Seeing with New Eyes

 

I rode my motorcycle to Ventura today,

seeing Kern County more sharply,

through the eyes and words of a poet.

Sat up straighter in the saddle

so I could observe it all.

 A.C.

                            

It’s not unusual to go about our busy lives, looking but not seeing. Objects that are a part of our landscape become all too familiar and fade into the background, become invisible. Wallpaper, pieces of decor, the front door, people’s faces, a route that we travel. It may be days or weeks before we notice changes. 

What does it take to bring about awareness? For me, it was Bakersfield poet Don Thompson’s book-length narrative poem, Local Color, in which he shares his love of the southern San Joaquin Valley. Kern County in particular. Stories of real and imaginary people show up on the pages as he celebrates where we live and provides us with a greater sense of place. 

With Don’s poem and his voice resounding in my head, I took off on Big Red for a ride to Ventura. At Wheeler Ridge, I looked for evidence of the poppies, but it’s late in the spring, and they are, as Don put it, “. . . scraped from the land now . . .”.

I noticed the changes at General Edward Beale’s Tejon Ranch. Once cattle land, the buzz and whirr of construction replace the gentle sounds of the herds.  Coming Soon! an outlet mall!

Once over the Grapevine, in my mind’s eye, I could see Christo’s bright yellow umbrellas sprinkled on the hillsides. 

Recognition clicked as I approached the road sign for Lebec, the little town over the Grapevine, named for local legend, Peter Lebeck. Though I’d passed this way hundreds of times, and wondered about what ‘Lebec’ represented (on the days I was paying attention), Don’s poem brought it to life.

We talk about being ‘in the moment.’ Sometimes it takes a new awareness or a poetic reminder pushing us to see the world before us, compelling us to view it afresh.  Proust was correct, “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.”

~ xoA ~

B is for Bakersfield

We natives often refer to our southern California town as “The Bake” or “Bako.” Strangers from all across the country have been known to make snide remarks when we say where we’re from. “I’m sorry.” or “I’ve just wanted to get through there so never stopped.” A woman volunteer at the Visitors’ Center in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, recalled going through Bakersfield heat once and taking off her nylon stockings in the car while waiting for her husband. 

I’m astounded when I stop to realize that I’ve lived in Bakersfield for 40 years. Forty. Years.  I’d never heard of this place until a job opportunity came along. But I’d heard of California, seen movies and television shows that depicted a carefree beach or Hollywood life. Could Bakersfield be that far away from all this glamour? I dug out my Atlas and saw that Bakersfield was about an inch from the beach, and also an inch away from Los Angeles and from the Mojave Desert. What could be more perfect?

On an August day, after a week-long drive from Michigan for Bakersfield, my family left Las Vegas early, while the temperature was tolerable. At a gas station in the town of Mojave, I stepped out of my air-conditioned four-door sedan into a searing heat that left me gasping.  The temperature had soared to 112°. What was it about desert that I hadn’t understood? 

But Bakersfield became Home. Forty years of living: raising my girls, teaching school, continuing my education, playing hard, and contributing to the community. I made dear friends who mean the world to me and whose friendship has changed the course of my life.

Downtown mural

Sure, I could have accomplished those things anywhere, but where I landed shaped how they were done. Being in Bakersfield allowed opportunities and experiences, put obstacles and smooth paths and people in front of me, fashioned the person I became. That inch-away dot on the map gave me chances to explore and learn and grow.

Bakersfield is a community where people care about each other, giving of their time and resources to help folks in need. Witness the Bakersfield Relay for Life, which for several years now has raised over a million dollars for the American Cancer Society. Watch the spontaneous creation of a fund for donations to help a family that has lost their home to a fire or has incurred extensive medical expenses. Bakersfieldians are good-hearted.

When my mom moved to Bakersfield from Detroit, she marveled, “The people are so friendly. Everybody speaks when you meet them on the street. And there’s no snow!”

River Walk Park Rubber Ducky Run

Things have changed a lot since 1973 when the City Limits sign out on Highway 58 showed the population at 50,000. Today, it reads 350,000. In the southwest, northwest, and northeast regions of town, where open fields once lay, whole neighborhoods, parks, shopping complexes, and business districts have shot up. New roads and highways traverse the city. Returning ex-pats recognize few familiar spots when they come back to town. 

 

Yes, the unbearable summer temperatures are still one of Bakersfield’s claims to fame. In reference to that phenomenon, I lovingly say, “They don’t call it ‘The Bake’ for nothing.” It’s my HomeTown. 
 

~ xoA ~

20 Loves, Part 5: Coming Home

As much as I love to travel, coming home is sweet. 

 

“Coming home.” Those two words bring a smile of remembrance and satisfaction. On the last leg of the journey, “home” is the prevailing thought. 

I love when we turn the corner after being away. Our light green Bakersfield house comes into view, then our purple door. Once inside, we’re surrounded by colorful souvenirs and art from places we’ve visited. The comfort of our home renews us.

It’s great to be among my own stuff, in my own space. A familiar bed, a favorite chair, appliances that I know how to work. No bright light shining in my eyes, disturbing my sleep. We bask in our yard with the trees and plants that Judy placed in the ground, the funky art work that adorns our backyard fence, and our “tableaux of interest” as brother John puts it.

Coming home is a break from being on sensory overload. It’s a respite from being inundated by new sights, sounds, and tastes. I get to reconnect with myself in the familiarity of an environment that we’ve created. It’s the perfect place to rejuvenate and get ready to go again, knowing that it will be right here when I return.

In Coos Bay, this is our sixth summer in the Birch Street house. Now, this place is like coming home, too. But, that’s true of the whole town.

There is no place like home; or, wherever one feels at home.
 

~ xoA ~