The Little Farm in Mountain View

There was a little farm in Mountain View, CA. A couple of blocks on a very busy street in Silicon Valley were farmland instead of houses, stores or condos. The headquarters and sales room was a rambling, old fashioned fruit stand, on a dusty semi-circular drive. All was in the shade of an ancient California live oak. The farm itself extended back from the busy street for a few blocks so that the whole thing comprised between 5 and 10 acres. I’m not good on acres.

By mid-morning the moms were there with their pre-schoolers. Vans and SUV’s crowded the driveway. Some observant families noted that the greens and tomatoes went on the shelf late in the day. So, dad would stop by on his way home from work to buy greens for that evening’s salad while they were as fresh as could be. The stand was a bit pricey but, hey, you were buying fresh and you were buying local. That’s got to be worth something. Besides, the fresh produce from the little farm couldn’t be compared to the weary stuff from the local Safeway. The latter seemed to plead to the customer “Please buy me now, before I go into the rubbish.”

In summer the corn grew. Would it be knee high by the 4^th of July? It always exceeded that criterion by a good foot. In fall the dried corn stalks were cut down and pumpkins were brought in from Half Moon Bay. Little railroad tracks were laid down and a Punkin Train chugged through the Punkin Patch making it easier for families to spot their perfect pumpkin. One year a story went around that a single mom and a single dad met on the Punkin Train. Their kids begged to go to McDonalds for lunch and well… I won’t repeat the whole story. It’s too long and I have serious doubts about its veracity. But, the real point is that lots of people repeated it and many believed it was true. Why? Because they knew that the Little Farm was a magical place where good things happened and wishes were granted.

As our families grew and we welcomed immigrants from foreign lands, more housing was needed. The Little Farm was sold to a builder so that he could build condos. Well, two years have passed and the land is still vacant. Last year I read in the Mountain View paper that the builder could not get permission to build his condos. The land is too polluted. The only solution might be to pave it all over. The article did not make it clear if that is economically feasible.

They can’t just let the land sit there. They must do something with it, but what? Why not the obvious? Why not repeat what worked before? Is it possible that this obvious solution might dawn on the brain dead politicians on the City Council? If we cross our fingers and close our eyes as tight as we can and wish as hard as we can, it might dawn on them. We might get our Little Farm back. I know that the Little Farm is still a magical place where good things happen and wishes are granted.

Coffee and My Uncle Roger

In 1936 the chain of National Stores was a forerunner to today’s supermarket chains. The customer actually took items off the shelf, put them in her cart and wheeled them up to the checkout line.

Coffee was sold as whole beans in a paper bag. The customer ground her own coffee in the store and the ground coffee went into the same paper bag, just like today. The National store carried three varieties of house coffee. Eight O’Clock Coffee came in a red bag. It was a 100% Arabica medium roast, uniquely smooth yet full bodied in taste with a complex finish. This coffee was especially recommended for breakfast. Eight O’Clock was the least expensive of the three blends.

Bokar came in a black bag and was the most expensive blend. It was recommended for supper because of its full and smooth flavor with a subtle strength. Bokar was also 100% Arabica.

Sadly, I don’t remember the name of the third blend, but it split the difference, both in price and in flavor, between Eight O’ Clock and Bokar. It came in a yellow bag and was recommended for lunch. It was more full flavored than Eight O’Clock (though not as sparkling), but not so full flavored as Bokar.

My Uncle Roger was the manager of a National store in 1936; a lucky man to have such a good job, or any job at all in those days. He swore that the coffee beans were delivered to the back loading dock in a 100# bag. Then he and the people he managed would gather in the back room before the store opened and weigh the beans from the single bag out into the red, yellow and black paper bags. Up to this point everything said has been fact. What follows is fantasy.

But, maybe not so fantastic. One must admit that it or something very like it surely happened somewhere.

Susan had a happy marriage. She and Bert were doing remarkably well. Bert had a white collar job that paid $30 per week and seemed pretty secure. His bosses thought highly of him. Still, Susan worried about money and with good reason. Her best girlfriend’s husband had just lost his job. Her cousin Frank, who had a wife and 5 kids and lived in Pittsburgh lost his job. Once solid firms were failing. The Chicago cityscape was dotted with the steel skeletons of tall buildings that were begun but never finished for lack of financing.

One tiny cloud dotted the pure azure of Susan’s marital sky. It was so small that she sometimes forgot about it for weeks. Sometimes she wasn’t sure it was there at all, but it was. Bert would drink only Bokar coffee for breakfast, lunch and supper. The habit rankled Susan because it was “different” and “odd”, but even more so because of the expense. She once suggested that Bert might enjoy drinking a proper breakfast coffee for breakfast, but that went very badly. Bert swore and stormed out of the house. He knew it was about the money and took it as a slight on his ability as a breadwinner. He said that stuff in the red bag tasted just like dishwater. Susan thought it was some kind of a macho thing.

When Bert came back late that night, he was full of remorse. He said it was all his fault and he even cried and said that his whole life was devoted to pleasing her. But, as often as he tried, he just couldn’t keep that Eight O’Clock coffee down, it tasted so vile. The stuff in the yellow bag that was so highly touted as a lunch coffee was only a little better.

Susan cried and said it was all her fault. She felt like such a little b…h for complaining about her husband’s coffee drinking habits when other men spent their paycheck on liquor or, worse yet, were not even earning a paycheck. Later, when all was forgiven and they were cuddling in bed, Bert confessed that he was pretty sure that he was up for a raise, maybe as much as $2.50 a week. He never mentioned it before, because he was afraid of jinxing it. Susan felt so silly for worrying about the few cents extra a day that Bert spent on his Bokar.

A few weeks later, when Bert lost his job, they didn’t do as badly as Susan had feared. They were able to get on relief (we call it welfare now) and Susan’s parents kicked in $1.50 a week from her dad’s tiny pension. To be sure this was strictly a loan, to be paid back when times got better or when hell froze over. Whichever came first.

They had to move into a smaller apartment in a less desirable part of town. Every day Susan managed to get in a few thinly veiled digs about the extravagance of their former life and how they could use that wasted money now. Bert had some extravagant scenario about losing his confidence due to worry about coffee and thus displaying a loser image. This, of course, was the reason he lost his job. But mostly, they just sat around and didn’t drink coffee. They couldn’t afford it.

My Dream (a letter to my wife)

My Dear Wife,

I dreamed a dream last night. It was a good dream, because I dreamed of you. In this dream we were students, yes students. It’s really weird already, isn’t it? At first we were studying the French language. Later it seemed that we were studying the cuisine of France. But I’m on a diet and when you’re on a diet you’re always hungry and you’re always thinking about la cuisine.

The course was very easy, because we had studied French in high school and college. It was a good review for us. At first the professor was very serious. But later, as more of the class time was taken up with talk of food, he began to play practical jokes in class. The first time I noticed this, the lesson was on the wonderful French comfort food served in the bistros of Paris. We were talking about the bistro La Poule Au Pot and its signature dish Chicken in the Pot Garni. I was writing and when I looked up the professor had vanished. There was an immense chicken in front of the class. I turned my head toward you, but you were writing and did not see The Great Chicken. I turned back to look at him but he was gone and the professor was in front of the class again. He was smiling at me as if he had played a very funny joke.

In succeeding classes it seemed that the lessons were all about food and the professor ducked out more and more often. Whenever the professor was absent, The Great Chicken was in front of the class. But, the professor was always present at the beginning of the class. Now, in this class you always sat on my right and a young woman who was constantly asking questions always sat on my left.

One day when The Great Chicken was in front of the class the young woman who sat on my left asked “What wine do we use in preparing coq a vin?” I thought Oh la la she’s mocking him. The Great Chicken will be furious. Perhaps he will go away and never come back again. But, I was mistaken. The Great Chicken just clucked calmly. He said “Cluck, cluuuck, cluuck, cluck, cluuuuck”. The young woman who sat on my left was writing. I looked at her notes. She had written “Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck.”

At the next class session, the professor was not present at the beginning of the class for the first time. Why not? I don’t know. Perhaps that day was his wife’s birthday. Perhaps he had taken the day off to celebrate with her. Perhaps he was in the dean’s office. Perhaps the dean was reprimanding him for his horseplay in class. Of course, The Great Chicken was in front of the class.

The young woman who sat on my left arrived a bit late. She said “Pardon me sir. Your shopping bag is on my chair.” I looked at her chair. To my great surprise, there actually was a shopping bag there. I placed it on the floor. I looked inside. The bag contained a large knife (actually a cleaver), an onion, parsley, ground pork, ground veal, an egg, salt, pepper, carrots, leeks, turnips, whole cloves, celery, small potatoes and a bouquet garni. What a coincidence! The bag contained almost all of the ingredients for Chicken in the Pot Garni. The only ingredient that was missing from the shopping bag was strutting and clucking in front of the class.

Then my dream became a jumble. People were running. People were shouting. Perhaps there had been a fire in the chemistry lab. The young woman who sat on my left fainted. I tried to bring her around, but she let out a piercing shriek and fainted again. I thought let’s wait for professional help.

Now my dream is very clear. Yes, I’m dreaming still. This letter, this bed, this cell, the guard in the hall are all part of my dream, but they seem so real. Tomorrow, when I wake up. Where will I be? Here, or next to you, in our bed, at home? I love you. I miss you.

Your Loving Husband