Epitaph for a Peach
Page 21
Return of the Egret
In the winter I often walk under a bridge where irrigation water flows during the summer. Along the sides are hundreds of swallow nests, tucked up in the corners, layered one upon the other. Each dab of mud hangs intact, cemented to the others by gifted crafters and engineers. I feel like an explorer visiting abandoned villages of the true natives of this land.
Every spring the swallows return to this ditch, my own Capistrano in the San Joaquin Valley. But this is a man-made river, an irrigation canal that brings life to a desert. The bridge is not a quaint wooden crossing; its gray cement supports rise out of the sand at right angles, an asphalt roadway crosses overhead.
The swallows build their homes in the summer, but even in winter I can picture them swooping and darting past me. As I stand on the bridge, they zoom beneath me, skimming the water. I like to imagine their view of the world as they launch themselves under the bridge and then break out of the darkness on the other side, flinging themselves into the daylight. I can see a burst of sunlight greeting them and a pale blue sky rising above the cool mountain water, green farmlands stretching as far as the eye can see.
This is the place we both call home.
A white egret comes to my ditch bank each winter. I believe it’s an egret. I also believe it to be a spirit that comes to haunt the farm, and I hope it’s the goddess of life returning to watch over me.
Years ago my cousin and I shot an egret. We were young, he was from Los Angeles, a city kid let loose in the countryside. On our farm, he wanted to live out his cowboy dreams from Bonanza and other TV shows from the late fifties.
We were walking on the ditch bank when we discovered a wonderful white creature perched still, stalking its prey. I stared with wide eyes in amazement while my cousin turned to me and whispered, “Let’s go home and get a gun.”
The excitement of discovery turned into the emotional rush of the hunt. We ran the half mile back to my house, sneaked past our mothers, and ran back to the ditch. He carried my older brother’s pellet gun, and I had the pellets jammed into my pants pockets.
The egret had disappeared so we began searching along the grassy bank. On one side of us, the first green shoots of a vineyard reached upward, stretching for the sun. On the other side lay a ditch thirty feet across, a seasonal river carrying water to thirsty fields. As we marched, the water silently drifted in the opposite direction. Occasionally a peach branch or a gnarled old vine stump floated in the current, along with some trash which seemed to multiply each year.
We talked, the thrill of the hunt alive in our veins. Images swept through my mind—the rush of wings, the great white bird heaving itself into the air, the crack of the gun. I imagined witnessing the creature suspended in the air, shot and conquered. We’d both meet for that moment, a shot penetrating the white feathers, piercing deep into the flesh. Then the body would buckle, collapse, and fall into the water. The splash of the hunted, my prey conquered, cleansed, and cooled by water.
My cousin grabbed my arm, squeezing hard. It hurt. I spun and tried to jerk free. “There she is,” he said.
I looked up. Across the ditch the egret stood motionless, her white body frozen against the gentle swaying of the ditch bank grasses. She was hidden from the road and protected by the farmlands around her. But we stood thirty-five feet away on the opposite side, separated by the river of water.
“We gotta go back, cross the bridge to get a better shot,” my cousin whispered. We tried to walk slowly, but anxious feet shuffled and then scurried down the dirt trail. We pretended we were Indians, walking without breaking a stick, silent stalkers of nature. We ended up running down the road, back over the bridge, dashing toward our prey.
I had expected the egret to be scared and take flight. I imagined her rise, each flap of wings propelling her higher and higher away from us, saving herself and us.
My cousin’s arm thumped against my chest, almost knocking me over. “Give me a bullet,” he ordered.
With sweaty hands I fumbled in my tight pants for a pellet. Bullet? I said to myself. I had never called them bullets.
He loaded, crouched low, and walked up the bank. I watched as he peered over the edge and raised the gun. Then he pushed the muzzle into the weeds, maneuvering closer to the creature. At point-blank range, he squeezed a shot.
I ran and watched the great white bird slump into the water. There was no flight, no spreading of wings, and no soaring. The egret rolled into the water with hardly a splash.
My cousin held out his hand for one more pellet but I wouldn’t give him another. I distracted him by pointing out that our prey was now drifting downstream with the current. He turned and we both watched it float away. Then I broke and ran along the ditch bank. My cousin stood angrily, cursing the water.
I caught up to the great white carcass as it rode the silent stream, and then ran as fast as I could to the bridge to beat the current. I stood over the water, waiting for the white mass of feathers. It slowly drifted toward me and slipped under the bridge. I ran to the other side and for a moment it failed to appear, as if it all had been a dream. But then the body slipped out from the darkness and into the brilliant sunlight. I watched it float downstream until it became a white blur.
EVERY WINTER WHEN I walk my fields, I see a white egret on the ditch bank. I stop my work and watch her, keeping my distance and staying in my vineyard.
The creature stands motionless. Each of us studies the other. Then the egret crouches, bends her legs, and launches herself upward toward the heavens. I watch her spread her wings wide and, with each stroke, soar higher aloft, circling the farm and me.
I hope she will see the green of my winter cover crops and lush fields, that she can imagine the brilliant colors of spring wildflowers and crimson clovers. I hope she feels the abundant life in my orchards and vineyards, from the soil full of earthworms to the diverse clovers, vetches, and weeds. I hope she realizes I now grow grapes and peaches and a habitat for a universe of insects and small creatures.
I watch the egret circle above me, hoping she’ll once again come back to my fields.
acknowledgments
Just as I cannot farm alone, I cannot write alone. Many thanks to my family for their help and wisdom, from long conversations with my dad to Marcy patiently listening and supporting my writing. I thank my relatives, neighbors, and cherished friends who encourage my work. I am also fortunate to have farmer friends who continue to inspire me with their daily work and artistry.
A special thanks to Elizabeth Wales, who believes in my voice, and Caroline Pincus, for her hours of editing and caring.
And I am grateful to all who still appreciate the wonderful taste of a good peach.
About the Author
DAVID MAS MASUMOTO is a third-generation Japanese American peach and grape farmer, a freelance writer, a farm activist, and a member of the California Council for the Humanities.
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Copyright
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EPITAPH FOR A PEACH: Four Seasons on My Family Farm. Copyright © 1995 by David Mas Masumoto. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition February 2008 ISBN 9780061741739
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