stars joined a full moon in a cloudless sky caressed with soft sea breezes.


The old man pointed to the sea. His bony arms swept back and forth, and then made paddling movements. The granddaughter translated the first gestures by indicating offshore islands stretching like long shadows on the horizon. “He’s sailed there?” I asked. The Priest nod- ded and translated: “Many times.”


A canoe of bound reeds rested nearby on the wide sandy beach.


CARPINTERIA VALLEY MUSEUM OF HISTORY ARCHIVE PHOTO


the lack of tar taste. The container was passed from mouth to mouth, including the priest’s. I was told a few farms, mostly occupied by pioneering Spaniards, Mexicans, and Anglo- Americans, were scattered throughout this coastal valley. That morning I had walked beyond the land, which I found rich and fertile. I spoke with a settler—who admitted jumping ship years before from a Boston merchantman— who said farmland was “plentiful and reasonable to buy.” His Mexican wife smiled from their home made of adobe


Beyond our flickering circle of light a handful of curious Chumash silently watched. They were short,


bricks, like we used in much of Texas. Inside it was cool and comfortable. One baby slept in the corner on


THE GRANDAUGHTER TRANSLATED THE FIRST GESTURES BY INDICATING OFFSHORE ISLANDS STRETCHING LIKE LONG SHADOWS ON THE HORIZON.


like the old man and girl, shy in their ways, not hostile like the Indians we encountered when crossing the dry Southwest into San Diego. Two Chumash women were wrapped in capes of bird feathers. Another fire silhouetted a few of their domed huts made of tules and willows above the wide beach.


From the old man’s place by the fire, I assumed he was a chief, shaman, or revered elder of the small band of Indians.


The priest said the area was called “La Carpinteria”—which means The Carpenter Shop— because in 1769 Spanish explorer Gaspar de Portolá found Chumash shaping redwood logs into seagoing canoes, called “tomols.” The Chumash, he said, called the valley, “Mishopshnow,” meaning “correspondence,” since it was a center of Indian trade.


The elder Chumash showed me a stout, tightly woven, jug-like basket used for carrying and storing water, he said. It was lined with a black tar-like sub- stance his granddaughter said came from a site near their village. I accepted a drink and was surprised at


a cornhusk mattress; a three-year-old played in the yard.


Out back was a large garden that included corn, beans, peas, grains, and grapevines and a few fruit trees.


The man said the vineyards and gardens at the Santa Barbara Mission had produced food for the Padres and Indians.


Walking back I scooped up a handful of the valley’s soil, breathed in its rich aroma, and then let it slip through my fingers. I missed farming more than teaching school.


That’s when I noticed a young Mexican girl walking with her tall mustached father in this place called La Carpinteria. I guessed her age at perhaps sixteen, several years my junior. She was not yet a woman, but soon would be.


I tipped my hat and smiled. Her brown eyes responded in kind, under her father’s protective glare. I said, “Good morning, senor and senorita.” I offered the man some tobacco, which he


politely accepted, and, using a small scrap of paper


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