|One of my earlier trips in a station wagon with my |
mother about 1954.
|The Milk Farm host to bus loads on their way to ski in the Sierra.|
And what about the legendary milkshake stand near the wildlife refuge in Los Banos? I cannot remember the name of that roadside attraction but I know from my field journal that I had a milkshake there on April 17, 1983. I also remember there were always lines of people waiting for their signature offering. Was it peach, blue berry or prickly pear? I cannot seem to remember.
|Excerpt from April 17, 1983 field journal.|
All of these places and others were in a real sense waystations—those places of refuge on long trips or the first foothold into civilization after visits to wild places. They were in many instances the evolutionary response to our movement from stagecoaches to station wagons. They were in a sense oases. They were comfort.
Time passes and changes happen. It is the natural order of things. But I cannot help but feel enriched by knowing these places as they were then and a little bereft by their losses now. It is not so much that I miss the Nut Tree’s funky colored sugar crystals or the sharp and stinging clink of coffee cups but rather the people and places that led me to where the tables rang with expectations and recollections.