By David Mas Masumoto
I drive country roads, past farms and houses that look and feel old.Abandoned peach orchards dot the landscape. Branches droop low, bent over, straining under the pressure of neglect. Their fate is sealed, only a matter of time before they die. Piles of dead grapevines sit ready to be burned; no rush to clear the land because the field has been vacant for years without plans for what will be next.A brown, wood sided farmhouse -- more like a shack -- sits unoccupied, the untreated slats have weathered the decades and numerous recessions and depressions but is now doomed. The nearby barn lists badly to one side.I've watched this structure over the years gradually deteriorate, wondering when the roof would cave in and the sides tumble down. The structure could trap someone inside as it tumbles to the earth and create a huge liability. I realize that the farmer had passed away years ago, the heirs left the land decades before and have no inclination of the pending collapse.But mostly I see open spaces: land no longer farmed, fields cleared save for dried weeds. Fifty years ago, you farmed all of your land, squeezing out as much production as possible, even along driveways and ditch banks, planting an extra row of plums or walnuts. Today they are abandoned, left behind and forgotten. The ruthless realities of economics and time have altered the landscape.These places once belonged to a vibrant agrarian community of small farmers and ranchers, a 20- or 40-acre place that could support a family, small towns surrounded by their vibrant network of small producers. This landscape was filled with homes, a visible sign of life and thriving social networks.Now, the world has left behind these places. Many have been sold to larger farming operations, and families left the land. Others could not adapt to the new environment, owners hung on as long as they could, then change swept through leaving behind farms without farmers. Passing by, I can almost hear the land saying, "It's no fun getting old."Today, the farms migrate. Near our farm south of Fresno, new fields of oranges appear each year. The citrus is moving out of the foothills into prime farmland once occupied by high value stone fruit and grapes.In the past 50 years, similar patterns evolved in the tree fruit industry as it moved from Placer County to Fresno; oranges left Orange County and resettled in the Central Valley; dairies that were pushed out of Chino and Southern California relocated in Tulare County; cotton dispatched from the west side of the San Joaquin Valley to overseas, especially China.Despite the image of agriculture as slow moving, rural life has discovered it is not immune to rapid change: Nothing is eternal. As I drive through the countryside, the evolution is very visible, yet subtle. It helps to know the story behind the empty farmhouse or abandoned orchard.I have fond memories of good, seemingly innocent times. Growing up in a vibrant rural family farm community, we worked summers, laboring the whole week in our family packing shed in anticipation of a Saturday night rendezvous with friends. Bowling was a viable and popular option. So was cruising. We then anxiously anticipated the start of school in the fall, a chance to get off the farm and renew friendships.Communities had their special celebrations, especially ethnic festivals and gatherings. For Japanese Americans, the summer Obon -- dancing in the streets to honor ancestors -- meant traveling from "village to village" throughout the month of July, starting with the big festival in Fresno, then the small rural communities of Fowler, Parlier, Reedley and Visalia held their own gatherings, staggered by a week.But with the recession and economic downturn, places are being left behind, people abandon them both physically and in spirit. They become relics of the past, forces around them changing too rapidly.Some places refused to accept the new. Other farms were destined to be left vacant because of poor soil or water rights. Lands that never grew lush vines or orchards will revert to a natural state of emptiness. Farms without futures. Towns with only a past.Rural communities are entering a new era: Much of our futures are framed not by the individual, but the group. Gone are the days a lone farmer can do as he or she pleases. Rural communities that want to remain isolated and reactionary will wither and eventual fade.We are no longer collections of individuals but part of larger systems whether we like it or not. Communities that creatively respond to change -- such as broad based efforts to keep farms farming -- will weather depressions, maintain a viable economic and social based and hope for the future.Part of me remains nostalgic and melancholy. As I drive past abandoned fields I feel a loss, as if a dear friend or neighbor passed away and will never return.