We walked, we picked things up, we carried things.  As the seasons changed, we made long treks along the rims of cliffs and through swamps to the Indian Ocean, where we spent long hours in the shallows, pulling up crustaceans from the bottom of fresh tidal zones.

Now, I am in the car and driving north.  The rental has an ipod usb port, which is a magnificent gadget, but it doesn’t work, so I turn on the radio, looking for National Public Radio.  A man on the radio with a friendly but demanding voice is telling me that I can buy a computer even if I have bad credit.  I can buy the computer right here in the Bakersfield area, without even paying a dime upfront. 

After this commercial, another one comes on, and this is an old man’s voice, and he sounds friendly enough, and he is talking about home mortgages.  And the deal he is offering sounds pretty good, especially if I don’t have very good credit.  I turn the channel.

Now a man with a deep, deep southern accent is talking to me.  He is almost yelling at me through the radio.  He is talking about the immutable laws of the bible forbidding certain types of sexual behavior.  He says, “I know that relationships outside of marriage ruin people!  I know that in this very church right here, there are thousands of emotional wrecks created by the actions of you very people!”

I think, wow, this guy is telling his own congregation they are all sluts.  Where is that public radio channel?

So I turn the station, and now I hear the voice of another guy.  His voice is not deep and booming, but rather thin, with a strange cadence, as if he were a magician from the 1930’s.  He is not so much as yelling, but lecturing.  And his lecture further keeps me from my mission to find public radio.  He is explaining the biggest conspiracy of the Catholic Church, which, he claims, was that they changed the day of worship from Saturday to Sunday, because they were led by Satan.  His favorite way to refer to Satan is as “The Little Horn of Daniel’s Sea Beast” which he says in this real peculiar way, like he’s squishing his lips together to say it.

This lecture goes on not for minutes, but hours.  And when I thumb at the dial some more, it feels like everybody is after me for my ear.  But what does it take to actually be drawn into these types of messages? 

This is what’s on my mind, as I pull into the Super 8 Motel in Buttonwillow, a small agricultural town with a motorist stopover along the side of the interstate.

I’ve come to Buttonwillow because there have been reports of wildflower blooms to the west of here.  And there is just something nice about being out in the open California sun.

I spend my afternoons on the Carrizo Plain, which is a nationally protected valley about half-way between Bakersfield and the coast.  The wildflower blooms here are vast and diverse.  Miles of pure yellow, islands of orange and blue and white.  The whole valley has a deep, penetrating smell, like a flower shop packaged in a pill. 

A few days pass, and I have explored different parts of the Carrizo plain – along the mud of soda lake, and around the ponds of near seven-mile road. 

Next

12345