We Own Nothing, Really.

 

It has been horrifying, watching the firestorms in Los Angeles. I don't even know how to process the destruction. A few months ago, I was scrolling through photos of flood damage to many ceramic studios in North Carolina, after Hurricane Helene. One artist lost his entire town to a nearby river. In both instances, it was amazing to watch people rally together, to provide aid and support.

I live in a place that is prone to earthquakes, tsunamis, and wildfires. Our planet is slowly demonstrating who is boss, after years of mistreatment.

I started thinking about why I live here, and what is important. I started to think about my ancestors, and about why they came to America. On my mom's side, one ancestor worked in a cotton mill in England, with everyone in her family. All of the children worked at the same mill. Their goal was to save enough money to pay for their ship fares. On my dad's side, life was even more dire. One ancestor worked as an indentured servant, sending all of her earnings, except for enough to buy a pair of wooden shoes, to her widowed mother. Her sister also worked as an indentured servant in the fields, and was accidentally killed when a farm worker was waving his scythe around to tease her, and cut an artery in her leg. All of the field workers watched her bleed out and die, as there was no help near.

All of these ancestors came here for one thing: some land, and a home. Where they lived, this was not an option for peasants, and factory workers. All of the land was owned by the gentry. So, they saved up, and came here. I was thinking about the farms of both sets of my grandparents. Both families owned land. My dad's family raised sheep and turkeys. My mom's family grew hay, and alfalfa for livestock. They also had some cows, sheep, and a pig. Being able to own land, and to have a way of supporting themselves from the land was so important to them. Everyone worked so hard to keep their farms "going". They took great care. 

Neither farm still exists. My mom's parents passed away, and their home and farmland were literally paved over to make a parking lot. My dad's parents passed away, and they sold their house. But, it doesn't belong to their family. When my parents passed away recently, we sold their house.

So, I decided to memorialize the transiency of land "ownership" by making some farm wall plaques for both sides of my family. 

I was lucky enough to be able to purchase a home on a plot of land. I have worked really hard to fix up my house. In fact, I was obsessed with it during the first few years of being a homeowner. But, as we've learned from history, and from global warming, none of this really belongs to anyone. Originally, all of the land was owned by the First Peoples. My grandpa always had a metate and a mano on his porch, which he had found while plowing his fields. I know that my land was owned by the Calendaruc Tribe, which lived near the Amah Mutsun. I am positive that someone once lived on my little plot, because it is located high above the flood plain, and the sloughs which flow out to the ocean. No matter how hard we work the land, or how much time we spend on it, it's not ours. And, we will be gone, and then someone else will take over.

So, my farm signs are a reminder of what once was, and of the transitory nature of ownership.