The leveling of an orchard may not mean much to the many
commuters who now call Hollister home. They moved here when most of
the orchards in and around town had already been removed for
housing.
The leveling of an orchard may not mean much to the many commuters who now call Hollister home. They moved here when most of the orchards in and around town had already been removed for housing.
But to some of us who have been around awhile, the removal of the apricot orchard that abutted Prospect Road near Rancho San Justo School got to us a little bit. The trees had to come down because of the Highway 25 bypass, but that didn’t make it any easier to see it go.
My sons and I always lament the removal of an orchard, whether it’s in town or in the San Juan Valley. I explain to them (and to myself) that the farmers who own the land can make more money with row crops or development. Still, it’s not a pleasant sight.
This week’s orchard removal happened with amazing efficiency. One day I drove by and half the orchard was cut down. The next day a huge chipper was creating a pile of mulch from the discarded branches.
Suddenly, the formerly leafy landscape was a huge lot of dirt with houses along its border.
It’s not so much the loss of the individual trees that bugged me, as they can be replaced by other trees elsewhere. Maybe it’s the altering of the landscape that is shocking.
Many of us take our surroundings for granted. Orchards are – or were – part of the canvas of our community. I don’t begrudge the landowners who raze the trees, because they have a right to make money from their property. When the view that we hardly notice suddenly changes, we often just as suddenly miss that old view.
My family owned property that had a small walnut orchard on it. It produced nuts, but hardly enough to pay for the maintenance of the land. The property was sold a few years back and the new owners tore down the orchard, which made good fiscal sense.
There again, the removal of these trees all in a line struck a sad chord within me. This was where my grandfather had tilled the land, trimmed the trees, sold the product. This was where my dad drove his tractor on weekends when he wanted to play farmer. This was where my boys ran and played hide-and-seek and loved watching the burn pile go up in smoke. This is now just a memory.
Getting too wispy about the loss of orchards does no good. Orchards in or around a town are destined to be chopped down for progress. Next month, the county Board of Supervisors will consider loosening the restrictions on development of prime ag land, primarily to give the Board of Supervisors greater flexibility to approve development on a case-by-case basis.
Supporters of the plan say the policy is not meant to open the floodgates of development, but rather open up options not available under current rules.
Whatever happens, the old-timer in me hopes that San Benito County will retain the bulk of its orchard land, which is easy to wish for when you’re financial future isn’t tied up in the land.
Maybe it’s the symmetry of the lines of trees that appeals to me; or perhaps its the cool, dark shadows cast on the ground in our hot late-summer days by the leafy branches. Maybe it’s just a longing for continuity or the way things used to be. Progress is good and necessary, but begrudge me a little sadness when I see an orchard flattened. Sometimes I just can’t see the forest for the trees.
Adam Breen teaches journalism and yearbook at San Benito High School. He is former editor of The Free Lance.
