Land of the Green Gold
by
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Chapter 1: Big Al
In September the Santa Anas blow westward bringing dry Mojave heat to the parched Southern California coast. In North San Diego County rolling hills form a trough which sucks the fogs of winter inland from the sea and pulls fierce summer winds from the interior. Among these majestic hills lies the town of Fallbrook, land of the avocado, land of the green gold.
Leaves of the avocado glisten in the heat and give the illusion of being wet. Fruit hangs heavy, like a man’s testicles, ready for the harvest. Thus was the Aztec name inspired--the ahuacatle, or testicle--thus did the legend of aphrodisia grow.
On the surface, Fallbrook seems to be suspended in a long siesta as townfolk wait for the heat to break, for pressure areas to balance so that cool air from the Pacific can rush in. These are the waning days of summer.
Galen Garth stood outside the Packing House Restaurant on a scorching Friday afternoon. Seemingly, he was impervious to the blistering winds that whipped about him. Even his wiry brown hair would not respond. In clean jeans, plaid shirt and square-toed boots, he looked much too neat and cool for the scene.
In his fiftieth year the man of medium build had thickened without paunch and none could miss the pride of self in body language. Although he is admired, fellow citizens think of him as being aloof, but then Galen Garth can do no wrong for he is part of their legend, their myth.
With sides up, a flatbed truck came jostling from the south end of town. On the cab door the logo read: Garth Groves. On the bed there was a fair order of saplings and other species of flora. Damon Garth drove the truck. At twenty-three he is a youthful version of his father with certain modifications. His is a fine hair that waves while large eyes play colors from violet to amber in a face that is more pretty than handsome. Emotionally, the son is open.
With an infectious laugh he grinned at his father, put a finger in his mouth and popped his jaw. Silent and wooden of stance, Galen gave little recognition to his son. Only a twitch at the corner of his mouth relayed a private message.
The father moved to his left, toward the intersection of Alvarado and Main, which took him past Shear Karisma, the hair stylists, and past Harrison’s Hallmark Cards and Rexall Drug. At the corner, he turned left and walked the length of the building. At this point, there is an entrance or exit to public parking, depending on a point of view and the whims of the public. Just beyond the alley begins the long rambling building that is home to Big Al’s Corral Café and Roundup Bar. Running roughly a block east and west, Big Al’s enterprises bring most of the traffic.
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LAND OF THE GREEN GOLD
Fallbrook lies in an enchanted setting of mountains and valleys approximately ten miles inland from the Pacific. In the beginning, there were olive groves that were replaced by citrus and avocados. The town existed in a state of complacency until the Marines came to the Rancho Margarita, the Spanish Land Grant, which was renamed as Camp Pendleton just prior to World War II. Several generations of bitter wrangling ensued, until Marines sufficient in number settled down to stay and by their numbers turned Fallbrook into a Jarhead (enlisted Marine) town.
On a more profound level, LAND OF THE GREEN GOLD is a story of love: the need for it, the search, the finding, the struggle to keep and the compromises made; the degradation and prostitution of self for this most precious and elusive commodity.
On a warm afternoon in November, I stood outside the Happy Jug Liquor Store and observed the trabajadores as they came to town for their weekly visit to the post office where their pay-day dollars would be exchanged for dinero seguros (money orders) which would be sent to las familias en Mejico. They walked on both sides of Mission Street, in a single file, and it seems that I can still smell the sweat from their labors in the avocado groves. At that time, I saw the scene as a modern-day version of William Faulkner’s mythical Mississippi County relocated in Fallbrook, California where blacks had been replaced by latinos and where cotton had been rejected in favor of citrus and avocados. Mine was a transcendental occurrence, an out-of-body moment in which I knew that I was driven to write about the town and its people. Many years have passed since I came to realize the source of my inspiration, which occurred on Faulkner’s one-hundredth birthday.
Emmett Shields
About the Author
Emmett Shields is a freelance writer currently residing in Barstow, California. Formerly, he was a restaurant critic for the San Diego Union. As a writer, a professional hypnotist, and a clairvoyant, he declares that, "What goes on in my psyche is the stuff that keeps psychiatrists in the upper income bracket." In spite of a busy writing schedule, he manages to remain active in parapsychological research. He is the author of two other novels -- Bun Bait and Lost and Found in San Francisco -- which have been published by 1st Books Library.