We have reached the End

Native Americans believed that California was the end of the world. They believed that the world literally stopped at the California coast. Travelling beyond the land of one's people meant leaving the physical world and entering the spirit realm. Western Europeans and early US citizens had a somewhat similar view. For centuries, they had travelled west, but California was as far as they could go, if you don't count the Hawaiian Islands, which they didn't. It represented the end of exploration and expansion, the final destination, which gave it a larger-than-life status. And even today, California has a mystical quality. Just say the name and visions of palm trees, orange groves, white sandy beaches, lean and tanned bodies, Hollywood glamour, and a wealth of gold dance in one's mind. People imagine that it is paradise. And in truth, much of it is magnificent beyond words. Isolated on the west by the ocean and on the east by the mighty Sierra Nevada mountain range, California is a strange and exotic place.

I never dreamed of living here. I wanted to go to the Pacific Northwest, but after failing to gain admission to my preferred universities, I accepted northern CA as close enough. But once we moved here, I was intoxicated with the place. There is so much to see and do, and everywhere nature's bounty seems to drop freely from the vines and trees. I could easily understand why people told me, "You'll never want to leave."

All of this changed after living here awhile. I came to realize that the bounty is not free. Hardly free. California's great central valley is farmed by means of elaborate irrigation systems and hard-working immigrant labor. Left alone, little if anything would grow here. The valley has what is known as a "mediterranean climate." We get a lot of rain in the winter, almost three solid months of it. And everything floods. Storm drains become overloaded, and fears of New Orleans-like levee breeches dominate the media and people's minds. Then after March, the rain stops like a dammed river, and things begin to die. What was once green and beautiful quickly takes on the golds and browns of dryness and death. The ground becomes rock hard, and the harsh winds rip the moisture from the leaves, hurling them crunchily to the ground, often still emerald in their brittleness.

And the insects! Ants invade our house several times a year. We never know when, where, and in what numbers they will strike. We awake in the morning to find ants in the kitchen cabinets or stumble to the bathroom during the night to find the countertop crawling with tiny black scavengers. Spiders envelope every bush, every home in webs, and these webs catch the dust that the farms and the wind stir up. Everything takes on an air of decay. One cannot even step outside without a coating of Deet or risk getting West Nile Virus.

And all of those wonders, those magnificant landscapes that you hear about, you must drive for hours and hours to reach them, and in between... nothing. Poor farms and empty desert. True, CA is the most populous state, but the people cluster in large cities on the coasts where houses are small and expensive and the seasons never change. In the south, it's always dry and hot, and in the north, neither warm nor cold, but chilly and damp all year round. Or they fashion modest towns in the valley, like the one we live in, where people struggle against nature with sprinklers and immigrant gardeners to create artificial oases where God never intended, ever vigilant against the barrenness and the bugs. And eventually, even those far-flung places of grandness begin to annoy. They are too far to be convenient and too sublime to be lived in. One longs for modest or normal in a land that does not understand the concept.

Yesterday, I did something I have avoided for months. I went out into my garden. Oh, I'd made brief forays into it, but then I'd turned away in disgust. But my mother is coming for a visit, so I had to brave the elements and survey the damage. And what do you think I found? You may recall that I spent much of last year entirely relandscaping our home. I cleared overgrown ivy, observed light patterns, carefully developed a garden plan, installed irrigation hoses, and planted, and planted. There were some deaths in the beginning, but nothing beyond acceptable losses. Even after the heat of July and being away for over a month, we returned to find most of our shrubbery in decent, if not perfect shape. But the months of continued nastiness have eventually taken their toll. Whether from too little or too much watering I do not know, but nearly everything I had planted with care, attention, and much expense last fall, winter, and spring has succumbed. Little remains of my wonderful garden except a few vines (homes for the ubiquitous spiders), dry sticks, and a collapsing privacy fence.

I was very frustrated at first to say the least, but now I am starting to find relief. It is apparent to me that I have travelled outside the land of my people, and this is the end, this California. The wanderlust I have had all of my life is beginning to abate. Contrary to what people said, I do want to leave.

Of course, we'll have to live here for awhile, but I'll just imagine that it is a spirit world where reality does not exist. There is little need or use in expending money or time trying to make a home here. We don't belong here, we mortals. But as in the Native American legends, it is possible to return from the spirit world after a time, and in many ways, it feels good just to realize one's true place. Yes, I will go home. Just not today.