010
Three weeks ago, just days after I wrote “Something There,” I jumped into my truck and took Highway 166 to Cuyama Valley. I needed to visit again, to ask with my own eyes, “Would there be something there without the carrot guys?” as I had claimed in print.
Leaving our valley, climbing up through the pass Pedro Fages likely had ridden down in Nov. 1772, I passed at least 4 double-trailered semis hauling dusty orange topless carrots out of Cuyama Valley to some Bakersfield-based processing plant. It was Sunday, but carrot harvest was clearly underway—in fact, almost over, given the bare, smoothed-out fields I saw when I arrived. Looking for signs of pre-carrot existence, I saw traces of what once might have been farmsteads: pairs of shade trees with no house below, driveways to nowhere, some shuttered homes. Otherwise there were only the now-bare, open carrot fields extending for miles.
(Old) Cuyama always fools me into thinking I’m almost to New Cuyama, but the small collection of older homes doesn’t pass for a community anymore. Pushing on, finally I saw the high school and the Catholic church west of 166, then the library/community center, the small section of modest homes on quiet streets and the Methodist church behind the market, gas station and The Buckhorn Restaurant & Bar. If you go much further, you’ve left New Cuyama. I worshiped with the Methodists and asked for prayers for a good outcome to the adjudication. Then I worked my way back up the valley on some side roads, crossing the Cuyama River near the intersection with Hwy 33, which could have taken me to Ventura if I’d turned south.
Would there be nothing there if the carrot guys left? That depends, I think, on whether they suck the aquifer dry first, and on whether we have the will to reconstruct the rural life those Cuyamans are now defending.
Last week, after reading “Something There,” a new friend said that he thought the carrot guys would think what I’m advocating is “quaint.” It’s been called worse: “quixotic” and “nostalgic” come to mind, as well as Steinbeck’s “dubious battle.” But luckily I’ve been reading Old Testament theologian/poet Walter Brueggemann lately in anticipation of Advent, and he has other words for it.
In the quote above, Brueggemann is gently laying out a program of faithful action for those of us interested in addressing “the failed urban fabric” that has unwoven so much of this country’s tapestry of rural life. He doesn’t say so directly; he lets the texts of Exodus, Isaiah and Jeremiah do the heavy lifting. But it is not hard to see the parallel between what YHWH wanted the Israelites to do in order that the world might more closely resemble his intention in creating it. It’s not hard to see that mission is to be continued by all people of faith, no matter what brand they call themselves. And it’s not hard to take some hope from that, seeing “quaintness” as something more prophetic and defensible through this alternative lens.
The Saturday following my trip to Cuyama, we Porterville Methodists met with our Central Valley District superintendent, Rev. Dr. Mary Maaga. Mary previously was pastor at Tulare UMC and knows this valley well. Near the end of the meeting, our new district layleader, Chris Waaldorp, was describing his pleasant drive to Porterville on back roads through all this “empty” land, and I found myself propelled to speak. I stood and said “Forgive me for interrupting, but we don’t let people talk about this place as if there’s nothing here anymore” and before I could sit down, many people were clapping. I didn’t know until that moment that even Portervillians feel the sting of rural places being seen as empty, tempting as clean slates, ripe for some kind of development.
Taking the poet’s highway home starts with imagining that it’s possible for things to be different, that we don’t have to accept the domination of land, water and economy by kings, carrot or otherwise. Imagine with me this Advent season. Then let’s get to work.
Trudy Wischemann is a rural advocate who writes. Send her your dreams of equality c/o P.O. Box 1374, Lindsay CA 93247. This column is not a news article but the opinion of the writer and does not reflect the views of the Mid Valley Times newspaper.
