Photo by Karin Lightfoot
My daughter Amanda looked out the windshield, across a scarred, tumbleweed-studded landscape. Our car was traveling along the bluffs of Panorama Avenue, an ironic name for a street that offers a commanding view of industrial desolation—wastewater sumps, steam generators, and storage tanks.
“Bakersfield?” she shook her head. “No offense Dad, but how can anyone enjoy living here?”
“Actually that’s Oildale,” I replied, pointing to patches of homes squatting between a refinery and miles upon miles of bobbing, grasshopper-like oil pumps.
But I take her point.
“North of the River” as we natives call it, does look like an atomic test-sight having a bad-hair day. So I was silent for a spell and struggled with my answer. Finally, I reached over and squeezed her shoulder.
“Honey,” I said, “It’s not the place I love; it’s the people.”
That said… I still have a soft-spot in my heart for this place. And it’s special in its own way.
For example, did you know that Bakersfield shares something in common with London, Paris and Rome?
It’s true. Folks who’ve never visited it have a Crystal-Palace-clear perception of it from popular media. For them, “Bake-o” is:
-The punch-line of Johnny-Carson jokes.
-The arm-pit of California.
-A cultural wasteland… putting the “crude” in crude-oil.
-Shit-Kicker-Central… the country-music-capitol of California and launching-pad of legends like Merle Haggard and Buck Owens.
-Where truckers, roustabouts and assorted rednecks have wing-dings, woo and wed in the parking lot at Wal-Mart.
Ah, yes, that’s Bakersfield.
And it’s my hometown.
Even though I haven’t lived in Kern County for almost 30 years… God help me, I do enjoy the occasional visit. People-watching here can’t be beat. It’s funnier than the “Best of Hee Haw.”
Utter the word “Bakersfield,” in a casual conversation anywhere in the world, and you’ll get a predictable response from those who’ve actually parked their Pontiac at Zingos.
First, their eyes glaze over. Then, their mouths begin to move, trying to form words that won’t come. Finally, they sputter.
“Bakersfield?! What a GAWD-AWFUL PLACE.”
Most folks who’ve stopped briefly in Bakersfield—which is, admittedly, the best way to see it—will tell you that they did so only because they HAD TO. Their bladders were full or their tanks empty. But for those that lingered, it was seldom by choice.
Usually they have a tale to tell, and it’s always a sad story of how their car stalled here on a sultry summer day. Without prompting, they’ll launch into a tragic-comic travelogue… and as a loyal Bakersfieldian… you’re expected to listen.
“IT WAS HOTTER THAN HADES…. 155 degrees in the shade.” They say, shaking their heads. “BUT THERE WAS NO SHADE!”
You nod sympathetically.
“IT WAS THE MOST MISERABLE TRIP IN OUR ENTIRE LIFE,” they shout. “DID YOU KNOW THAT THE TEMPERATURE THAT DAY SET A NEW HIGH IN THE GUINESS BOOK OF WORLD RECORDS?”
Beware! The storyteller can become dangerous at this point, glaring in an accusatory manner. Apparently you’re supposed to apologize for their misfortunes. Obviously, since you’re a resident of Kern County, the weather is clearly your fault.
And if you see their faces blanch, or pink foam form on their trembling lips, run. They may be suffering from PTBD—Post Traumatic Bakersfield Disorder.
Treatment usually requires a weekend in Pismo Beach.
Now these stories vary in their details—burst hoses, shredded tires and toasted transmissions—but the central plot-line is always the same—no matter who they are or where they came from, their sole purpose in life suddenly became “getting the hell out of Kern County.”
Which also happens to be the class motto of most of the area’s high school graduates.
This “beam me up, Scotty” mentality is understandable, just like my daughter’s attitude. Who, in their right mind, would live here?
Well…. actually… most of my family.
I returned to Bakersfield recently to celebrate my brother’s birthday. So I revisited my old stomping grounds, seeing parents, nieces, nephews, and friends. I reflected on my life there nearly three decades ago.
It wasn’t easy, but I escaped. Back then I was as a newbie-teacher living in Modesto, saddled with student loans while my kid brother worked for the family business straight out of high school, making four times what I did.
I suppose THAT should have been my answer to Amanda’s earlier question.
People “choose” to stay here in the same fashion a brontosaurus decides it’s a good idea to take a quick dip in the La Brea tar pits. No one really intends to live here. They just do. Unlike the Beverly Hillbillies, Bakersfield’s black gold—Texas Tea—doesn’t always liberate them to live in a tonier place.
Drillers have been chasing Kern crude for decades, and the county has prospered from petroleum. But it comes at a steep cost—the evidence is all around. It’s in the polluted air that veils the nearby mountains. I’ve been here just a few hours, and my lungs are already tingling with an incipient asthma attack. The dust and haze are making our eyes burn, but even if we close them, there’s no doubt where we are; a sulfurous smell is synonymous with steam-extraction. You can’t escape the stench—it lingers in your nose–but if you complain, some locals will say: “Smells like money to me.”
Bakersfield—It’s not the place; it’s the pollution.
And still… there are points of pilgrimage, places I can’t wait to see. Let me share with you a few of my guilty pleasures. So when your car croaks on Buck Owens Boulevard, or you find yourself pinned down near the Padre Hotel, you can salvage your day. In defense of my home town, I invite you to check these out:
Dewar’s – Confections that are second to none. The original store opened in 1909 near Bakersfield High School and has been a hangout ever since. Bring home a bag of caramel, peppermint, or peanut-butter chews and the memory will linger even longer.
Smith’s Bakery – The original store on Union Ave is home of the world-famous gobs-of-frosting birthday cakes, pastries, and other specialty treats. My beloved became by girlfriend years ago by giving me a box of my favorite chocolate thumb-prints and a card that said “thumb-one loves you.” The cookies are long gone, but I still have the card.
The Bakersfield Arch – This iconic greeting originally hung over Union Avenue before the first freeway bypassed it, and caused the eventual decline of the town’s premier motel. It was salvaged, moved, and now lives near Buck Owen’s Crystal Palace and can be seen from Highway 99.
The Fox Theater – The jewel of Bakersfield’s old-town. Back it its heyday, it was the place all the A-List movies premiered. Walt Disney’s “The Love Bug” opened with a VW Beetle perched atop the marquee. Those glory days faded in the 1970s and 80s when it became a tattered bargain theater. Fortunately, it was rescued a few years back, restored to its 1930s glory, and now is the place to go on weekends to see a classic, foreign or indie film.
Trout’s – Established in 1945, this famous honky-tonk has a spacious dance floor and many photos celebrating a colorful history. The decades-old marquee has cast its shadow on the likes of Buck Owens and Merle Haggard, and others who crafted the “Bakersfield Sound.” Oh, and if you’ve got an attitude about Oildale or country music, then you’ll be asked to “take it outside.”
Woolgrowers – Stop in and you’ll be gathering around long tables, being seated next to strangers. But no matter, you’ll know them well be the end of the meal. This Basque restaurant still serves the best pickled tongue in all of creation.
Great places all.
After Amanda’s comment, I was a bit defensive about the land of my birth. So I make it a point to show all these sights to my daughters.
Their opinion?
The cookies and candy are good, Dad, but can’t you just order them off the internet? Do you REALLY have to come here to get them? They also said that, next time we decide to visit the extended family… maybe we could all meet in, say, Pismo Beach?
Alas, Bakersfield remains a hard-sell.
So I gave up trying to win any converts. This place is special to me, but like beer-nuts, it’s an acquired taste.
We drove around a bit more, looking at the hospital our oldest two kids were born, places I’d worked, homes that once had been ours, and the college where Karin and I met. I considered going out to a remote spot where I used to take girls to watch “the submarine races,” but thought better of it.
Near the end of this tour-de-memory-lane, I got lost. The streets had been changed up and I hit a cul-de-sac. The kids were amused that I couldn’t find my way in a place I’d lived for almost 30 years.
“This used to go through,” I said gamely. “No one asked me about putting in a new overpass.”
“New?” they teased. “Looks like it’s been here for years.”
And so it has. I was forced to admit what Thomas Wolfe once so aptly said:
You can’t go home again.
To that, I’ll add this about Bakersfield…. Next time I’m asked: Why do I love being here? I’ll give the answer Mom used to say when I grumbled about the “boring, dumb place.”
She’d lift my chin, look me in the eyes and remind me. “Son, you bloom where you’re planted.”
And so I did. I came of age in Oildale, and left it with mixed emotions of relief and sorrow. The berg that holds the remains of my loved ones is once and forever my hometown and will always claim a piece of my heart.
So, Amanda… It’s not the place, Honey, it’s the memories.
And some places live on only in our memories.
Robb has enjoyed writing and performing since he was a child, and many of his earliest performances earned him a special recognition-reserved seating in the principal’s office at Highland Elementary. Since then, in addition to his weekly column on A News Cafe – “Or So it Seems™” – Robb has written news and features for The Bakersfield Californian, appeared on stage as an opening stand-up act in Reno, and his writing has been published in the Funny Times. His short stories have won honorable mention national competition. His screenplay, “One Little Indian,” Was a top-ten finalist in the Writer’s Digest competition. Robb presently lives, writes and teaches in Shasta County. He can be reach at robb@robblightfoot.com.
