Strawberry Fields: Land of Volvos

Martha's Vineyard, although a smallish island, has a number of farms. When I was pregnant with our son, I went strawberry picking at a farm that operates as a co-op. My husband, who declined to join me, took pictures of me quite contentedly bending and picking berries. And since the farm's sign said strawberries could still be picked, I dragged him again, who declined to join me, to pick strawberries. Why I find these agrarian practices so charming is beyond me since my maternal family in Korea were not farmers. No, they had "peasants"--my mother's word--who worked the hundreds of acres our family owned in, what is now called, Seoul.

As I crouched among the bushes, picking the delicate berries ripened by sun and time, I couldn't help but acknowledge how strenuous this was for some berries. And then I thought about those migrant workers, working among the strawberries farms by Solvang, whose entire livelihood is determined by how many berries they bring in at the end of the day, all of their efforts consumed by others who are blissfully ignorant to the labor behind the delicate sweet fruits.

In LA, the car you drive says as much about you as if you were wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with your favorite band. You know, if you were wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt, and you were over the age of 50, we could assume many things about who you had been. Anyway, this idea of a car as a character definition is something LA does rather brilliantly. Each person, those who have the option to choose the car they will be seen driving, takes stock of what each car says about them, consciously or unconsciously.

As a Prepster, I grew up in the land of Volvos, most of them beaten up and character-ridden. It seemed every mom I knew, including my own, drove a Volvo station wagon or similarly reliable, safe, unflashy car. The catch word in that is to be as understated as possible since we are Preps. Our Docksiders only got better as they became beaten, worn in. I remember my parents buying me a Louis Vuitton backpack for my Freshman year of college. I had this brilliant idea of putting the bag out on the driveway to drive my car over it, so it wouldn't look so brand spanking new. You can imagine how well that went over with my parents. I still have the bag, and it is now perfectly worn.

I have never had a strong affiliation with cars, per se. But while in LA, I did have to recognize how the car you drove said so much about you, wittingly or unwittingly. I drove cross country in my new Acura, a college graduation gift from my parents, who had wanted to replace my Volkswagen Jetta, the car I had driven in high school. I could have picked any car, but for some reason, probably because I was suffering from an acute broken heart, I half-heartedly chose the Acura.

I drove this car around LA, never washing it ever, with very little thought to cars. For me, it got me to point A to point B. It was during those five years that the surge of the SUV took hold of LA in a profound way. There was something optimistic about the time--Clinton took office--and gas, this depreciating resource--seemed to be plentiful. So, when my parents wanted to trade in my Acura for something else, I said I wanted a Land Rover. Yes, I was living in LA, not out in the bushes of Africa, where this car is really supposed to be driven. And despite the quirkiness of this monster car, I drove around with all the other competing SUVS, pouring gas into a tank that seemed to never be satiated. When it came time to replace this car, my husband now had a say in what I drove and suggested the BMW SUV since I was now used to being so far up in a car. And so, I drove that car, hating it as I've never hated a car. I don't know why this particular car incensed me so much. Gas prices were now climbing. But in truth, what I hated about it was what BMW stood for in LA. It was too flashy, too pretentious, too slick. I knew I hated my car when a woman, who was emblematic of all I found disdainful about LA, said she loved her car--which was just like mine.

When it came time to turn the BMW in, I finally expressed my opinion of what car I would like to drive--yes, I loathe driving, but since it was a necessary evil in LA... The Volvo station wagon was what I chose. Yes, I came full circle, you could say. I picked the very Mom Mobile of my childhood when it was time to pick my car as a Mom.

Now that we are on the Vineyard, I see that my Volvo, due to arrive this week from LA, is just another among a sea of Volvos on this island. Funny, isn't it since this place resonates with me in ways I have a hard time articulating?