The Craftsman

There is a constant flow of ideas out here.

A giant bee and butterfly garden here; a bigger herb garden there; decorative fencing breaks between the drive and the back, the back and the grass, the grass and  the gardens.

The promise of the land whispers, How long have I lain dormant, thirty or more? More than that contributed to the ruination of the house and what it had become. There was just too much to do, the farmers thought to themselves as they watched the Twins fall apart. They considered buying both houses to tear them down because the land underneath was more useful.

In the early part of this century a man found the main house and fell in step with reviving her. He worked tirelessly for many years, a craftsman himself who did much of the work. New windows, and floors, and walls, and bathrooms, and a better kitchen, electrical and septic, and a media room in the attic upstairs. Friends and family helped.

And underneath it, the rich, mocha soil became a dump for the construction worksite and the farmers itched to get their hands on it, or so the story goes.  Before this there had been 35 years of renters who grew pot in the back, and the sheriffs deputies snuck through the corn fields to get the drop on them. Some had a menagerie of unfenced farm animals wandering into the street stopping traffic and eating in the farmer's fields.  Some had too many cars and too much junk. The whole town lived here at one point, and there is still the occasional stop-on-by'er to tell us how they are connected.

Putting up a garage after a century caused quite a stir at the Post Office, which is still open despite the Postmistress retiring a couple of years back. Her mother before her was the Postmistress, and her Aunt. The USPS didn't want to keep it open but finally agreed that someone from the community can work it 9-1, pass out the mail, sell stamps and mail packages if you have cash.

Our little acre has a little garden in back, an herb garden on the side, a Iris garden faded and needing to be cleared, and an artichoke and berry fenced area that doesn't do a very good job of keeping out the squirrels, the birds or the dogs. There's a run next to the garage and a backstop all the way in the back for target shooting. Dotted around are olives, 5 of them, two pomegranates, two mission figs, and an almond that is making a comeback. And about 25 glorious Valley Oaks in all shapes and sizes.

Most of the land is flat and unused. There's more than our share of ground squirrel tunnels and we knock down weeds, and there's a low perimeter of water troughs for the crops that stretch in all directions all the way to the buttes. I long for a lush and orderly space reflecting my hands in the soil springing with life.

I discouragingly wonder if time and energy and money will ever permit a transformation.  And then I think of the Craftsman, his patience, his ingenuity, his devotion to the house, how he must have felt as he transformed it into what he imagined it could be.  It would have taken years, more money than I can imagine, and more talent than I possess. Had he given up, who knows where the house would be, maybe in a heap of lumber somewhere having been cleared for the crops that would take its place.

What a crying shame that would have been. Our beautiful home is a testament to a thousand people connected here, lives won and lost, chock full of memories. The Craftsman reminds me everyday that it is about the journey, after all.