When we spoke with the young man who drove our rental truck two thousand miles from Big Sur to here, we asked him what his experience was driving large vehicles long distance. He told us his stories of expeditions to Burning Man.
Suitably impressed, we told him about Fairfield, the Maharishi Transcendental Meditation community, the Golden Domes of Pure Knowledge, the many ethnic restaurants, the farmer’s market, and the 16-mile loop trail that circles the town of about 10,000 souls.
“It’s like Burning Man,” we said, “but for old folks!” Which got a laugh, and is somewhat true. There is a thriving bunch of active retired folks here, but Fairfield also has lots of young families with little kids, university students, artists, farmers, professional people, a real small town demographic.
“The sky is our ocean,” said a new friend. When we drive out of town, down the nearly empty highways, we see this sky-ocean, sometimes baby blue, sometimes steel gray, always changing. A huge palette in the sky, clouds painted in broad strokes by the ever-present winds.
Now, in May, the land is truly beautiful, with endless, patient crop fields not yet planted, abundant forests, gardens and hedgerows, and the expansive Skunk River, where I half-expect Huckleberry Finn to float by on a raft.
Still, sadness lingers, ebbs away and crashes back. Driving up to Iowa City, I asked my husband, “Where’s the edge? Where’s the edge?” There’s no jumping off place, no escape. “There is no edge, sweetie,” he said, “we’re in the middle.”
The middle. Swaddled in miles and miles of Mother Earth. When we would look at Google earth before our move, we’d see the golds and greens of the continent up to the Pacific Northwest, the ochre and sepia of the western deserts and mountains, then the emerald tones of the Heartland. I told myself we were moving from the ragged coast to the soft, enfolding center of the continent.
On the coast Mother Earth dares us to maintain our balance, and keeps us on our tippy toes. Here, she holds us close, she seems more peaceful. She lulls us with endless storybook clouds, and the kind of landscape that must have inspired that childhood Rorschach – drawings of a house, a yard, a tree, the sun. Again and again, in village after village nestled between farms.
Iowa is dramatic land, too. It’s dramatic in its stillness, its endless vast flatness (and rolling hills), its timeless quality. And of course, snow, which is still a novelty for me. Then, there’s tornadoes. Wooooo boy. Our sweet realtors told us that Fairfield isn’t really part of “tornado alley,” which has occasioned a guffaw or two from folks we’ve met. Another part of the adventure.
Did tea-kettle topped grain silos inspire the Tin Man’s hat in the Wizard of Oz? A sensational amount of corn is grown here: approximately 13 million acres of it, yielding 128 billion pounds of “field corn” (used mostly for animal feed and ethanol production) each year. Iowa grows more maíz than Mexico. The rich seas of soil in this hardworking land bring an agrarian sensibility to the culture. You can see this from the front porch to the farmer’s market, from the county fairs to the monster silos beside the highways.
Perhaps because of the cold winters, social relating is a highly developed art form. I’ve found there are many storytellers here, with lots of quick, dry wit. Standing in line with my new pitchfork at the farm store, the older gent behind me said, “She’s either got some digging to do, or her husband’s in trouble!”
I loved learning from my neighbor that the delicate silver maple leaf pods that flutter to the ground like spinning butterflies, are known as “maple squirters.” When they’re green, kids squeeze them, and, as you guessed, the seeds pop out.
Another passionate pastime is birdwatching. On a cold morning right before Easter I trudged through the melting snow with several women of all ages and some adorable girl scouts, looking for newly arriving birds. It felt like an Easter egg hunt, as we searched for and spotted the beauties. We saw all kinds, from red-wing blackbirds, eastern phoebes and tufted titmice to dashing scarlet cardinals and the elusive white-breasted nuthatch. Even a wood-duck emerged from its box in the lagoon.
When I asked the group leader, a round lady in her later years, what kind of bird she would be, she replied immediately, “A sparrow, for its subtle beauty.”
And I’d like to thank Bob Dylan, for (another) gem of wisdom. He’s chosen Tulsa, Oklahoma, as the home of his just-opened Bob Dylan Center in the Tulsa arts district. When asked, why Tulsa? he replied that, while the coasts have a certain energy, he prefers, “the casual hum of the Heartland.” Thanks Bob! I’m starting to like that hum too.
It all began several years ago. My husband told me a story of a little town he’d stopped in to on his way from New Orleans to Minneapolis: Fairfield, Iowa. Outside the café on the main square, he saw a Prius parked next to a pickup truck with a gun rack. He liked the vibe of peaceful coexistence and the place stayed in his memory for a couple of decades.
Fast forward to a few years ago, when the tectonic plates that kept us happily, miraculously in Big Sur, began to shift. There, on our beautiful, dangerous mountain, we experienced two major fires, a medical emergency while the road was out of commission, Covid, and finally, the killer blow of the 29 acre property going on the market, and selling, fast.
After 24 years of my living on the land, ownership of it transitioned into the paws of a female tiger cub. After months of shifting closing dates and questionable financing arrangements, a 30-something cannabis entrepreneur and social media celebrity ended up with the prize, this priceless slice of heaven on top of Partington Ridge.
I had made it my personal karmic vision to share the place and for over two decades hosted weddings, memorials, easter-egg hunts and bubble baths for all. Al fresco dinner parties at sunset, sleeping under the shooting stars, condors soaring across the canyons above the sea. All that shared inspiration, that joy, is now dissolving into the tides of collective memory.
It came together fast, like a tsunami after an earthquake. We could sense, and got occasional communication about, the pending sale. We packed, made arrangements, found a place to land that we could afford and found intriguing and then waited for the end.
On the last morning, we drove down the road with our two geriatric cats and one hyperactive dog. Our Honda Element was filled with overnight bags, maps, flashlights, bottled water, a cooler of food, pet beds and a litter box. I can still see the mosaic No Trespassing sign swaying on the moving electric gate at the highway, opening for us one last time. That was a hard moment.
As the Stoics say, Ignus Aurum Probat: gold is tempered by fire. The profound quiet and deep peace found living up a dirt road, the shock of losing my home of so many years, the overpowering impulse to cherish the place, all this coalescing into a clear choice when facing this loss. Do I want grief and bitterness? Or gratitude and release? It’s up to me.
Eye-Oh-WHAT? Said our friends. Then went on to confuse it with Idaho, or Ohio. IOWA. The beautiful land of the tranquil people, is the loose translation of the indigenous word for this flat, landlocked state where agriculture, education and the arts flourish. And, in Fairfield, where the Maharishi University leads the country in transcendental meditation.
Because we were losing our home, I determined to bring as much of home as possible. After 30 years on the coast, what did I bring? Books, river stones, feathers, landscape paintings and a bucket of sand. “Bucket of sand?” said the moving guy, with classic Midwestern understatement. “Over there,” I pointed, to a corner of the kitchen. I put that sand into large clear cylinders, and stuck a candle in each. Big Sur luminarias, with garnet sand from Pfeiffer Beach.
Another moment that tears at my heart: as we were about to get into the car parked on the road to the house, we passed the trail that we took every day up the hill, for the aerobic hike to the view down the coast. Our dog Leonardo glanced at me sideways, eyes wide, questioning. “No buddy, we’re not going up the hill this time,” I said. How I regret not taking that last walk! But the time had come to rip the bandage off, and keep going.
Later, as we drove across the red rocks of Arizona into the twinkling lights of New Mexico, I sensed the mood of the critters. The cats were simply suffering in their carriers, occasionally escaping to sit with us as we drove at 80mph down Route 66. But I knew that Leonardo knew then that this road trip was a game- changer; that we weren’t going back, but onwards into the unknown.
“Iowa’s cold, Dad,” my husband’s daughter said when we told her of our choice. And that has been the most frequent refrain these past few weeks. “It’s effing cold out there,” I’ve said over and over and am still, with my homesteader’s mentality, a bit doubtful of the functionality of the heating system. Fortunately, our sweet little home has a fireplace, and we have used it liberally, for psychological comfort as much as for warmth.
Hooray for our stalwart team of friends who helped us: thoughtful Rachel who made lists, got me started on the boxes, and assured me of my strength; tireless Kate, who strategized the loading process, and rode herd on the moving guys. Amazing David, who counseled us when we melted down, and filled the trailer with stuff to be hauled away. He also brought nice, dry firewood for our last hours telling stories next to the wood-burning stove.
I sat up late that last night, by myself, and saw dancing ladies and the smiling face of Henry Miller in the flames.
Other parting gifts included the double rainbow over the ocean one early Spring morning. My cousin visiting with his wife to pay their respects to my Gramma’s grave, her spot surrounded by succulents, seashells, and just-blooming lavender. The flock of finches singing in the maple tree above the main house, their pale yellow breast feathers shining in the sun. Descendants of the little birds who greeted me here one fine afternoon two decades ago and the true owners of this land.
The bobcat that dropped out of the pine tree beside the yurt, then chased a deer across the hill, Leonardo right behind him. The first baby lupine beside the wedding tree. And, in the wee hours of the last morning, a shooting star going forth from Sirius, into Orion’s belt. “May this be the right path!” I wished.
Perhaps I haven’t gone too far from the ocean, really. During the Paleozoic period, Iowa was underwater, part of a great inland sea. I know, it’s a stretch, but these endless flat prairies, the soil rich and black, are the result of this ancient body of water. There are museums here with fossils of the Pleisosaur, the duck-billed dinosaur.
When we crossed the border into this state, all the neon disappeared, replaced with pastel blue farm houses and grain silos. A long ribbon of birds danced overhead, spiraling in the skies above the interstate. Our welcome, we said.
Each Spring, for the past two decades, we’ve hosted a flamboyant neighborhood festival, the Eggstravaganza Easter Egg Hunt, on the Lone Palm property we caretake in Big Sur.
It began on a rainy weekend in 1999, at the bridal shower I hosted for my dear friend Margaret. Margaret could bake pies, sew wedding dresses, paint landscapes, knit elaborate sweaters, and be glamorous, too. I can still see her in her floppy straw hat, wearing the sweater she’d knitted herself. She swings her Easter basket back and forth, her banjo-big blue eyes smiling, the coast stretching out behind her to the south, the silver gray ocean reaching out to the horizon. She sealed her nuptials later that April under the wedding tree, after riding a snow-white Arabian horse, adorned with red ribbons and pink roses, across the meadow.
That bridal egg hunt got me thinking. It’s much easier to connect with neighbors in springtime than to host a Christmas party when big storms cause power outages and impassable roads. The eccentric, sturdy folks who live on this mountain sometimes disagree – over water use, access roads, fence placement, outdoor lights, short-term rentals, controlled burns and more. But a truce is declared for those who attend the Eggstravaganza on Easter Sunday.
We are Switzerland, as one neighbor said, as we watch toddlers, young children and teens search for chocolate bunnies across fields of wildflowers and freshly-mown lawns. Each year I hope to create an experience that lives in communal memory until the following Spring. Over the years, as we watch the children grow and play, there’s a sense of continuity along with wonder. Sometimes, we can return to the garden.
The story of The Selfish Giant, written by Oscar Wilde for his two young boys, inspired the Eggstravaganza, too. A very selfish Giant returns from a year long visit with this friend, the Ogre. Outraged, the Giant throws the village children out of his garden, where they have been playing every day after school. When Winter comes, Winter decides to stay, and invites Snow, Frost and the North Wind to join the party. For years the Giant wonders why the flower and fruit trees don’t bloom, why Spring never comes back.
One day he sees that his fence has fallen down in one corner of his orchard and the children have returned. They sit happily in the branches of the trees, they skip and play along the paths. Spring has returned, the birds are singing, and all the fruit trees and flowers have burst into bloom. The Giant’s heart melts and he decides to share his garden from then on, knocking down the fence and welcoming all the children. “I’ve been a very selfish giant,” he laments. In this way, the Giant is fulfilled. His should grows wiser and kinder as the children become his friends and enjoy his garden for many years.
Bringing happiness to others makes us joyful, and as our hearts open the world is more beautiful. In this way we create a life that flows with love.
We can trace the origin of Easter to the Saxon goddess Ostara. She transformed a bird into a hare, and it thanked her by laying a batch of colored eggs. Seriously, that is the story! The celebration is also related to Ishtar, the ancient Sumerian goddess of love, who came back to life from the dead, a seasonal theme. Special celebrations for Ishtar took place around the spring equinox. Eggs are also a ancient symbol of procreation and abundance.
What do bunnies do? What humans used to do in a pagan festival a little later in the Spring. At Beltane in ancient Celtic lands, villagers built great bonfires, herded cattle into higher pastures, drank copious mead, danced, and, like the proverbial bunnies, swapped sex partners. A child born from the Beltane celebration was a good omen for the community.
“What’s Easter about?” asked my friend Lisa years ago. She’d been raised Jehovah’s Witness and was curious about all the holidays. “It’s about Beltane, babe,” I replied and explained the ritual to her. “Oh!” she sighed beneath her Easter bonnet as we trudged through the meadow, hiding eggs. “Let’s do that!”
Spring is when Lone Palm’s lawns, elegant old trees and landscaping really shine. There’s golden poppy, raspberry vetch, yellow lavender and purple lupin on the hillside above the house. Daisies, daffodils and birds of paradise burst forth, wisteria and jasmine festoon the garden. It’s a perfect time for colored eggs, Easter bonnets and champagne flutes filled with jelly beans.
On Easter Sunday we frolic on the lawns, swing in the hammocks, mingle at the picnic table or on the yoga deck. Whales spout in the ocean below, curious condors swing by above. One year, we even had face painting. Kids and adults sprawled on the blankets on the grass as playful artists decorated their foreheads, noses and cheeks with multi-colored tendrils, arrows, dots and feathery shapes. We became a tribe of Easter aboriginals.
It’s always a potluck, thank goodness. The dining room table fills and empties, then fills and empties again throughout the day. One year I counted six plates of deviled eggs on the table at once. There’s a variety of salads, often from greens straight from neighbors’ gardens, multiple kale dishes, pasta and lasagna, wheels of brie, baskets of crackers and homemade bread, slices of roast beef and ham, spicy tamales, Bundt cakes, elaborate pastries, fresh watermelon and mango, and more.
Guests are asked to bring “nice bubbles.” In other words, no Barefoot Bubbly! If someone brings something cheap, eyebrows go up and sniffs are audible. We may be hillbillies, but we know our sparkling wines. One year we filled a small claw-foot with bottles of Champagne, the colorful labels on the bottles making the tub as pretty as a basket of Easter Eggs.
There is a home-grown innovation to the ritual: a champagne glass hunt. Those over 21, in order to have a glass of bubbles on Easter Sunday, must first go and find their goblet in the grass. Sometimes, this makes grown-ups grumpy. “What do I do to get some Champagne, again?” said an exasperated Dad who the following year simply brought his own glass.
A decade or so ago it was an all-weekend bash, beginning on Friday night as guest arrived to help with preparations. Stalwart Moms, notably Margaret and then Peggy, have made so much of the magic happen! Handmade glitter eggs and vintage tchotchkes from the Oakland Museum’s White Elephant sale, candies galore. We’d dye the eggs the old-fashioned way all day Saturday and get up super early on Easter Sunday morning to stage the hunt, before the littler kids woke up or arrived. We’d start drinking the good Champagne early in the day, with poetic toasts, or course.
As in any ongoing human activity, things sometimes got complicated. One year the “Bad Easter Bunny” appeared and handed out airplane-sized liquor bottles and bright colored condoms, which the kids blew up into balloons. Surprisingly, not everyone thought that was funny. “What’s the difference between a condom and a balloon?” went the story afterwards. “About 10 years,” was the response.
Each year I place a small, wooden baby blue stop sign, the corner gnawed off years ago by my puppy, at the main entrance to the maze. It says, “Easter Bunny Stop Here.”
At high noon, I stand on a chair, make a brief speech and ring a gong to kick off the hunt. Big kids, 10 and up, enter the elaborate narrow maze cut into the tall grass of Lone Palm’s large meadow. Children 5-9 follow another, slightly easier path. Wee ones under five have their own “children’s garden,” a tiny spot filled with sparkly treasures and sweets, amid scarlet geraniums, bunny-soft Mexican sage, and fragrant sweet peas.
An additional bunny visit is often required for the little ones whose parents bring them late to the party. “You are the Easter Bunny!” said my neighbor in mock awe. A Vietnam Vet who reminds me of the Marlboro Man, he’d spied me, basket in hand and wearing bunny ears, re-seeding the children’s garden with treats.
Today, it’s more Prosecco than Veuve, and the partying is gentler. The dozens of kids seem younger, the parents, too. I feel such joy when I connect with neighbors and when I discover new friends of all ages. Some little people become great fans of the Big Sur-style Easter Bunny, and bring a passion to filling their baskets each year.
As the hostess, my Easter costume is key. After years of playing around with everything from a pink corduroy pantsuit plus a top hat to the gaudiest floral table cloth mini-dress I could find at Goodwill, I think I’ve found the best one yet: a skirt, camisole and jacket in a lustrous pale green fabric, with iridescent pink and yellow threads sparkling throughout. A white felt hat with a veil, simple flat sandals, and off I go, Egg Hunt Mistress of Ceremonies.
In the office the teenage boys I’d met as infants were playing card games. They looked up at me as I emerged from the bathroom in my finery, so on impulse I asked them, “What do you think?” To my pleasant surprise, their budding gallantry shone forth.
“You look lovely,” said Theo, now studying at Vassar. “You look like Easter!” said Blake, who plays the Chinese board game Go with my husband, and cooks breakfast for us all.
One of the sweetest photographs from a decade ago shows five little girls, all in their Easter dresses, jumping up and down on the outdoor bed, hair flying, laughing. The cobalt ocean is their backdrop, a sky blue sheet with clouds scattered across it covers the bed. One little gal, Stella, is in mid-air, as Mom Heather stands by, holding hands with Mason, encouraging him to jump towards the sky too.
Two years ago, one of the first young ladies to come to the party was one of those children. Now 14, Emilou’s golden tresses spilled over her jean jacket and her smile was the smile of an old soul. I popped a wide straw hat, crowned with orange paper flowers, onto her head, and snapped another photo.
Years ago, their was Ryan, with his wispy, curly hair that hadn’t been cut since his birth, his eyes a soft chocolate brown. People thought he was a little girl, until he started climbing the tallest tree in the yard, a 50′ tNorfolk pine. I can still see him, wearing the world’s smallest red plaid fleece shirt, holding the itty-bitty black bunny I’d adopted up close under his chin.
Then there was Isabella, destined to be a teenage rodeo queen. You might remember her if you hold onto copies of Smithsonian magazine: in 1999 she made the cover. She stands barefoot on the back of her honey-colored horse, on a hilltop above the sea. She looks directly at the camera, her eyes serious, her face wistful. “Big Sur, Life on the Edge,” the headline reads. In my mind’s eye Isabella holds up a royal purple egg, a diamond pattern in white crayon peeking through the paint. Her long brown hair frames her face as she smiles a Mona Lisa smile, freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks.
Towards the end of the Eggstravaganza late one April Sunday, I met a mermaid just before sunset. I gave her some big fluffy towels and a glass of Champagne, and she took a long soak in my claw-foot tub, which she filled with sprigs of lavender and strands of passionflowers.
Her handsome, red-headed boyfriend sat and chatted with us on the nearby deck, a sheepish smile on his face as he glanced over at his girl in the bath. Lukie, all grown up, gamine and beautiful. Her close-cropped thick black hair and aquiline features, her deep amused laugh and her sweet youthful self covered in bath bubbles and flowers. The perfect finish to a day of celebrating Spring.
Book signing and presentation on Wednesday, February 14, 2018 — Valentine’s Day, at Henry Miller Library in Big Sur from 4-6pm!
Romancing the Sur,Reflections on Life in Big Sur, is local writer Linda Sonrisa Jones’ first book, and tells of the restorative power of living up a dirt road. There are views of the lunar goddess, lupine blossom sorbet, and bathing in a claw-foot tub as condors soar above. There are also life-changing wildfires, sneaky rattlesnakes, and a host of marvelous eccentric characters with wisdom to share.
Living on the mountain ridge that Henry Miller called home, she writes about the passion it takes to embrace the chaos, impermanence and wild beauty of life on the coast.
“Linda Sonrisa’s writing, like a car she once had, is convertible—she converts her experiences of Big Sur so that we get to step into her rural, effervescent life. She’ll take you for a spin in her red Miata along the highway’s tight curves and you too will find that “everything is beautiful again.” Get right up close to her experience of the transformation of fire into ash into gratitude. Here’s a writer who listens with such care that she can hear a friend’s sadness in a raven’s voice and his joy in singing finches. If we could all live our lives with such attention the world would be a better place. If we could all write like this, wouldn’t that be something!
Patrice Vecchione, author, Step into Nature: Nurturing Imagination & Spirit in Everyday Life
Romancing the Sur is now on bookshelves at the Henry Miller Library and the Phoenix Shop in Big Sur.
Pilgrim’s Way bookstore in Carmel will host an author Meet and Greet for Romancing the Sur on Saturday March 10 from 1-3 pm!