Actually. . . It's a Vine. . . (Excerpt from "Confessions of a Plant Activist")

I took my sweatshirt off, folded it, scooted it underneath me for padding against the gnarled, wooden trunk of the ancient wisteria vine and sat back down. Gazing up through the light-green foliage, I shifted the heavy chain away from the spot that it was pinching on my neck and listened to the frantic pitch that the chatter of the robins and blackbirds had begun to take.

The sun had risen by then, dissolving the chill of the damp morning air -- causing it to retreat into the shady corners of the dilapidated arbor under which I sat.

I looked at my watch. It was 7:15 a.m. As the workmen assembled to coordinate the demolition of the old Wright Nursery, their shouts drifted across to me -- muffled by the shrubbery.

Glancing around, it struck me that the wisteria vine and the old arbor might have had a pact from the very beginning with the arbor vowing to support the wisteria vine for the first hundred years of its life if the wisteria promised to hold the arbor up for the second hundred years. . .

I tried to imagine how the place must have looked a hundred and fifty years ago when the Wright family owned it. After deciding to go into the nursery business, it was probably the addition of the greenhouse that had caused the old farmhouse to take on its “Winchester Mystery House” like qualities.

The east kitchen wall’s windows had been boarded over and made into knick-knack shelves. The concrete steps that once led up to the front porch now mounted to an eerily blank wall as, one after another, back porches had been glassed and then walled in, only to have other porches built onto them.

Sighing out loud, I contemplated the sprawling, busy place the formerly quiet, agricultural Northern California community of Sonoma County had become.

The walnut, pear, and prune orchards that I remembered from my youth now all but disappeared. . . Gone and only their ghosts left to linger in the minds of a dwindling few as scraggly vestiges of them remained -- crazy-quilt pieces scattered here and there -- like so much debris left in the corners by a lazy housekeeper.

As a child, I'd loved late summer and early autumn in Sonoma County. It was harvest-time to me -- a time of “gathering”. At that time, the old orchard trees still dotted the neighborhood where I grew up offering free snacks of blackberries, figs, apples, pears, plums and crab apples -- available just for the taking, on the way home from school.

Then, later in the year, there were English walnuts to be cracked with one quick stomp of the heel -- but, not too hard, least the prize within be smeared across the sidewalk, like peanut butter, and lost.

Those were the tastes and smells of my childhood in Sonoma County in a time before the vines of Zinfandel and Chardonnay wove their tendrils across it and all but obliterated the old fruit orchards until only their names now remain on street signs, condos, and business parks to remind us of where they once stood.

I was roused from my thoughts by the approach of a middle-aged woman in slippers holding a coffee cup in one hand.

She shouted something that I didn’t understand, so I called back, “I beg your pardon?”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” she growled, glaring at me (7:30 a.m. was probably not her favorite time of day), “I was calling my cat. Here Fluffy, here Fluff-baby. . .”

I hoped her precious “Fluffy” wasn’t napping inside the old house. In a little while, the bulldozers were going to reduce it to a pile of splinters -- pieces barely large enough even to make decent kindling.

The woman lowered her cup and steadied her gaze on me, glowering. “Are you chained to that tree?” she asked me in a dubious tone.
 
“Yes,” I offered calmly, “and it’s actually a vine, not a tree. . .”
          
Her expression abruptly changed to one that she probably reserved for alien abductees as she shifted to examine the poster at my feet that I'd hurriedly lettered that morning.

“One-hundred years in the light and the dark, it has more rights than a business park,” she read out loud.                                                                                                      
        
“They’re going to tear it down today,” I said to her, gesturing toward the house with my chin, “The old house . . . everything. . .”
 
Something in what I said seemed to touch off a spark that enlivened the older woman’s demeanor and a slight flush came over her face.
         
“I know”, she joined in, “It’s such a shame how they just tear things down all the time. Nobody cares about these old buildings ‘n stuff anymore. They’re just in a hurry to tear ‘em all down is all.”
         
“I’m afraid so,” I nodded sadly, “Do you know that some of these plants around here may have belonged to Luther Burbank?”
        
“Really?” she said as she sidled-up closer.
          
“It’s true,” I said, conspiratorially before proceeding to give her a brief synopsis of my well-practiced narrative about the history of the old Wright Nursery.
          
A short, grey-haired man in a hardhat approached us whom I took to be the construction crew foreman -- scanning the area intensely (for “squatters” like Fluffy, I imagined). 
          
“Good morning,” he said, nodding pleasantly enough, as he passed by after which he froze in mid-step and whirled around abruptly to face me.
       
“Are you chained to that tree?” he asked, his voice tightening up a notch.

“Well, it’s actually a vine, not a tree, and, yes, I am chained to it,” I quipped breezily.
        
He shifted his gaze to the poster at my feet and then quickly back to me.

“Well,” he huffed, “You’d better get unchained real fast, Missy, or you could get real hurt, real soon!”
        
“Oh?” I countered with a bravado belied by my quickly elevating heart rate, “And I suppose you’re going to bulldoze me right along with the building and kill me if I don’t?”
        
I hurriedly explained about the wisteria while holding up the copy of the “Wright Nursery Price List” that had been discovered in a cupboard under the stairs in the kitchen. Pointing out the date of the price list of 1926 and showing him Burbank’s name beside the varieties of plants that were listed; I explained that I couldn’t unchain myself anyway, since someone else was holding the key to the padlock. 
        
His face turned three shades of red and he stomped off, muttering under his breath.
       
At that point, the lady I’d been speaking with walked away and I found myself once again alone under the arbor and still quaking slightly with apprehension.
        
After a few moments, “Fluffy’s Mother” returned, joined by a small band of young children and teenagers. The bravest one approached me and asked, “Are you chained to that tree?”
        
“Yes, I’m chained to it and, actually, it’s a vine, not a tree,” I replied.
         
This unleashed a deluge of questions from the group that I answered, each in turn.
       
About twenty minutes later, my friend, Katie, arrived on the scene. Excitedly, she told me that she had telephoned the news department of the local TV station and told them about my "sit-in". Dejectedly, she added she had also phoned all of the local and state government representatives on the list that I had given her earlier but, unfortunately, they were all “officially unavailable.”
       
So, it appeared that I would be left to face the bulldozers -- predictably alone. . .
       
Just then a large, white van with “TV News” emblazoned down one side panel came up the driveway. After a few moments, a young, petite, brown-haired woman and a man with a video camera emerged and approached me.
         
“So what’s happening here?” the reporter inquired, “We heard that this has something to do with Luther Burbank’s plants or something?”

I recounted my Wright Nursery narrative to the reporter and she explained that she would like to interview me again -- this time with the camera rolling -- and if could repeat what I’d just said, our conversation would air that evening on the local news program.
        
After the on-camera interview was done, the cameraman took a close-up shot of my poster but I had to stifle my laughter when they both stepped aside to take solo “reaction shots” of the reporter, holding up her microphone and nodding seriously while throwing in an occasional “uh-huh” or “I see”.
        
A minute or two later, the reporter came back over to me and extended her hand, shaking mine.

“Thank-you,” she said earnestly looking into my eyes, “I mean thank-you for all of us who live here for having the courage to do this.”
        
“You’re welcome,” I smiled, reassuring her, “But I just had to do it. I couldn’t live with myself if I just let them tear it all down without saying or doing anything about it.”
 
She returned my smile and then she and the cameraman loaded back into the van. A patrol car pulled into the driveway just as they drove away.
        
A young, strapping sheriff’s deputy emerged from the car and was hailed by the construction crew foreman. Gesturing and looking in my direction, the two spoke for a moment before the deputy walked over to me.
       
“Look,” he said rather sheepishly, “The fact is that you’re trespassing and, if you don’t unchain yourself from that tree, I’m going to have to arrest you.”
        
Summoning every bit of courage that I had left, I looked into his eyes:

“Actually, it’s a vine, not a tree and I understand that you have to do your job but you have to understand, too, what I am trying to accomplish here. These plants are living things. They are old and rare and have historical significance to this town, this county -- hell, maybe even to the whole damned world -- and I’m trying to save their lives, not to mention our heritage. All we care about here are the plants.  Somebody has to do something to stop this destruction and I guess I’m all they’ve got. . .”
         
Giving me a look that I imagine he usually reserved for orphaned puppies, the deputy shook his head slowly. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said and walked off, once again, in the direction of the foreman.
         
A couple of minutes later, the deputy returned and informed me that they had managed to contact the owner of the construction company, a Mr. Derby, by phone. Mr. Derby had promised that, if I disengaged myself from the wisteria vine and the crew was allowed to continue the demolition of the buildings without further interruption, they would make a point of sparing the plants for the time being.
    
If we complied, my friend, Katie, and I would be allowed to remain on the property at a safe distance and witness for ourselves that the plants remained unharmed. Otherwise, the kindly deputy had been instructed to cut the chain from around me and haul me, forthwith, to jail. 
           
“I really don’t want to do that,” he pleaded, “And I’m sure you don’t want that either. He’s offering you a pretty good deal here, really.”
           
I nodded slowly a couple of times. “Okay,” I answered quietly, “Give me a minute to have my friend bring over the key.”
          
“Good,” he sighed with relief and went to inform the foreman of my decision.
          
I called Katie over and we feigned passing the key. The weight of the chain was lifted off my neck and, after stopping to pick up my poster, we positioned ourselves on the front lawn to watch the old house fall.

= = = = = = = = = # # # = = = = = = = = = 

The “loader”, a huge bulldozer, began by taking bites out of the old house with its enormous jaws and spitting them out on the ground behind it. Another bulldozer ran over the bites repeatedly with its huge tracks and, after grinding the timbers into splinters, it scooped them up and deposited them into a gigantic dumpster.
  
Up until that moment, I’d felt far more emotionally attached to the plants there than I had to the building but, as I watched, I was strangely and suddenly overcome with an unexpected wave of gut-wrenching sadness and tears began to flow freely down my face.
           
I knew I was being a bit silly but, during the time I lived there, the old house had seen the birth of my daughter, the break-up of my marriage and so many Halloween, Fourth of July and birthday parties, Friday-night poker games, jam sessions and Thanksgiving dinners -- it was just too heartbreaking to see it go as tiny, nondescript splinters being thrown into a dumpster. . . 
         
True to their word, the crew never so much as touched any of the plants as they deftly pulled away huge chunks of architecture from under, over and beside them. They made very short work of it and, by noon, it was all over. 
          
Afterwards, it felt very odd to stand beneath the wisteria-arbor which was now in the middle of a bare field with no structures at all nearby and only the boxwood hedge and a few other plants dotted around it nearby.
         
At about 12:15 p.m., friends and friends of friends began arriving at the old Wright Nursery site toting barbeque grills, ice chests, folding tables and chairs, bowls of salads and other food.
        
“Fluffy’s Mother” returned, along with the small band of children and teenagers from that morning and, perhaps, in-all 50 people congregated under the wisteria while animatedly discussing the morning’s “showdown”, laughing and eating.
       
The carnival-like atmosphere of the impromptu gathering warmed me deep inside and life felt pretty good there in the cool shade of the arbor under the auspices of Mr. Wright’s wisteria vine. . . yep, pretty darned good. . .

But, the sad fact remains that, ultimately, I was unable to save the wisteria and all of the larger plants (however, I was able to dig some of the smaller ones up and transplant them into pots).
          
I drove to work everyday thereafter within sight of the old Wright Nursery but, after a couple of months passed and I had exhausted all avenues to save the wisteria, I deliberately kept my eyes glued to the road in front of me when I passed -- practicing this “tunnel vision” just in case I was unlucky enough to happen along at the exact moment the plants were being torn from the ground because I knew I’d never be able to bear witnessing it.
 
That autumn, I heard on the news about a small group of protesters nearby who chained themselves to some redwood trees out in the Russian River area to stave off the trees’ imminent destruction. This time, however, the tactic worked and the trees were spared.

When I heard about it, I smiled and thought, “I wonder where they got that idea?”

I went on to become the Chair of Luther Burbank’s Gold Ridge Farm Advisory Committee for a time. A couple of the plants that I saved from the old Wright Nursery now thrive on the grounds of the West Sonoma County Museum in Sebastopol, California. . . but, I still cry sometimes when I remember the magnificent wisteria vine and its incredible beauty, even though it’s gone now and has been for many, many years. . .

The preceding was an "condensed excerpt" of the last three chapters of my manuscript entitled "Confessions of a Plant Activist". -- Jean F.