At the car, Ruthies says I’ll ride in back. climbs in,
squeezes Green’s shoulder.
Go back to the junction and take a right,
The road beyond the junction
climbs up to the crest of a ridge.
Between sparse trees they see
the patchwork quilt of the Valley
dimmed in the dusty afternoon haze.
Turn up there on the right,
just past that dead pine.
A narrow gravel road winds down
into a long valley cloaked in chaparral.
Deep ruts force their pace to a crawl.
At the bottom of the valley
the road levels out, twisting along
the dry bed of a seasonal creek.
Ruthie leans forward, peering between the men.
You live way out here? How do you get around?
Anyway I can, walk or on a horse,
catch a ride with friendly strangers…..
-Like us?
No. I mean strangers…. you’re not…
let me ask you, you ever been on a horse?
No, never have. When I was a little girl, I wanted to.
Come up sometime and ride.
Really? I would love that!
I’m sure you will.
Half an hour later, Green says,
stop up there by the big rock.
The path to my house is there,
but this’s as close as you can drive.
Stay on this road. You’ll come to
the highway about fifteen or
twenty minutes from here.
That’ll take you down to Porterville.
But I’d suggest you wait until after dark.
So you won’t attract attention.
Porterville isn’t a sundown town,
but you two would catch anybody’s eye.
I think you’re right.
We’ll wait til it gets dark.
Be a few hours, come up to my house.
Want to meet some horses, young lady?
Can we?
Of course. If they’re around. They have the run
of the place, they might be out until later on.
Henry parks the car beside the granite
outcrop protruding from the hillside.
A hard beaten path leads up the hill
to a small house of rough-milled planks
with a corrugated metal roof tucked in
under a grove of blue oaks.
The porch has a view of the valley,
with pair of wooden rocking chairs at one end
and an old church pew beside the front door.
Have a seat. I’ve got some sun tea, would you like a glass?
Yes please.
Be right back.
They sit on the pew, Ruthie leans on Henry.
I could live in a place like this.
I know, it feels so good just sitting here.
Green comes back with a big jar of deep amber
tea and three Woolworth’s uranium glasses.
You want some sugar?
Ruthie says she would and Henry says he’s got
all the sugar he needs right here, pats Ruthie’s knee.
She says me too, but I like some in my tea.
He passes her a faded green enamel tin and a spoon.
Mmmm. This is delicious! How do you keep it so cold,
you have an ice box way out here?
No. no ice box, no refrigerator. I let the earth keep things cool.
Like a root cellar?
Bigger. Somebody thought there might be gold up here
back in the 1860’s. He started digging into the hill.
Goes in about a hundred feet. Never found any gold,
far as I know, but it stays cool all year round.
Henry says, this is a real nice place.
How long have you been here?
Oh many years now. My wife and I built it
when we got married. She died six years ago.
I’m sorry.
It’s alright. I miss her, but sometimes she’s still here.
Her spirit?
Might be. Or just her memory, who knows?
I promised you horses if they were around,
I don’t hear them. I think they must be out
sleeping somewhere. You’ll have to come back.
Yes, we will. I want to ride a horse.
I bet you’re hungry.
Please don’t go to any trouble,
we’ll get something down in the valley.
That doesn’t sound like a very smart idea.
We’ll figure something out.
What about you, Ruthie?
I think this young lady needs to eat.
I could eat a bit. But really if it’s a bother,
we can figure something out.
No trouble. I’ve got some cornbread and a pot of beans.
I’ll just heat them up.
Sounds delicious.
C’mon inside while I heat them up.
Green holds the screen door open and gestures for them
to enter. The front room is small, with a braided oval scrap rug
in the center and two threadbare stuffed armchairs flanking
a small table with a kerosene lamp sitting on a doily.
A small potbellied stove in the corner. Against one wall,
a bookcase jammed with several hundred books and
various feathers, odd bits of animal skeletons and skulls,
rocks of many colors and sizes.
Please, make yourselves at home.
Ruthie says, mind if I come with you to the kitchen? I could help?
No need, but you’re welcome if you want to see the kitchen.
The kitchen is as simple as the front room.
A thick knife-scarred table in the middle, a cast iron stove
from the 19th century. White cupboards with nickel hinges,
a few shelves with tins and jars, chipped ceramic crocks.
A white porcelain sink on metal legs with a bucket under
the the drain. A hand pump sticks up through the floor.
Green says, the beans and cornbread are out in the mine,
come on back with me.
They go out the back to a heavy wooden door set into
the collar of the mine in the hillside behind the house.
Green swings it open and takes a candle off a shelf just
inside the door and lights it with the ember of a Basque
shepherd’s lighter.
Planks worn smooth run down the center. Twenty feet
into the shaft, shelves fill the space between the posts
framing the mine. A ham hangs from a hook further back.
Ruthie examines the shelves. There are jars of canned
tomatoes, peppers, okra, corn, cucumbers, and squash,
more bins and bags. On the floor beyond the food stuffs,
stout wooden boxes filled with rocks.
She picks one up, a chunk of white quartz veined with gold.
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