Modesto to the Golden Gate

There is a glaring contrast between California’s pancake flat central valley and the undulating terrain of Marin County.  Not only does the topography differ, the cultures are also widely divergent.

I went to Modesto to visit cousins who I hadn’t seen in years. In the morning, driving west back towards the Bay Area memories began flooding in. 

I have fond recollections of childhood weekends in Modesto with my brothers and mom. My aunt and uncle lived in a charming house complete with white picket fence on a street lined with large sycamore trees. I was terrified of the canal at the end of the street because my mother was terrified one of us would fall in and be swept away never to be found again. The water rushed by the steep concrete banks. Once in, there was no way out for miles. My brothers and I would wander along the banks picking champagne grapes that hung over a fence behind one of the houses. It was much hotter than our native Oakland so we would spend hours charging through a sprinkler in the front yard. It was a safe neighborhood, unlike our home, so we were allowed to stay outside playing until after dark. Later we would slurp cans of root beer, grape and orange soda, which we were never allowed at home and snack on olives and smoked oysters and crackers while waiting for my uncle to cook dinner. He would stir up a pitcher of martinis or crack open cans of Olympia beer to share with my mom and my auntie while we chugged our sugar water. By that time the house was full of raucous laughter. Hours of those weekend visits were spent laughing until tears streamed. Dinner was almost always some kind of seafood; cracked crab or fresh bay shrimp, but our favorite was uncle’s Cioppino. He would pile heaps of crustaceans across the counter, ready to toss them into the broth for just long enough to cook them to a tender succulence, not long enough to dry them out. Crab, shrimp, oysters, muscles, striped bass swimming in savory tomato juiciness.

Robert, Joe and me

Mama and Auntie Inie with pickled pigs feet, olives and Olympia

On long weekends we would visit our Danish relatives in the area. My favorite was my cousin who was only 9 months older than I chronologically but years beyond me in experience and sophistication. I always looked at her with awe. She was tall, blond and gorgeous; I was a short, scrawny, brown haired geek.  She exuded confidence and boys gawked at her in adoration. I was insecure and boys pulled my ponytail and made fun of my ears. She taught me how to put makeup on and that it was cool to drink milk even when iced tea and soda were available. She danced hula and was a great swimmer. Her older brother was handsome and played piano beautifully. Her dad, my mom’s first cousin, would make ice cream in a hand crank ice-cream bucket. We would add piles of freshly picked peaches, oozing with juice. I would suck on tiny chunks of rock salt while the cream and peaches morphed into the best dessert I’d ever eaten.  Once again the air was filled with laughter. 

After my recent visit as I left the hazy agricultural pollution of the valley I drew near the Bay with a sense of excitement, impulsively driving to the Marin Headlands for a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Although I grew up just 30 miles away I had never been to that particular location of the North Bay. It was windy and brisk but sunny. I played tourist, snapping photos and walking from side to side for different perspectives. I was struck by the contrast between this fresh expanse across the sea and the arid immensity of the cultivated dirt in the valley. I grew up on the edge, both figuratively and literally. I was at the edge of a grand continent, always within view of the sea. I spent almost half my life on an island in the middle of the Pacific, I have worked in the Caribbean and Coral seas and now I’ve returned to my home grounds and still am on the edge. I could never live in the valley, as great as my memories are. I need to be on the edge of the land, in view of the sea and now I am also on the edge of a new beginning in my life. I’m on the edge of a new career, on the edge of new growth, with new and old friends and family. I appreciate the different perspectives of valley life and coastal life. I will always enjoy visiting my cousins in Modesto but now I am home, happy on the edge, in the shadow of the Golden Gate.

Marin Headlands