When I think of my family home, I first remember it from the outside. Outside was my paradise – my haven from the drama inside the house.
We lived in Central California where the weather was always mild. Never too hot, never too cold. We raised animals for our protein needs. There was a large, fenced area at the far end of the property for our sheep to roam, and a shed where hay and feed were stored that also held cages where our rabbits lived – until we needed them. Chicken, ducks and geese roamed freely on the property. Our attempts to keep them caged failed. Hunting for eggs wasn’t just an Easter activity.
As a child, in summer, I would head outside after breakfast each morning and not come back in until dinner, save for bathroom breaks. We did have an old outhouse down by the creek, though, if an emergency should arise. My parents had built it to use while they were building our house the year before I was born.
There was a dirt path that led from the front of the property down the hill to the creek below. There I would play with tadpoles and poke the black beetles we called Stink Bugs with sticks until they raised their hind ends up to deliver their stench.
Up a hill at the far end of the creek there were oak trees that I climbed and sometimes fell out of. A rope was tied to a branch that overhung the downward slope to the creek. The other end of the rope was tied around an old piece of wood. It was great fun to swing out as far as I could over the slope – until the day the rope broke, and I landed hard, halfway down the hill.
The back yard beyond our lawn was dedicated to growing food. On one side we grew at least one tree of just about any fruit you could imagine. We grew apples, peaches, nectarines, cherries, pears, plums, and apricots – you just haven’t lived until you’ve eaten a ripe apricot right off the tree!
On the other side of the garden, various grape varieties wound their vines along long rows of wire fence. I grew to love concord grapes! Mother made her own grape juice concentrate and froze it in canning jars to keep us in supply. We also had blackberries, raspberries, and boysenberries – my favorite!
A hill sloped up from the back lawn to the garden and was covered in rows of strawberry plants. All this for a family of five. What we couldn’t eat or Mother couldn’t find a way to preserve, we would share with our neighbors.
We grew the occasional potato or tomato as well, but fruit was our primary focus. And there was a walnut tree – in the front yard, for some reason.
When I say I would stay outside until dinner, I mean there was no need to go in and make myself a sandwich. I’d just go pick something from the garden if I got hungry.
When I think back to that time, it feels magical, in spite of the family trauma that came with it. I was blessed to have had the experience of farm-to-table eating.
These days I live on the East Coast, where the weather is less mild – too hot in summer and too cold in winter. But every spring I’m inspired to get outside and start a garden – on a much smaller scale, of course. I’ve had many failures over the years, but I’ve also had my fair share of successes. I find it therapeutic to dig in the soil, and when I can fill my plate with this year’s successes, I am fulfilled.
