Jagged with Love

He Talks Again of California

~6 He TaLKS AGaIn OF caLIFornIa My father tells me tonight of eucalyptus honey, how he'd lugged buckets of it at five years old, maybe four. The orange groves, he says, were flanked by eucalyptus trees-they broke the SantaAna wind and held in the heat of the smudge-pots, which burned to keep frost from the orange blossoms. That was before the wind mills, he says, before California sucked every last wisp of energy from the wind with mills on each corner, splicing the sunsets and adding a funny, mechanical touch to the view from Hadley's, the best for date shakes. Not shakes on dates, he says, but actual date shakes; made from dates in the grove like oranges in the grove, dates that grew as grapes in a bunch, laid out to wrinkle and crystallize with sugar, dates, he says, sweeter than your mom. He doesn't say, Those were the days. He doesn't say, You can't get eucalyptus honey anywhere anymore, not even San Jose. He doesn't say, I'll make you a date shake someday. He says nothing more. After dinner he leans against the sink, holds himself still. He stands with his plate in his hand, and I watch him fade, looking out the window into the dark gut of Ohio. ...