BEAR MOUNTAIN & PICKING COTTON

         There are fourteen mountain peaks in California called Bear Mountain—that’s B E A R.  The cotton fields where I worked were in the San Joaquin Valley at the foot of Bear Mountain, a summit of the Tehachapi Mountains.    Seven miles away to the southeast and just under seven thousand feet high, its dark, distinctive shape was always on the horizon.   There it stood—like a sentinel.  Everywhere I went I could look up and it was always there.  From that distance it never appeared to be green.  The green was there but so dark it became lost in the deep shadows.   And yet, on a bright winter day it seemed so close—like you could almost reach out and touch the snow.

          Picking cotton it was easy to forget about spring and the miles of beautiful cotton fields where the green leaves reminded me of maple leaves and the colorful pink and purple flowers bathed us all with their pleasant aroma.  Too soon the flowers were gone leaving behind boles which are similar to large, round rose hips.  As summer progressed into autumn the boles grew, hardened and opened as they dried each revealing five fluffy, seed-filled, white cotton balls cupped in five curved, sharply pointed wedges.

          Picking cotton so close to the omni present mountains I found myself wondering; with those mountains so near, how could the fields be so flat?  And why were the cotton rows so long?  The strap of the eight foot white canvas bag lay heavy over my left shoulder, chafing my neck.  When the plants were stubby, I crawled on my knees but if, as occasionally happened, the plants were three feet tall, I could stand.  It was nice to have a variety of short and tall plants but that seldom happened.  Either the knees hurt or the back ached.  Each time I stood and arched my back to relieve the soreness, there Bear Mountain was—looming in the distance. 

          Some of the workers were adept at picking with gloves on.  I never developed that ability and my hands were often pricked and bleeding.  It seemed to always be hot.  Rivulets of sweat ran down my dust covered face to sting my eyes and drip off my ear lobes.  How I hated picking cotton!  Not being squeamish, I paid little attention to the bugs and actually enjoyed seeing an occasional horned toad, but stayed on the alert for scorpions and black widow spiders.

When the cotton sack was full I struggled to throw it over my left shoulder and keep it balanced as I carried it to the scales.  The weight was recorded under my name.  Then, with the sack back on my shoulder I climbed a ladder and empted three hours of work, about sixty pounds of fluffy, white cotton, into a trailer.  I would stand there on the ladder, glance up at the horizon, at the mountain, and would think, “Some day, Mountain, I’m going to leave you and this damn cotton field behind.” 

          At the end of the day I was paid in cash--$5.00 for every 100 pounds.  A good cotton picker could pick 500 pounds a day.  I wasn’t a good cotton picker and struggled to pick two hundred pounds.  But the money I earned from picking cotton purchased my first badly needed eyeglasses and paid for their repair when they were broken.  The money paid for my dental work and my clothes and shoes.  That money, along with what I made packing grapes during my seventeenth summer, made it possible for me, the day after graduation, to climb on a Greyhound bus headed for Oakland.  Full of optimism, I looked back and happily watched Bear Mountain and the green fields of cotton fade into the distance.

Rachel Nemitz, May 2009

BALD EAGLES MADE FOR AN EXCITING SPRING

          Springtime.  One of my most anticipated days of the year was in the spring…the last weekend of April, to be exact.  That was the weekend our little seven member association opened our cabins on Norway Lake. Most of the cabins were quite small.  Mine was just 400 square feet with a deck half that size.  All the cabins had originally been owned by the railroad and were built in 1928 to house railroad workers.  Later the cabins became a resort and eventually each was sold individually. 

 Everyone showed up for the occasion.  They came from California, Florida, Arizona, Edina, Shakopee, Buffalo and Brainerd.

         A couple of the men began working to start the well pump.  The water was turned on one cabin at a time and that cabin was inspected for leaks—there always seemed to be leaks.  Sometimes the job was big enough to require a plumber.  The paddle boats, yard swings and lawn furniture were taken out of our communal building and placed near the beach and dock areas.  During the summer this building served as a workshop, storage area and laundry room.  The washer and dryer were hooked up.  On Monday Culligan would deliver the water softener.

         We walked the lakeshore picking up trash while chatting about what we had done over the winter.  We looked at the buds on the trees and wished they were leaves.  We checked to see which plants were peeking through and someone always called attention to the trillium among the weeds. 

         One spring was especially exciting.  A pair of bald eagles had built an aerie in the great white pine located just across the road from our mail boxes.  The nest was huge—at lease six feet in diameter.  Long, dry gnarly branches were stacked on and over each other in a seemingly random fashion.  Other branches were shoved in here and there giving the appearance of a nest ready to fall.  As the summer progressed we continued to observe the nest several times a day and were often rewarded by seeing an eagle sitting on the nest and another perched on a branch close by.  After the eggs hatched we could hear the two young ones begging for food and watched as they stuck their scrawny little necks out while they were being fed.  We would stop whatever we were doing to admire the eagles as they soared over the lake.

A friend and I were lucky enough to observe the eagles up close.  One day as we sat in my cabin looking out over the water, an eagle (I think it was the mother) swooped down to the lake and came up with a fairly large fish…about eighteen inches long.  She glided through the air toward us and then, with wings flapping for balance, she landed just a few feet away.  We dared not move but quietly watched as she systematically pecked around the neck, of the fish, until its head fell off.  Then, beginning near a fin, she had just started to eat in earnest when daddy suddenly joined her.  He swooped down, pushed her aside and for several minutes pecked away.  Suddenly a door slammed in the distance.  Fearful, gripping the fish with his talons, daddy led as they both flew away leaving the fish head and several eagle feathers behind. 

Rachel Nemitz, March  2010

BRAVERY

What is bravery 

Is it the courage to do what is right?

Or the resoluteness to complete a task?

Is it the boldness to say what needs to be said?

Or the audacity to follow a dream?

Is it defiance in the face of danger?

Or the confidence to excel?

Is it fortitude and grit?

Or a daring spirit?

It is a self-reliant attitude?

Or holding out against authority?

Is it grace, spunk and lots of heart?

Is it gallantry and valor?

Or contempt and rashness?

Is bravery manliness and hardihood?

Or prowess and heroism?

Is it confronting your fears?

Or being pugnacious?

All men aspire to be brave

And there is braveness

In all men

Rachel Nemitz, November 2012

FOURTH OF JULY

July 1954, Lake Merit, Oakland, California

            I don’t know why but I can’t remember ever seeing fireworks before July 4, 1954; just sparklers and firecrackers. Maybe there was no special reason for me to remember other fireworks.

            Two days earlier Richard had returned from Korea and this was our first ever holiday together.

            I remember, not so much the fireworks but walking hand-in-hand along the sidewalk, joining others on their way to the lake. I remember friendly, smiling people milling on the beach and the soft, balmy breeze. I remember my husband’s arms around me pulling me gently against him as we stood among the crowd, enjoying the riotous color. Watching the last explosive starbursts, hearing the final pop and sizzle, surrounded by darkness we slowly became aware of the now muted voices fading into the distance.

            Hand-in-hand we hurried home eager to make our own fireworks.

April 1986, Long Beach, California

            That day I had attended seminars aboard the Queen Mary. It was only 9:30 but my body was on Minnesota time and I was tired. From my bed at the Breakers Hotel I heard boom after boom after boom. I climbed out of bed and looked out the window but saw nothing unusual. The booms continued for about fifteen or twenty minutes.

            The second night at 9:30 the booms started again and looking outside left me wondering still. Just what was going on?

            The third night I attended a cocktail party on a small craft cruising the bay. At 9:30, as we sailed past the Queen Mary, the booms began—fireworks coming from what had once been the most luxurious ocean liner in the world. The grand finale was a spectacular canopy of exploding color above an amazing white waterfall flowing off the bow of the old Queen into the Pacific Ocean.

            The next day I flew home feeling fortunate to have seen the Queen Mary and the unforgettable fireworks.

By Rachel Nemitz