On the East side of the highway that runs along our farm, there are a few properties that seem nice. 5-10 acre parcels of land oddly stitched together and separated by failing cyclone fences which harbor wild chayote plants and unkempt vines. Farther, past the main canal and Lake Road, there are some more houses. These are not as welcoming. The front doors face Hickman Road and they are close to the highway, nearly part of traffic. Lazy dogs short-chained behind low fencing pant in the shade of tall weeds and old barbecues. Tenants smoke in lawn chairs at the corners of a failing porch watching commercial trucks barrel down the highway all day and night. They slow their hulking loads by way of compression release engine brakes from time to time, and I can lay in bed and hear them a mile away when the air is right. This is a place of commodity production and distribution, a truth carved into the lanes of our roads and littered along our roadsides.
Occasionally the local sheriff crime reports will include the goings-on of this particular length of highway, and the adjacent streets which stretch from it like big crooked ribs from a spinal cord. A woman was accosted while jogging in an orchard 2 years ago. The liquor store was robbed by some armed, masked men in the same year. We’ve seen a couple meth labs go bad and burn garages down. Occasionally I will find garbage bags packed with empty acetone bottles and drain cleaner, used rubber gloves, disposable respirators, surgical tubing. Items mostly unsuspicious until found abandoned in the company of one another. Everyone is producing something around here.
