TOCALOMA ROAD

TOCALOMA ROAD

—for Alan Mclssac

The round sound of Tocaloma rolls off the tongue

like night drowning in the gibbous moon.

The herefords stop grazing and low to each other

as I help my neighbor gather topsoil for her lawns. Tocaloma.

We stop afterwards at the Western Saloon.

I sip sasparilla as she rolls down another beer

beneath the cobwebbed mooseheads.

At the other end of the bar, a gaggle of men

bang down a cup of Liar's Dice for another round.

Ranchers in overalls and gumboots

argue over what's the best feed for cattle. It's a lean year.

Two-wire bales of alfalfa sell at the price of three-wire bales.

We overhear them talk of planes dropping emergency feed

to livestock stranded on the open ranges.

Toby's Feed is shipping in the last of the Nevada hay.

I'm having trouble feeding my horse.

The corners of Agnes's mouth turn downward when she sips bourbon—

as if it were an uncertain pleasure.

She salutes the empty morning air, saying, Sköl pifiskin,

and I look for the toofta from Norway who always steals her drinks.

When her husband is at sea, and alcohol loosens inhibitions,

she tells strangers met in bars we have no socks.

Their eyes fill with easy tears, and during whiskey runs,

they take us to the General Store, buying me more white socks

than I know what to do with.

Tocaloma. To touch the earth.

The McIssacs went from milk cows to beef.

Alan says they couldn't make it any other way.

In the barn, we step over a dead weaner calf. He says, Don't look.

Their ranch stretches from the sky to the old Tocaloma train station.

Alan has a “Stop” sign in his bedroom, but the cattle erode the hills

and fine silt settles in Papermill Creek. No good for salmon.

On Sundays, her husband sends tightly written letters

on thin blue airmail tissue from Bombay, Hong Kong, the Mekong Delta.

When his ship, the “Baton Rouge” loaded with secret ammunition

was torpedoed, we watched the news again and again, but got no word.

The weeks uncoiled a glittering chain of days before she heard if he was alive.

I played with leopard cowries from the Indian Ocean,

and Caucasian silk dolls with Japanese eyes.

My music box chimed a tinny Sayonara, filled with foreign coins

as she showed me on the big map where the stamps and letters came from.

On Sunday evenings, we'd listen to “Hawaii Calls” on the radio.

When the liquor warmed her blood,

she'd spend hours rolling white bread into little doughballs.

After they got good and gray, she fed them to Smoky, the springer spaniel.

She made me feel unclean for becoming a woman—

as if it were something I could control— like those doughballs.

It was O.K. when we were still kids playing in the thistles.

My neighbor died in summer, when the waves turned golden,

and the lawn stretched to the hills like a green wave.

We pulled weeds, stood under sprinkler rainbows,

tumbled on the grass, until sky and land blurred, became one.

The rich black soil from Tocaloma sprouted healthy thistles

nourished by the cow paddies we stuffed into empty feed sacks.

Her husband drinks and thinks about the sea: Korea. Vietnam.

He planted the disease in deep so she never had children

(other than us). Couldn't, says Gram'ma, tisk-tisking.

Her insides blackened. The surgeon trimmed what he could,

but it wasn't enough. I felt nothing when I heard the news—

as if she were never there. And only now, twenty years later,

I am remembering all those lawns, and Tocaloma—

this place where we touched the earth

because the rolling hills and grazing cattle

weren't enough to feed the eye.

10/1982

1988 Creative Discourse
1987 California Quarterly
1986 Marin Poetry Review

NOTES ON TOCALOMA ROAD

I always liked the the slow explosion of sounds in Tocaloma Road. It reminded me of the cattle during milking, or feeding time. On Sundays, we'd drive out to West Marin to seal the rich soil—transliterating it as the Spanish tocar to take, or to touch, and loma, as loam/soil.

Most likely it is a Miwok name—the original meaning lost. Loma, or luma has been translated as the place of; the word toca is unknown.There are many Spanish-Miwok hybrid words in Marin County since the Spanish were the first to record the place names—Olema, Petaluma, Tamalpais (the land of the Tamals).

In this poem I document the end of an era before Marin was once again discovered by the proto-yuppies and realators—before Ladybird Johnson flew out in the helecopter to dedicate the Point Reyes National Seashore. The Korean and Vietnam wars provide the backdrop of the past—the crests of the West Marin coastal hills, former missile sites; the beaches, radar ranges.

It seems we WWII baby boomers were always waiting for the attack from sea to begin; and the cyclical —enemies—the Japanese, the Russians, the Viet Kong—invaded our dreams at night.


first draft

TOCALOMA ROAD

          for Alan Mclssac

The round sound of Tocaloma rolls off the tongue like night drowning in the gibbous moon. The herefords stop grazing and low to each other as I help my neighbor gather topsoil for her lawns. Tocaloma.

We St°PPed afterwards at the Western Saloon. I sipped sasparilla as she rolled down another beer beneath the cobwebbed mooseheads. At the other end of the bar, a gaggle of men bang down another cup of Liar's Dice for another round. Ranchers in overalls and gumboots

argue over what's the best feed for cattle. It's a lean year. Two‑wire bales of alfalfa hay sell at the price of three‑wire bales. We overhear them talk of planes dropping emergency feed to livestock stranded on open ranges. Toby's Feed is shipping in the last of the Nevada hay. I'm having trouble feeding my horse.

Tocaloma. To touch the earth. The Mclssacs went from milk cows to beef. Alan says they couldn't make it any other way. In the barn, we step over a dead weaner calf. He says, "Don't look." Their ranch stretches from the sky to the old Tocaloma train station. Alan has a stop sign in his bedroom. The cattle erode the hills and fine silt settles in Papermill Creek. No good for salmon.

My neighbor died of cancer, Her lawns look good. Her husband drinks and thinks about the sea. Korea. Vietnam. He planted the disease in deep so she never had children. "Couldn't," said Gram'ma, tisk‑tisking.

When her husband was at sea, and alcohol loosened inhibitions, she told strangers met in bars we had no socks. Their eyes filled with easy tears, and during whiskey runs, they took us to the General Store, buying us more white socks than we knew what to do with.

On Sundays, her husband sent tightly written letters on thin blue airmail tissue from Bombay, the Mekong Delta, and Hong Kong. Once, they hit his ship loaded with ammunition and it was weeks before she heard from him again.

I played with leopard cowries from the Indian Ocean, and silk caucasian dolls with Japanese eyes. My music box played Sayonara filled with foreign coins as she showed me the maps where the stamps and letters came from. On Sunday evenings, we'd listen to "Hawaii Calls" on the radio.

In summer, when the hills turn golden, the lawn stretches to the hills like a green wave. We pull weeds, stand under sprinkler rainbows, and tumble on the grass until sky and land blur. The rich black soil from Tocaloma grows healthy thistles nourished by the cow paddies we stuff into empty feed sacks.

The corners of her mouth turned downward when she sipped bourbon— as if she were savoring an uncertain pleasure. She saluted the empty morning air, saying, Skol pifiskin, and I looked for the toofta from Norway who always took her drinks.

When the liquor warmed her blood, she'd spend hours rolling white bread into little doughballs. After they got good and gray, she fed them to Smoky, the springer spaniel. She made me feel unclean for becoming a woman as if it were something I could control ‑ like those doughballs. It was O.K. when we were still kids playing in the thistles.

Her insides blackened. The surgeon trimmed what he could, but it wasn't enough. I felt nothing when I heard the news— as if she were never there. And only now, twenty years later, I am remembering those lawns, and Tocaloma, the place where we touch the earth because rolling hills and grazing cattle weren't enough to feed the eye.