When I was a kid growing up in southern California my mom would sometimes take me driving around in the mountains in her old VW bug. She told me about how she had lived up there, in a little cabin, before I was born, and how she'd had a wood stove–or maybe it was a fireplace–anyhow I could picture the fire, how it crackled and glowed, and I could imagine the smell of woodsmoke as it burned. And while we were driving around up there I could smell it for real–the smoke in the cold air, the smell of wood and warmth and comfort. And there was the fresh scent, when we got out of the car, of sage and earth, sycamore and bay and oaks. The oaks were my favorite; they seemed comfortable, personable–their branches spreading outward, low to the ground, their trunks twisted and sometimes gnarled. Looking at them, there was a sense of age, and something of the dignity or pathos associated with it. To me they were inexpressibly beautiful.
When I was fourteen I realized that I could either walk south, to school, or north… to the mountains. North meant freedom. If I started early enough I could walk from my house. It took an hour to get to the nearest trailhead, then a couple more up the trail to a large sloping meadow. From the top of it, past the rock outcroppings and the sea of blue and white ceanothus that covered the hills, I could see the ocean.
Besides the rush of energy, endorphins and mental clarity that hiking gave me, I gained a kind of perspective, the kind one does in such a setting–where you’re physically high up, looking down–about life and my life and what was important to me or important at all, and one idea that often impressed itself upon my mind was the futility of spending any more time at school. Armed with all this perspective, I found it easier and easier to skip classes, in favor of… anything else. Eventually I just stopped going.
Instead, during the week, I hiked to the meadow. I rarely saw anyone else there. I took my dog and food and books with me, a blanket to sit on, a journal, sometimes my violin. On weekends I returned with friends or boyfriends. I imagined how it would be if I could live there. I checked out books about woodsy handmade houses from the library. I made a little drawing, drew it on my jeans, drew it on my violin case. The picture showed me–a stick figure in boots, a dog, an oak tree, a cabin. It was very romantic. It’s embarrassing to think about now, but I was fourteen, so that’s my excuse. Anyhow, the drawing was meant to represent my ultimate dream, or plan. At that time it was a plan, to grow up and get some land in the mountains and live there. Later, and for a long time, it was reduced to being nothing more than a dream.
In my early twenties I lived in a tent, a VW bus, a cargo van, a car. For a little while I lived in a large bay tree over a creek, and bathed in a swimming hole below it. More often than not though I found myself stopping by my parents house, to shower, to cook the macaroni and cheese I'd just stolen from Safeway, and to eat it–while watching TV. By my thirties I was a homeowner with a TV of my own.
I’ve lived in a lot of different places by now; mostly cities, which are always interesting and fun, but still–I felt like living in them was just a pause, just a stop on the way to my ultimate plan, because I had never stopped thinking about that, and the stick figure drawing that had it so clearly mapped out. And even though for a long time it had only been a sort of dim fantasy, the older I became, the stronger it got.
Now I’m back in California. I live in a small town in the foothills, about a fifteen minute walk to the national forest and a short drive away from my parents and the town I grew up in.
In the cooler months, I take my young son into the mountains, onto the trails near our house, and teach him the names of the plants. We smell them and learn about them and breathe it all in. He knows which plants are safe to touch and which aren’t. We keep our eyes out for poison oak. I show him the differences between yerba santa and poodle-dog bush and we sing the poison oleander song when we see one. We check out lion and bear tracks and stay still when we hear a rattle. We gather red toyon berries and pink peppercorns for our Christmas tree and make garlands of eucalyptus leaves. During the week, he goes to a hippie school under the oak trees and does art projects with acorns. On weekends we drive to visit my parents–through hills covered in elderberry and sage, and in the spring, blue and white flowering ceanothus. When we see one, we shout: “I see another ceanothus!”
After a while we have to stop shouting though, because they’re everywhere.
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I’m so jealous. I was always goodytwoshoes. I also dream of living among trees but my job binds me to the big city and I hate driving so a commute is out of the question. But I’m curious- how did you got from stealing Mac and cheese to owning a TV?
You live in a privileged place Anna.
Loved the description of the ocean. I know those views far off in the distance. Thanks for sharing your young memories and recreating a time and a place.