Senior Women Web > Articles

HARVESTING NOSTALGIA

The impressively-named International Agri-Center sits at the southern edge of California's Central or San Joaquin Valley, made famous — or infamous — by John Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath.

Both the grapes and the wrath are still there, albeit in altered forms. The Dust Bowl migrants have given way to laborers from south of the border, many of them here illegally. Acres of Thompson seedless grapes, preferred in the production of raisins, have been ripped out and replaced by more profitable crops. Crushed by foreign competition, the once-vaunted raisin has forfeited its place in the California sun.

Bush Highway 99 slices through the Central Valley from Los Angeles to Sacramento. But when my husband and I headed north in our motor home to the Agri-Center for the 15th California Antique Farm Machinery Show this spring, we avoided congestion by sticking to parallel roads that thread through fertile farmland and small established agricultural towns like Delano and Hanford. Water has always been a problem for these communities, as it is for most of the Golden State. Still, with irrigation, rich soil, and generally benign weather, just about everything planted in the San Joaquin grows big.

When we arrived at our destination, we learned that a week earlier 'America's Mayor' and presidential wannabe, Rudy Giuliani, had been there to address what was billed as the "world's largest agricultural exposition" celebrating 40 years of innovative farming, and drawing experts from as far away as Australia, Nigeria and Croatia.

One of my friends later asked me how Rudy qualified to talk about agriculture recalling that he was born and bred in New York City. Well, remember A Tree Grows in Brooklyn?

As soon as we rolled into the fairgrounds, my husband, who was raised in Oklahoma, happily spotted a restored Oliver tractor similar to the one which he had driven in a summer wheat harvest in the late '40s before going off to college. He speaks often of that memorable — if somewhat harrowing — experience, when he traveled with a small crew across America's heartland looking for small farmers' fields to cut. Though most of those farms have been absorbed by giant conglomerates by now, his fondest memory is of the bountiful harvest midday dinners often provided by the farmers' wives.

But we hadn't come to the place just to ogle and reminisce. We had, in fact, signed on as part of the weekend display — not personally as relics, but as owners of an early, out-of-production motor home manufactured in the '60s and '70s, and still regarded as a revolutionary ancestor to the popular RV (recreational vehicle) industry.

Nine other owners of classic Cortez motor homes, all members of the Southern California Viajeros Club, had signed up for the event, and a newly-painted bright blue coach out of Bakersfield was already in place when we arrived at our designated display area. Its owner is a 90-year-old entrepreneur who has restored several Cortezes. He could probably afford a bigger, flashier motor home, but he's not buying it. His 30-year-old Cortez is, after all, his baby and often a challenge, such as when it recently broke down twice on the road and had to be towed back to Bakersfield. But the old gentleman hasn't found any rig he likes better, or one that runs — when it does run — more like a Mercedes automobile than a box on wheels.

By 7 a.m. the following morning, a couple hundred throbbing, sputtering and squawking vehicles, mostly tractors, queued up to participate in an hour-long parade. The ear-splitting racket barely abated for the rest of the weekend. Much of the farm equipment that clattered along the parade route bore names that even a city-slicker like myself could recognize: John Deere, International Harvester, Allis Chalmers, and Caterpillar, along with a host of lesser-known, now-defunct brands.

Farm machinery wasn't the only antique category on display. In the area across from us sat a row of husky semis, hauling trucks from the '40s and '50s, all painstakingly restored in metallic blue, with massive chrome radiator grids that made them look as menacing as Darth Vader.

A number of Model T and Model A Fords tooted around. One handsomely renovated number had originally been used as a milk truck at the turn of the 20th century. I can remember the pre-homogenization days, when milk was delivered to our door in a glass bottle with a thick, rich neck of separated cream. The trick was to spoon it off before someone else did.

After the parade, in a huge lot crammed with mostly antique farm machinery, an auction got underway and lasted well into the afternoon. Those interested in bidding paid for the privilege in advance. And though they mingled with a crush of on-lookers, their slightest gestures of interest were immediately acknowledged by spotters in the crowd. Two fast-talking (and to me, totally unintelligible) auctioneers stood at the counter of what looked like a white catering truck, which rolled down the rows from one ticketed item to the next. It took less than a New York minute to close each sale. At the end of the auction, large flat-bed trucks began arriving to haul off the prized purchases.

As for our own modest display of motor homes, it garnered its fair share of attention, and even a couple of potential buyers. Along with some 1,700 other participants, our group took part in steak and burger feeds, enjoying the live music of an female country rocker, Juice Newton. And we fielded inquiries about the history and features of what we sometimes call our "steel beasts." (Yes, the coaches were completely constructed entirely of steel, symbol of abiding strength and inevitable rust.)

Since the early 70s, we have personally owned four different Cortezes. They have transported us over 350,000 miles across the contiguous United States, Mexico, Canada and Alaska. So far this year, we've parked the beast near the Sea of Cortez in Sonora, Mexico and blanketed it with surprise snowfalls in both Arizona and Yosemite National Park. Within days, it will be pointed north to spend most of the summer trundling us between fishing holes and family in the great Pacific Northwest.

At a mere 21 feet long, our rig is clearly outsized by giant bus-conversions and diesel-pushers that can stretch up to 45 feet and feature glam options like slide-outs, washer and dryer, floor lighting, and crystal chandeliers. There are even a few models so exclusive that the privilege of viewing them is contingent on first submitting a financial statement.

But sour grapes aside (ah, back to them, again!) we're not bothered that our aging motor home has become a dwarf among dinosaurs, nor do we subscribe to the concept that big (and loaded) is necessarily better. Yet experience has taught us that when the unexpected happens to our rig in the road, it's becoming an expensive proposition.

And then there's the reality of our own human limitations. Mavericks age along with their machines. As a result, there are fewer and fewer Cortez motor homes rolling merrily along. But one of them, at least, has come to a creative halt. We saw that tan-toned Cortez one summer, parked by the side of a main coastal road in Oregon. Affixed to its side was a big sign that read Coffee Wagon.

Starbucks, drink your heart out!

Doris O'Brien is a retired college Speech teacher and banker. She has published two books of humor (Up or Down With Women's Liberation and Humor Me a Little) and for many years contributed light verse to the Pepper 'n Salt column of the Wall Street Journal. She is a voracious writer of letters to the editors.

Doris celebrated her 50th wedding anniversary in the same year she welcomed her first grandchild,. She can be reached by e-mail: witsendob at (@) verizon.net

home	Follow Us:	back

About Us \| Sponsors \| Site Map \| SWW Gift Shop \| Letters \| Feedback