I stood in the morning sun, sipping my third cup of coffee. I surveyed the southern property line near where David and seven-year-old Jon had begun building that chicken pen last weekend. It would be nice to have chickens around again. It was a long time since our own children were young and raised chickens in 4H club. Kathy had eight or nine hens and a big red rooster over at the mobile, and planned to get more chicks. Ducks, too. Perhaps a goat. The country within me was returning. The farmer at heart was taking over. Just as it did last night, I could feel the city flaking off my back. I felt at home as I hadn't for a long time.
It was difficult to distinguish one five-acre parcel from the next. Maybe the property line was beyond that lovely large oak. I did hope that tree was on Kathy's land. I pictured this trailer parked up there. The sun was warm - the soil moist. I was anxious to get more garden planted. I love gardening. Actually, I love digging dirt. It brings back childhood memories of my own mother, with her apron and farmer's hat, tending her flowers. Kathy is much like her. Gardening is in her blood too. Not long ago she earned a degree in ornamental horticulture.
She had begun the garden here about three months ago - the very first thing after escrow closed. No matter that the well wasn't in yet. No matter that it seldom rains in California after June. Four apple trees and a bed of asparagus were planted the very day the land was hers.
To show faith there would soon be water, she'd continued planting and extending the garden. Today she and the kids were going to set out tomatoes. They would be coming over the hill any time now. They walked the half mile almost daily to work in the garden. Half a mile straight up, over a hill, and straight down again, often dragging a wagon and wheelbarrow with them.
The developer of this area laid the roads seemingly at random without regard for the lay of the land. Maybe he simply drew nice rectangle son a map as if it was all flat land. Narrow roads were placed in the strangest places - often precariously on the edge of a cliff, or straight up a hill that looked as if only a mountain goat could climb. Fawn Lane has both. It is a narrow road at best, barely room for two cars to pass, replete with chuck holes and washouts. There was still a huge washout by the mobile where the garbage truck had fallen through the road last winter. It was quite a sight they say. There was a photo of the poor truck in the newspaper. The solution was to quit picking up garbage along Fawn Lane. Now Kathy has to haul it to the dump on occasion. At least they don't generate much garbage with the chickens and garden to get most of it.
I thought of that spring day the city was oppressingly noisy, and the March winds were calling me out - out for a ride in the country. Ralph and I drove up the highway here to Squaw Valley to visit Kathy and the grandkids. After the usual excited greetings, Kathy asked if I would like to walk over the hill. Since I had not yet seen their new five-acre parcel, I eagerly took the opportunity. I've walked the countryside, off and on roads, and was in fair shape physically, but thought I'd die before reaching the top of Fawn Lane, it was so steep. At the top it leveled off, curved around, then - I saw this house almost straight below us just around the curve.
"That's the Reimer's house. They live across the road from our place - well, sort of across the road - about a quarter mile on further."
"That house is on this road?"
"Yes."
"You're sure."
Kathy laughed as I tried hard to keep from slipping and sliding. I had no desire to roll down this hill. By hanging on to fence posts and zig-zagging, we made it down to the top of David and Kathy's new purchase.
A strange place indeed to place a road. Even stranger was the fact that all along the way, including the slope from the Reimer's up to the top of the hill, the whole area was neatly divided into these five acre parcels. Whether or not anyone could actually walk on them they were homesites. Most had "For Sale" signs of various antiquities. I stood beside one such sign at the edge of the road and looked eye-to-eye with the top of a tree. The other end of this parcel was straight below us.
Kathy's land, however, was across the road.
"The water tank will go up here. It's the highest point of our property. Then we can gravity flow it to the house."
"Where's the well?"
"They drilled it down on the other side of those trees. The pump isn't in yet, but there's water down about a hundred feet. David wanted them to drill a bit closer to the road, but at least there's water." Kathy was eager to show off her place. It was indeed lovely. "There's about an acre here that is fairly level. The rest of the parcel goes down over the edge to a creek. Come on. I'll show you."
"We're walking on the top of a ridge then , with the land going steep down on both sides?"
"Yeah, something like that. "
We left the pavement and started down toward their future homesite. The four young apple trees were neatly planted in a clearing between groups of oaks.
"David and I planted those the day escrow closed." She wandered around them, touching the smooth branches, heavy with bud, and pulling a weed or two. "This is a Granny Smith. This one a Yellow Delicious . . . I still need to buy a Jonathan for Jon." Jonathan would indeed like a namesake tree. Four year old Heather had loved it last winter when Kathy bought her small heather bush with a pink bow tied around the pot.
'Come see the pine trees!" Kathy was gone again to the roadside where several five-feet tall pines waved in the breeze. "They aren't natives, but I got them from the local nursery and they do well here. There are three more along the property line." She pointed northeast. "I want to get mainly native plantings - save watering, good aesthetics, you know."
We surveyed where the house would go, the future barn and corral, the greenhouse. We walked around a small lopsided driveway that had been hastily cleared of grass for the well drilling truck to use the month before.
It had rained for a week or more when the drillers came. They tried to get the heavy unit into position to drill the well but the grass was slippery. The mud sticky. The truck slipped and slid at least ten feet, leaving deep ruts that were still quite visible. They left, and wouldn't return to work until there was a reasonable facsimile of a driveway for them to park on.
Kathy told me how David had rented a tiny bulldozer and fashioned the driveway, and the same day had made an attempt at digging the septic tank hole. Neither was totally successful, but the driveway sufficed and the well was drilled two weeks later. It only produced a little over a gallon of water a minute - barely acceptable by county regulations. But if they were careful and if they put in a storage tank, it would do. No apple orchards, but it would do.
The little bulldozer had a narrow turning radius, and Kathy said it was almost impossible for he pickup to make the driveway curve in one shot. Especially now that a huge pile of large gravel was sitting at the far edge. David had high hopes that he could dig the entire septic system himself and had ordered the necessary gravel one day when he was out near the gravel pit by the river.
We had a great afternoon complete with another straight down, and later, straight up hill climb around the perimeter of the parcel. It was going to be a wonderful place to bring up the kids. It had several varieties of trees to climb. Lots of open space. Wildlife. Poison Oak.
During the weeks that followed Kathy added to her garden below the apple trees. For several reasons she decided on raised beds. One was that she already had four at the mobile that she planned to move over. Also, she figured contained beds would conserve water, plus the fact she was not sure yet how fertile the soil was. They would keep out most varmints. And, not the least reason, she had been doing square-foot gardening for some time.
Some of the boxes were already producing lettuce and spinach and peas by the time we moved the trailer in. She and the kids had walked that half mile killer hill every morning to work the garden, often dragging along tools and fertilizer and what-not in the little red wagon and a wheelbarrow.
One day she constructed a lean-to between a couple young oak trees that had died from frost or lack of water. Their trunks were post size and served the purpose once the scraggly branches had been cut off. David had cut the tops from the leaving high poles to tie a tarp onto. This tarp then was tied around rocks and underbrush to hold it close to the ground on the opposite side of the garden. This left a nice shelter with a view where the weary gardeners could take a break, eat lunch, and enjoy the progress of their labor. After a few trips with the wagon, the gardening tools were simply left there under the shelter for the next morning's work.
Perhaps we were in a session of drought, what with these dead young trees here and there around the hillsides. Or maybe the winters were much colder than once was. I noticed hundreds of acorns that had sprouted infant trees scattered under many of the oak trees, but no young seedlings of any larger sizes. Then, again, I wasn't certain if oaks did their reproduction thing every year or only on occasion.
It was a bit late in the season to et the tomatoes and summer seed crops in, but the soil was just right to plant. This late May morning we not only planted many of the summer vegetables, we dug one of the beds twice as deep and planted several varieties of potatoes. We planted asparagus, and a row of grape vines. The large sloping area between the chicken pen and the formal garden beds was broadcast to wheat. She wasn't crazy - the soil had just the right moisture. There would be a few more rains yet. At least one or two before the pump was in the well, then she could use sprinklers on it until time to harvest.
But the spring rains did not materialize. By early June the whole garden needed water.
"No rain forecast, even long-range. We've got to water the plants." Kathy was becoming quite concerned. David was buying the pump soon, but there was no way any of their own water could reach the plants before some of the seedlings died.
We were sitting out on the deck of their mobile home, contemplating the dilemma.
"Haul some over," David volunteered. We didn't think he was even listening as he pored through house plan magazines.
"How, in buckets?" Kathy called to the kids to get their showers and ready for bed. There was no grass around the mobile, just dirt and rocks. The kids didn't seem to mind that, but they sure got dusty every day. "Michelle! Help Heather!" Michelle would be ten in the fall, old enough to be hoping for her own room in their own house before her birthday.
"Mom! She's not letting me!"
"Heather!"
Somewhere in the usual getting-ready-for-bed confusion the ;idea came. Kathy motioned to David and me to follow her outside in the waning daylight. She poked around under the mobile with a broom handle until she found the right box stored under there. "Get that one, David."
"What's in it anyway?" He pulled it out and opened the flaps, cautious of any critters or snakes who had taken refuge inside.
"The old waterbed mattress. Remember we kept it in case Michelle wanted it at the new house?"
"Does she?"
"Doesn't matter. This one is going into the pickup bed, not Michelle's bed."
It took a couple minutes to figure out what Kathy had in mind.
It might work! It would work! It fit the pickup bed almost perfectly.
"Where's the hose adapter?" Her head was into the cardboard box again sorting, tossing. "It's not here!"
"Where's the new one?"
"You had it last when we filled the new mattress."
"Then its on the back porch. In the cabinet above the washer." David wandered into the house.
"Did he go to get it, or shall I?" I went back into the house, bumping into David as he came out with the adapter. It was almost too dark to see what we were doing, so, with a twinge of disappointment, we waited until morning to fill the mattress.
"We'd have to wait 'til then to see if it works anyway, "Kathy shrugged as I left to go back over the hill to the trailer.
I couldn't wait until they arrived in the morning. I caught a ride over the hill with Ralph when he left for school. Kathy couldn't wait either. She already had the mattress half full of water, the garden hose snaking from the mattress to the faucet beside the well at the mobile. We stood watching the mattress rise slowly, its wrinkles filling with water. We could see bubbles floating around inside, rising to the surface of the plastic, until the thing was totally filled. The kids wanted to ride on the undulating gray mass, but had to pile in front with us.
"We don't know if its even going to stay in the pickup going over the hill." Kathy warned them not to fuss about it, but watch from the back window.
Everyone but the driver had our faces stuck to that back window as we climbed slowly up the hill, the truck laboring under the added load. It was fascinating watching the mass pile up against the tail gate, then level off at the top of the hill.
"Watch out, here it comes!" shrieked Michelle as we started down the steepest side of the hill. The water crashed against the cab, burying the garden hose in the process and causing children's faces to retreat a bit from the window.
Jon worried about how were we going to get the hose out from under the mattress.
"Just wait and see." Kathy slowed to a crawl, carefully picking her way off the road and onto a makeshift driveway near the apple trees. "Now watch." She turned the pickup so the tailgate was lower than the cab and the water slowly made its way toward the rear. "Now get out and grab the hose while the stuff is moving."
I jumped out and with Michelle's help pulled most of the hose free. We climbed up inside the back of the pickup. Michelle bounced on the waterbed while I tugged and pulled on the stiff slippery plastic, trying to raise it up a bit further. Kathy was out by now and pulled on the hose. Finally it broke free and she began stretching it down the slope toward the garden amidst cheers from her audience still inside the cab.
"Its not quite long enough. Next time we need to bring another hose."
"Will it work?"
"We can get all but the grain I think. We probably would have to go back for another load of water first anyway. Michelle, can you screw the hose onto the waterbed?"
        Jon was down with Kathy, excitedly jumping up and down. "Can I water? Can I?"
        "We'll all get turns. You and heather do the vines and berries. I want to do the little seedlings first."
        "There it comes!"
        "I'm getting all wet!"
        "So, it's a hot day. Enjoy."
        The garden was watered with ease. Just like from a real faucet and a real water system.
Many such trips were made during the warm days of June. The trips over the hill went well for the most part. One morning the tail gate was not closed tight. I was riding over with them, and almost at the top of the hill, just as the water lumped to the rear, it pushed the tailgate open. Kathy yelled "hang on!" and slammed on the brake. This was enough to get the momentum going toward the cab, and I scooted out and quickly slammed the tailgate.
       One evening only half the water had been drained out and it was getting too dark to see any longer. Kathy needed the pickup to drive to town in the morning for the storage tank, so the only solution was to push the waterbed out and finish draining it when she got home again. We lowered the tailgate and climbed in, with each step sinking into the folds of the half-full mattress. We pushed and struggled with it, wondering why it was so hard now and it was about to fall out on its own a couple days earlier. Finally after major effort, the mattress plopped to the ground. It lay on the grassy slope below us a few moments, quivering from the fall.
       Then, from deep within its recesses, an ominous bulge raised like an internal tidal wave. We stood transfixed as this huge gray jellyfish stretched its back and arched forward, bellying its way slowly down the hill in the waning twilight, gaining momentum as it rolled along.
       Jumping down from the back of the truck, we ran along beside it, putting obstacles in its path, trying to stop it. We use anything we found to block its advance toward the garden. It had to be stopped. The thing seemed alive as it bellied over rocks, over feet, whatever we hurriedly found to try to stop its slow but steady advance. It had to be stopped. Not only were the vegetables and young apple trees in danger, but should it miss them, the steep canyon was just beyond - almost straight down for a quarter of a mile through poison oak and who knew what in the darkness.
       Then I remembered the long board in the back up the pickup and ran to get it. We stood it on edge and let the rolling waterbed pile up against it. Kathy found a couple large rocks to block it upright, and relieved that we had it stopped, she went on home.
     I had to go to town in the morning with Ralph and didn't think about the waterbed until we were all home that afternoon. Kathy came over to finish watering the garden and called me to the garden. The waterbed jellyfish was oozing under our board dam. Half of it was now on the other side. Garden hose in hand, Kathy marveled at its perseverance.
Then there it came - almost like a heartbeat - a rhythmic pulsing as it tried one last time to roll free.

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