Walking the Tree Streets
It doesn’t really matter where the day began… when I walk Bakersfield’s Tree Streets my mind gets lost.
Lost in the light shining through the Weeping Willow tree cascading from the sky to the pavement on Cypress Street.
I raise my arms to the sky as if on a roller coaster ride and walk through its bittersweet joy.
“I forgive you!”
I say out loud to the day and all that came before.
Lost in the feel of the pavement beneath my feet and my favorite pop music ringing in my ears as I count cats on Cedar Street.
Seven cats in that yard, five over there, three in the street.
The neighborhood’s infested with felines!
Are they taking over the world?
Lost in the wind and the roar of cars rushing copiously by on Palm Street.
Like babies sucking mama’s milk, drinking in as much of the world as they can
with their gas guzzling mechanical engines.
Stop! Don’t rush! I want to scream.
Instead I whisper…
“Live this moment, it’ll be gone in the next breath.”
Lost in the innocence of laughter as a boy and his father wrestle in their front yard on Pine Street.
The boy’s a giggle-box I want to carry in my pocket, hold dear, and take out when the day’s been wearisome.
A Vulture, ominous, swoops low in the sky
as Darren Hayes sings about selling your soul for popularity on my ipod.
Is innocence in danger of being lost? I wonder.
Lost in the power of suggestion as yards are lined with Youngblood for Sheriff political signs on Beech Street.
“You want one for your yard?” The sign guy asked.
“No thanks. I vote, but I don’t get all political in my rented yard.”
LOVE WINS that’s the kind of power I’d like to see suggested in Bakersfield yards.
Lost in the quiet voice as giant old trees speak wisdom to those who will listen to the rustling of leaves overwhelming the silence with the secret to the life I strive for.
It’s in the history of Bakersfield’s oldest subdivision, it’s in every house I walk by on the Tree Streets…
Individual, unusual, original.
My Photos...
That was beautiful! So calming!
Holy shit you're so much better a writer than me. If I had such natural talent I would have an ego the size of the moon. But you're so down to Earth, so ... normal, and humble, and shy.
How peaceful...
I so enjoyed reading this - reminds me of my sometimes meandering writing as I walk around my neighborhood and the bluffs.... love it, love, love, love it!
eceptional, moving
One of the pieces of memorabilia that I left Bakersfield with was an old Pine Street sign from the Great American Antique store on 19th (I think).
you paint a nice picture ill think of the tree streets as i drive around the m 25 today thats london
I grew up in this neighborhood some 50 years ago. We had a huge eucalyptus tree in the front yard at the street. It was pretty good for climbing for a three or four year old because the first fork happened at about ground level. So I could get all the fun out of tree climbing without all the height. This tree caused my mother much consternation because it behaved just like a normal eucalyptus tree and shed bark, leaves, eucalyptus corns, and occasional branches. When the wind blew, Mom was afraid the tree was going to blow over on the house. She made my dad dig it up. He replaced that tree with three Modesto Ashes that he distributed across the front lawn. They became huge, but stable shade trees that provided great piles of leaves every fall.
Trees are just one signature of homeowners. Everyone who owns a house does something with it to make it their own. Inside walls get painted newer and more modern colors, shelving gets put up, carpeting put down, overhead light fixtures get changed, pictures are framed and placed in decorative places. Owners knock out walls and cut in windows. Curtains, drapes, furniture is acquired, and overtime the house begins to take on a unique feel that reflects its inhabitants. In addition, we built rooms, garages, and bathrooms.
We were not our house’s first owners. The people who had lived there briefly before we came to own it left us that big eucalyptus tree in the front and a patio in the back with monkey prints permanently impressed into the cement. I don’t know if these people owned the monkey, or what kind of monkey it was, but those most certainly were monkey prints. They were a constant source of curiosity and amusement to the neighbor kids. And later, when we ripped out all the old cement to create our own patio, it was sad to see those prints go away. We did our best to erase the legacy of owners past and to create anew, as I am sure subsequent owners have done.
Another signature of the previous owner was a box that I found in the back of my closet. It was a box filled with army uniforms. Apparently, the earlier inhabitant had embraced the patriotism and fervor of the nation in the aftermath of the Great War (World War II) and had served his country. Perhaps he was drafted. I have no idea of the man’s state of mind regarding his service, but he was willing to leave years of his life behind with that box and move forward with one less piece of baggage. I guess he had taken the figurative monkey off his back and replaced it with a real one.
To us kids, that box was a wonderful find, a treasure trove of props for make believe and artifacts of times that were foreign to us, but made familiar by the shows we saw on TV. By the time I came along, the country had had five or six years of bursting prosperity that had made the war seem far away. The reminders were everywhere and everywhere ignored by the common pace of life. I remember seeing pictures of men in uniform hung in my friends’ homes, but they were only vaguely recognizable as their fathers. Sammy’s dad was in one of those pictures, thin and tall and handsome standing in front of an airplane. With his flying leathers and dashing scarf, his picture was taken sometime during the war. The man I knew was about three hundred pounds and couldn’t have fit into one of those planes. Proud signatures we leave behind.
Although we have managed to erase any reminder of our predecessor with his tree, monkey, and the Army uniforms, I’m sure the house at 30 Cypress Street would echo still with the noises, hustle and bustle of raising a family. For that is what surely happened there. And, even though we no longer occupy it, it was made for people like us and our neighbors, who started with little and grew into, and oftentimes, right out of houses just like this one. It is still standing. There will never be a plaque on it to indicate my passing, nor should there be. It is a house made for beginnings.