Thanks
to the Orange Blossom Festival and several class reunions, many of Lindsay’s eagles returned
to the nest this past weekend, a remarkable homecoming.
I had one on my porch Friday afternoon in
anticipation of Saturday’s events, Stan Rice.
Some of you may remember him from high school: fundamentalist, nerdy, ‘way-too-bright kid
who is now a Christian Environmentalist in a way that is not an oxymoron. Stan writes, teaches and leads evolution
field trips in his parents’ home state of Oklahoma. “I just flew in from
Tulsa,” he said when he called to let me know he was here. “My arms are really tired...” Stan still tells cornball jokes, but his
heart is true and his mind is sharp as ever.
Bob Puls’ brother David was also in
town for his 53rd. David’s lived Down South most of his adult life, and is the only
person I’ve heard so far who can offer one reason why the price of ag land around here is
soaring through the stratosphere at a time when you can’t live on the income
from oranges and there’s no guarantee of water in the foreseeable future. Everyone around here just watches with their
jaws hanging open.
I myself was not here for
Saturday’s festivities. I was singing
backup in Porterville with “The Standlees,” Diane and Tommy, with Jesse McCuin
on standup bass and me on tambourine, conga shaker and autoharp. We’d managed to get ourselves booked for the Iris Festival before
we realized we’d be missing OBF as well as two nearby rodeos, but it was alright.
There we were, singing in the rain
under two little tents that shed their collected stormwater every time the wind
blew, while the generator running the PA equipment roared and the feedback
squealed and groaned. Diane was belting
out a line from “Master of the Wind,” and it sent shivers through me. “Sometimes I soar like an eagle to the
sky. Among the peaks my soul can be
found. An unexpected storm may drive me from the high. It can bring me low but it cannot bring me
down.” Day to day, life sometimes
can be daunting to Diane, but not when she’s singing. Then nothing stops her.
Later that evening Jesse and I were
up at the casino to hear the Oak Ridge Boys.
They said they were glad to be here, and even knew where “here” was: first they were in Porterville, then they
started driving up, up, up. “Eagle
Mountain,” said one, “I guess that’s still in Porterville,” and all the
Portervillians clapped and hooted. But
we were really nestled among the peaks to the east, the ones that catch the
rain and save us our drinking water.
When someone announced mid-way through the concert that it was raining
again, everyone cheered, including the Boys and the Mighty Oaks Band.
Some writers have noted the brain
drain in rural areas, and it’s not hard to notice on a weekend such as the
last. What these Brains have done,
however, is leave the fate of their hometowns in the hands of people who,
perhaps, have a little more heart and a little more faith in harness with their
minds, and willingness to put up with the every day consequences of being
attached to a place. May our all our
souls soar among the peaks.
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Trudy
Wischemann is a writer committed to rural places in California’s Central
Valley. You can send her your eagle
sightings c/o P.O. Box 1374, Lindsay CA 93247 or leave a comment below.
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