24 April 2020. Walnuts and Raisins.
Looks like something out of The Grapes of Wrath—there in the fields near Dixon. I’ve thought of the place often—every time I open that bag of walnuts that Alesia, our kind neighbor from across the way, brought me from an excursion last month. She'd made the drive out into the valley with her son, Gabe, to collect his things from the house in Davis--everyone in the school had been sent home, a month back already. On the return trip she stopped at one of those old-style California fruit stands, and along with her own family supplies, she got me big packages of walnuts and raisins. My request--they've become a staple around here, I must say--tasty and dependable. I even tried ordering some from Amazon, but how much better when there's still a connection to the local.
The label on the bag tells you a lot about the place. California Golden Raisins, printed out at the top, weight, price-per-pound and total--$7.26. And at the bottom, in small capital letters, the name. Pedrick Produce. No website, of course--just a phone number, area code 707--somewhere in the valley. So I decided to look them--and immediately I see a photo of an old Quonset hut, World War II vintage, set against empty fields--and a hand-painted sign on butcher paper--Local Brown Eggs $3.99. My kind of place.
But why is that? Well, I'm a native--and this is a California I know. Growing up right at the time when these vestiges of family enterprise were giving way to conglomeration. You forget this in town--even at a place like Berkeley Natural Grocery--yes, everything's organic, but you haven't a clue where the walnuts come from. Plentiful, in their dip-in bin (no longer, I'm afraid) but still anonymous.
Remembering how I used to walk to the produce stand near Reed--down Woodstock and over on 28th. Run by a Japanese-American family, the Okamoto's. A ramshackle Portland establishment, with beautiful fresh fruit and vegetables. I loved the feel of the place--and talking a bit with Henry, the father. This was during Vietnam, and their son, Roger was in the Marines. A Second Lieutenant--the toughest rank--leading a platoon. We learned he was killed by a land-mine near Da Nang. It came as a shock to everyone at school-we all knew the Okamoto's, the stand was so close by. And how could you not ponder it--a Japanese-American family who'd just lost their oldest son in a war in Southeast Asia, while many of the rest of us were safe in college here at home. His Marine Corps memorial photo, framed and mounted on a wall near the register seemed small consolation, but Henry said they were proud. Nevertheless, I knew from before that the Okamoto family had gone through the internment camps as well...
I'm not a big donor, but when I do give something to Reed, I always dedicate it to Roger Okamoto. I'm guessing that no one there today would recognize his name...
