No one understands Northern California. At least no one I know (on the east coast) has ever heard of Orinda, Moraga or Lafayette. Facing east from San Francisco, look past Oakland’s hills and Berkeley, over there is Contra Costa County. Home to Lawrence Livermore Labs, the Altamont Wind Farms and thousands of folks who commute to San Francisco and other neighboring communities every day via automobile and BART (the Bay Area’s train system). I have three clients in Contra Costa right now—and after a recent storm washed out my regular freeway route “over the hill,” I decided to take the lesser traveled option known to locals as “Canyon.”
The hilly drive is a short five miles on a narrow two-lane road. Winding through parts of the East Bay Regional Park System’s 98,000 acres of undeveloped land, I always wonder if somehow I’m just going to end up at Walton’s Mountain. Tucked away at the half-way mark is a small unincorporated town called “Canyon.” I don’t know anyone who lives in Canyon, in fact no one I know can name names of a Canyon resident. Only a peek of any homes are visible from the road. People around here consider it “hillbilly” and “too rural.” The area is best known for it’s lonely U.S. Post Office where some of my neighbors travel at Christmas to avoid the long lines. I read last year that Canyon’s only pay phone was being removed from the Post Office porch. The locals got together and bought their own pay phone and are now its’ steward and responsible for repairs. For years I’ve had a fantasy of opening a little general store and restaurant in Canyon—a destination with a back woods nod, a modern speakeasy with a hint of moonshine and gingham tablecloths. Fried green tomatoes. But I digress.
I like my little detour to the other side of the hill. Driving past thousands and thousands of mossy covered native oaks, California bay trees, manzanita and a section of proud giant redwoods reminds me of just how magical, rich and unexpected the bay area can be. At one point the drive goes dark from a canopy of redwoods, two lanes navigate through twists and turns around 200 year old growth. Even my car radio reception fades in and out, as if passing through a time warp. Suddenly a vista of rolling hills appears dotted by grazing cows. And within minutes I’m at an intersection in Moraga, flanked by a Safeway supermarket and 7-11. Time for a Slurpee. It’s a nature ride of sorts, a time machine in the middle of urban bustle. I can’t wait to go again next week. -Jonathan Taylor
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February 24th, 2008
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A few months ago, I found a pile of scat (poop) on my property. It looked like it might have come from a dog, but it was full of animal hair. I don’t usually make poop my business, but this pile left me wondering what, or who, had been passing through. I haven’t moved into my house, so I haven’t spent a night there. Neighbors recently told me that there are a number of coyotes in the valley. They’ve heard them howling at night and seen them running through a field across the valley. I’ve read several articles that said the gray coyote population is growing in New York State. They’ve even been seen as close to NYC as Westchester County. The trouble is that they’re very predatory and consider dogs (even small children) competitors and prey. I also read about a coyote that challenged a man walking his dog. It came out of the bushes and stared them down. The man said he could see the coyote evaluating the situation and his chances of making a meal out of the man’s dog. Needless to say my pug won’t be roaming around unattended. I found a web site with photographs and IDs for a variety of wildlife scat. Neighbors have also said that winter is a great time to look for signs of wildlife. Scat and tracks are much more visible at this time of year. A flock of turkeys strutted through the front yard last week. I’ll have to check and see if they left any souvenirs.
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November 18th, 2007
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Last week I drove past a mailbox pole with a sign that read “Keep Going.” Funny, was this to suggest I should keep going or perhaps stop and relax so I can keep going….later? House signs are often too kitschy for my taste but sometimes– downright charming. One of my favorites spotted recently is “Second Wind.” I could get behind that idea.
The more hand-made, the better. I like the old “burned” type, or hand painted. Seems like you can’t go wrong with an arrow or rectangle for shapes. Sadly, the digital age has permeated house signage too–from those machine produced bronze signs offered in every catalog from Lillian Vernon to Frontgate to the overly precious ovals….like this:
I don’t want to sound judgemental but if I ruled the world, well, no one cares. When in doubt–go simple.
Signs I recently spotted in Pennsylvania included “Lazy Daze,” “Dew Drop In,” “Royal Flush,” “Last Resort,” “Edelweiss,” “Dunroamin,” “Bears Den,” “Luv Shack” and a personal favorite “No Room” (that pretty much sets the tone).
Naming a home could signify the end of a long journey, or a new beginning. A name could come from something said–over a long weekend, or maybe the name just came with the house. Years ago I worked with the late Pauline Trigere, she was fond of turtles–always wearing one as a broche. Pauline’s Hudson River (NY) home was called “La Tortue.” Eleanor Roosevelt’s getaway was known as “Val-Kill”. In Sea Ranch (North of San Francisco) most have adopted a more coastal theme in their naming, monikers like “Pelican’s Nest” and “The Dunes.”
I don’t know what I’d name my own home. Maybe “Kismet?” Maybe nothing. For now, I’m keeping track of those I see while on the road…..
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October 31st, 2007
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I’m amazed at the amount of decorating that goes into celebrating Halloween these days. When I was growing up, a jack-o’-lantern was the norm for most houses…maybe a bunch of Indian corn hanging decoratively on the front door. Lately, though, big box stores seem to have encouraged people to take Halloween decorations to startling (and I feel questionable) levels. What’s wrong with a simple pumpkin or something homemade? Martha Stewart has definitely influenced the growth of holiday decorating, but I’m sure she’ll agree with me that the current riot of yard-sized inflatable witches, ghosts and pumpkins are a blight on the landscape.
I’ve just spent a week at my house in the Catskills where the foliage colors are at their peak. Driving down country roads at this time of year is a visual feast, and I applaud homeowners who still show a little old fashion creativity in their Halloween decorations. For me, the beauty of a vibrant orange pumpkin is hard to beat.
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October 21st, 2007
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Wil & Carl’s Weekend Cottage, Caledonia State Park, PA.
Cottage. Cabin. Houseboat. Love Shack. Yurt. So many of us are working towards owning a second home. Yesterday I was riding to location with Lee Wilkof, he and his wife are leaving Manhattan for full time Connecticut. She’ll hunker down and “play house” while Lee is off with the national tour of Wicked. The Wilkofs just sold their cabin in upstate New York, “with the move to Connecticut” Lee said, “my next second home will be an apartment in New York, I need to get away to some action.”
The acquisition of a second home eludes me. I’ve had the conditioning—as a child many summers at Fair Harbor (Fire Island). As a teenager, visiting family in New York, Chicago, Southern New Jersey and Caledonia State Park (where I am today). As an adult, with friends at their weekend homes in Healdsburg, East Hampton and the desert. I have it all backwards. My career takes me to urban locations and presents opportunities to experience wonderful small towns and luxe locations. When I’m home? I drive to get everywhere and most of my friends live just a little too far away for anything impromptu.
Home
My primary residence isn’t rural, though I’m in the woods. At home I savor the quiet, the air and the infrequent long walk (when I step away from my studio). Other than the practical issues of owning a second home (cost, time etc) the biggest question is location. I already have quiet. My street has no curbs. I see deer nearly every day and when taking the dogs out after dark I stay alert for skunks. I have neighbors within yards on two sides, but a half hour stroll on my street might mean only stopping twice to let cars pass.
For balance, what I really desire is easy access to a restaurant with interesting food and ambiance, walking distance to breakfast or coffee and maybe a little less northern Cal “live and let live” (admittedly, a shallow aspiration). Sure, I could pop over the bridge to San Francisco (only 17 miles away) but that’s not getting away, that’s “going in to the city.”
Lee might have the right idea. Certainly food for thought. In the meantime, I’m happily ensconced in wooded Pennsylvania for 5 more days.
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October 20th, 2007
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At 1am last Monday morning my housemates and I were suddenly without water. I’m still in Pennsylvania on (the film) Route 30 . The old boarding house where we’re staying has no city water, rather, supply is from a cistern. John, our leader, had been shown the source location before I arrived–a large semi-submerged casket of sorts back woods. Faced with a dry tap, John, his sister Pam and I grabbed flashlights and (cue the theme song from Deliverance ) like a hillbilly horror movie, ventured out in the dark to investigate.
Keep in mind it’s 1am. Frogs and crickets so loud we had to raise our voices. Once outside we pulled up the heavy, rusty cellar doors, cleared a wall of cobwebs and entered a dark, damp cavernous basement (possible axe murderer waiting). Looking at the pair of large, plastic water storage tanks (each holds 300 gallons), it was clear no water was coming in. From the basement off we went to the woods, a moss covered pipe laying on the forest bed served as our road map.
Our pseudo “Blair Witch” stumbling in the dark woods was hilarious. Don’t try this at home kids. Tree branches felt like the boggie man. About 50 yards away from the house, mostly recessed in to a hill, we found the large concrete and stone cistern.
It looked like something out of Silence of the Lambs. A scraggly tin top on framed lumber, covered with leaves. Underneath a concrete shell of sorts on three sides, mostly buried. It took two of us to lift the lid, once opened we expected a chain-saw wielding madman to pop out. But no, just an old cistern—water slowly dripping off the interior stacked stone back wall. A small swimming pool of sorts, home to four inches of water, a couple minnows, a frog and many, many spiders. Not enough water to make it to the house. The whole thing was so analog, so simple. Laughing, we stumbled back to the house, told everyone to go to bed and called it a night.
The next morning John phoned a local water hauler who showed up in under two hours.
“Happens all the time” waterguy says. “You know, with lack of rain and all.” Waterguy backed up his 6 axel truck, ran a fire-hose to the cellar and within 5 minutes pumped 600 gallons of Mont Alto water (a local community) in the large tanks. Service with a smile, of course, this is country after all. Cost? $50. Cash. No tips please. He’s coming back in 4 days to top off, just in case we don’t get any rain.
I had heard of cisterns but have never seen one before this. The simplicity of the process is refreshing. A hole is dug adjacent to a natural source of water, in our case a small stream. The natural process supplies inventory, gathering in the concrete and stone box until it overflows to a spill pipe that carries the water to storage tanks by gravity. In the case of the boarding house– water is stored in the basement, but some store water above in above-ground tanks. The water is not potable. After reading more about cisterns online I see the technology has come a long way– but the idea remains basically the same. I’m thinking about creating my own version, catching stormwater run off for gardening next summer.
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October 15th, 2007
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If you draw a circle that encompasses a distance of between a 2-3 hour drive in any direction around most major cities, you’ll find rural communities experiencing second lives—even renaissances—from the influx of new-rural homeowners. They are a blessing to many last-leg hamlets, but there is sometimes an unfortunate struggle between newer arrivals and locals. Last Friday The New York Times ran an interesting article on this “class struggle” taking place in the Hamptons on Long Island, New York. Will I ever be a “local” of my little Upstate New York community? Probably not, because others like me who have been weekending here for more than 20 years are still considered outsiders, or flatlanders, by many neighbors.
I like to believe that there are now other classifications in between those two and that simply being one or the other (isn’t that such a human trait?) isn’t so clear cut anymore. I’m building a house on property that I pay taxes on. I spend as much time here as my work in the city will allow. I’ve just moved my vote here. (New York State residents who own property in more than one location can choose where they prefer to vote.) And, I’m already involved in a few local organizations. I’ve got roots in both worlds, urban and rural, and I hope that the experiences of each will inform and help me to continue to appreciate the other. The article in The New York Times is worth a read.
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October 7th, 2007
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Insects are simply a part of country life, and in an area where there are dairies—especially—you can expect an abundance of flies. Late spring is usually the only time that they’re noticeable pests, but I just had an invasion of flies. I have no idea where they came from, but they suddenly appeared in a clustered mass (maybe 100?) high in the upper corner of an inaccessible window.
I love hardware stores, and I’m lucky to still have a few old-style stores nearby. I felt sure I could find a solution, and I did. It’s also where I learned that they’re actually called cluster flies. I have a dog, so I really didn’t like the idea of having to turn to something extremely toxic. One of the things I like about rural ways is that “highly toxic” isn’t always the only solution. I’ve found LD-44Z.
It’s not entirely non-toxic, but it’s far better than anything else I’ve found. You do spray and leave the space for a little while, but it’s insecticide ingredient, Pyrethrin, is derived from a variety of Chrysanthemum seed and breaks down easily on exposure to light and oxygen. Note, the product is harmful to fish and should be handled with knowledge and care in every situation. But, boy does it work with only a little clean-up afterwards. (more…)
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October 7th, 2007
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Last week I spent a lot of time standing in a cow pasture. The sights, sounds and smells were powerful. I’m on location in and around Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, working on a film with friends for 20 days. Oh, it’s AG alright. This is real American farm country. Yesterday we were in St. Thomas Township, PA., rich with Mennoite and Amish farms and acre after acre of rolling pastoral views.
Something new is on the horizon. Called “Bunker Silos, “Soft Silos” or “Silo Bags” the idea is more or less a grounded zip-lock bag for grain. Is this the death knell for the great heartland icon, the grain silo? I think so…maybe to fade away over a couple decades, like old barns, leaning and collapsing on themselves after a good, strong storm. Farmer Jim told me the ground based silo is safer, less expensive to maintain, easier use and frankly, just a good idea. He didn’t have much to say about their looks. More function, less style.
I’m told the traditional silos were dangerous. Farmers easily injured working in around tall masses of grain, an example being the farmer who was asphyxiated after not following proper procedures to prevent what is called “silo gas.” I’m sure there is more to this debate– for now I’m preparing to see increasing mounds of white plastic near barns (some of them are weighted with tires of all things). They are ugly. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to them. Like vinyl siding or those pervasive $5.00 plastic chairs.
Seems this would be a good time to create some kind of plastic covering screened with a grassy image…or a colorful Marimekko design. Hello, Yves Behar?
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October 5th, 2007
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Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and autumn’s colors are on display across the country. I’m fascinated by small town festivals and celebrations, so the Poison Oak Show covered in the New York Times earlier this week caught my attention. Poison oak is better left untouched in nature, but then there are those hardy souls who’re willing to try anything. Just thinking of poison oak and poison ivy makes me itch, so I was amazed to discover that some people in Columbia, California are playing with these dangerous fiery colors. This is something I don’t recommend. – link
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September 30th, 2007
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