RSS 2.0 FeedOntario, California
Orange groves flow the valley floor, blossom scent
carried through small farms, grange, nascent union hall,
main street of small shops, train depot, Mexican
shacks across the tracks. Grandfather owned
a quarter of today’s sprawl – before strip malls
and mega churches. Suburbs and eminent
domain upturned the groves until the house
he built with my grandmother was the last
one still bordered by small lots of orange trees,
as ramblers and split-levels sprouted like
noxious weeds. My very own park, amidst
the newly paved neighborhoods, I found
it magical to visit as a child,
despite the traffic fumes. Each branch as thick
as my arm, festooned with enough fruit to keep
me sick for days.
As a young man, grandpa
made daily deals, traded horses, bartered
for this and that, became a master carpenter,
union leader, a roughneck dandy, tan banned
Stetson fedora, decorated with
a quail feather, and always his easy
tweed jackets he wore with certain grace.
A quiet man, slow to anger, he could boil.
He fought the union and its lackeys,
the scabs and the busters, and any other sorry
son-of-a-bitch who tried to cheat him
or his sons in a deal.
His father marked him
as an idiot, said he’d amount to nothing.
He was now, own sweat of his brow, without need,
traveling the world, but still cutting out coupons
from the Sunday inserts. Sitting in his red
leather chair, slowly reading Leaves of Grass
through a magnifying glass. He was then
a creaky old man when I knew I loved him.
Nearly deaf at the time, he told me stories
of killing frosts, working through nights with my
uncles Howard and Lee, hustling smudge pots
to the groves, fearing they might be too late,
but always getting in before the rot.
The words came easy, animated voice,
playful narratives, wry ironies,
quiet rasp to laugh to cough. My only
lesson in the way a man can show love
to a young man with true tenderness not
mediated through a chronic disease.
I listened. I loved to listen. Sometimes
he’d finish one of his stories and see
that I’d taken in every word, his eyes
glassy, he’d look to me and say, “You’re a
good man, Charlie Brown.” And I believed him.
Rod Peckman makes his home on the wet western side of the Cascade Mountains in Washington State. He is fortunate enough to live on a small lake surrounded by creatures – Bald Eagles, beavers, Blue Herons, bullfrogs, bears, and that’s just the letter B. His favorite creature, however, is his yellow Lab Allie (who, frankly, wishes he wouldn’t spend so much time writing). Rod works for a large library system in the Seattle area, doing his daily best to give out the correct information to the many questions asked. He dedicates the poem Ontario, California to his uncle Howard.