Read this blog and you know the contents are one big valentine to the Smith River and redwoods. And the mushrooms, and the fisheries, and the sea stacks of the Pacific and all the good peeps who stay a night or three at the bnb.
Every once in a while, though, I’m reminded of the remoteness. Like when I think of my favorite vegetable stand, which I drove by yesterday on my way to Chico and Thanksgiving dinner.
Sweet Cron in Kirbyville, Oregon. Yes, this is their farm stand. A funky, spot, no?
Cron’s is also a Hiouchi tradition, setting up a small mobile farm stand at the gas station down the road from the bnb. Meg and I make a point of visiting this local set-up every Sunday. We fill a bag or two with peppers, tomatoes, garlic, corn, and cucumbers. but they’ve wrapped up their season this year and are in hibernation for the winter.
Tonight in Chico, in between the turkey, Netflix movies, Facetime chats and ice cream-topped pies, I tried to explain to my city-folk family that where I live is pure country. No Trader Joe’s. No first-run foreign films. No live music. Maybe my skills as a communicator are lacking but as hard as I tried, I got the feeling that nothing I said could reveal the serious remoteness of life in the redwood forest.
They went silent when I showed them where the peppers, apples, cucumbers and onions that I’d brought along tonight and cooked had come from.
You live under a tree Uncle Curt, my nephew told me. A very serious rock.
OK, OK, so I live part of my life under a teenie, tiny rock, nephew dear. Yes, I have given up GAP, REI, Barnes and Noble and Costco. And in return I get the tastiest damn tomatoes and sweet corn with irregular rows of kernels. And have you ever seen such beautiful peppers?
I’m not sure they understood.