Quilt Squares

The quilt of farm life is complex, brilliantly colored and serves as a constant reminder of our roots. The thread which binds us all together, winds through this quilt in a most circuitous fashion, criss-crossing itself multiple times, as lives interact and continue to add quilt squares to the image of farm life we have created.

Farming is not so much a business as it is a lifestyle. In relocating from the Bay Area back in 1982 for good, Gluten-Free Mama and I did not consider ourselves to be back-to-the-landers, so much as escapees from the asylum.

Raising kids on the streets of San Jose was not an enticing thought, so the move up to Bell Springs Road came about not long after we found out that we had a little Sod-Buster on the way. After all, it’s awfully hard to grow produce in downtown San Jose.

Having purchased my twenty acres in 1975, I had been making my monthly $68.00 payment to the Bank of Mendocino for seven years already, with another six to go. Even in 1982, a sixty-eight dollar monthly payment for twenty acres seemed ridiculously puny, and we paid it with a smile.

By virtue of the fact that my folks had already made the move from La Puente, in SoCal, up to The Bell in 1977, GF Mama and I moved into a three-generational living arrangement up here on the mountain. I built our home only ten minutes’ walk-or two minutes’ drive-from the ‘rents.

Papa had just turned sixty. I slipped into a role of providing support for various endeavors of his, including his little cannabis patch. It was entirely in the shade and located where footing was treacherous, at best.

In addition to hauling his home-made soil amendments to this site, I also performed the task of sexing his plants. He just never trusted his eyes and relied on me to be Johnny-on-the-spot during that crucial time span in the spring, when these matters were determined. 

Papa helping me with my foundation in June, 1982.

For the last fourteen years of his life, I was part of the support system for him and Mama, along with my brother Matt and sister Laura-and Rob-simply because I lived next-door to Papa on the mountain. When he passed in 1996, I continued to provide support for Mama, who remained here on the mountain by herself in a big, open house, for another sixteen years.

This co-existence with three generations in our community continued until 2012, when Pauline moved down to Willits to be closer to her doctor. She was 89 at the time and still commuting from up on the mountain, to Willits and Ukiah to shop and seek medical care.

From 1996 onward, Mama was cared for up here on the mountain, primarily by me, Matt, Noel and Laura/Rob. I handled the day-to-day things that could be penciled in on a calendar, such as keeping the wood box filled, emptying compost and ash buckets, and other chores that made her life a little easier. 

Matt handled the emergencies, such as the generator not starting, in the middle of a snow storm, or the car not starting the same morning Mama had a doctor’s appointment down in Willits. Every summer I spent a couple of weeks weed-eating over there, and I grew a little kitchen garden for Mama, so she’d have fresh tomatoes and squash.

The things we did for their grandparents, did not go unnoticed by the three boys growing up in this household, especially since they were often part of the woodbox-filling and compost-emptying processes. They were taking notes even as they did so, whether they knew it or not.

Fast forward to the present and we can see that the lessons these notes recorded are coming into play now: 

HeadSodBuster installing
new metal roof.

Somehow the new metal roof was installed this fall, by HeadSodBuster, on the original part of my house. Whereas I was an expert at providing cold water and rolling phat bombers, I was not encouraged to go any higher than the bottom two or three rungs on the ladder. For my own protection, you know.

Stir-fry veggies, miso soup and other Gluten-Free Mama favorites continue to arrive in our refrigerator.

I was able to go up to HeadSodBuster’s spot and filch a pick-up truck of firewood the other day, to tide me over until we get some reinforcements.

Not a day goes by, hardly, that we are not asked if we need something from “town.”

It was BossLady and HeadSodBuster to whom I turned, not that long ago, when GF Mama had that scary brain seizure in the wee hours. I was never as frightened in my life. 

When I inquired about the availability of greens, cilantro, garlic, and onions, yesterday, HeadSodBuster dropped what he was doing, barely missing his foot, and hustled out into the rain to cut some fresh greens.

“Tell Mama there are plenty of collards and mustard greens,” he instructed me. I did so, accordingly.

When I obliterated that two-inch ag water line last summer, adroitly nailing it with my mattock as I am prone to do, it was SmallBoy who bailed me out… As for my propensity to destroy water lines, I can only say, it’s a gift.

HeadSodBuster and Jason

And, of course, there is Sacramento, and the commute every two weeks for GF Mama’s immunotherapy. I have yet to make one of these runs, which means that others step up each time to make this happen for GF Mama.

We do not have a unique situation up here on the mountain, as multi-generational living arrangements are as old as mankind, but we have created a community-oriented environment that has a built-in, mutually beneficial structure in place with strong selling points on both sides.

GF Mama and I had HeadSodBuster and BossLady over here Friday night for a taco extravaganza and a film (“Why Him?”), and again on Saturday night, along with SmallBoy and Dancing Girl (Roast chicken and Jack Nicholson’s “As Good As it Gets”).

GF Mama and I have the time and inclination to cook; the younger set is always on the go, their business and political demands vast and insistent. Therefore, if we can hook them up with a breakfast on the fly, or a leisurely dinner, while propped up in front of the entertainment center, then I feel we are helping to balance matters out.

Dicing jalapenos

I had the time and motivation this summer to put up 33 quarts of cold-pack tomatoes, three huge batches of marinara sauce, and two extraordinary efforts at catsup, the second one featuring smoked paprika. Additionally, I processed tomato paste, pizza sauce, hot sauce and finally, chunky salsa.

I encourage everyone to hammer these tomato products because I want them gone by this time next summer, when the process starts all over again. As I mentioned, a mutually beneficial arrangement if ever there were one.

There are many such efforts that we, the more mature set, can offer which help provide support for the younger set, including keeping an eye on little ones, when that joyous time arrives. It’s all part of the program, the one which follows an ageless script.

Logistically, a multi-generational living arrangement is most challenging for most, either because of distance or because of invisible walls. I recognize that we are most fortunate. I stop short of saying we are lucky, because luck had nothing to do with it. 

We created the foundation for this existence, one wheel-barrow of firewood at a time, and I am inordinately aware of-and grateful for-that which is being done for GF Mama and me.

With that in mind, I feel a dinner of shepherd’s pie coming on, and I have been saving Ben Affleck’s “The Accountant” for just such an occasion. Maybe I’ll run it up the flagpole, and see if anyone salutes it…

Breakfast "on the fly."