Last of a Breed Is Mowed Down : Solitary Farmers Encircled by Suburban Growth

Nestled between the steel and glass of the hotel and a towering apartment complex rests the farm, a green oasis in the dark landscape of urban expansion. The farmer still lives on this land, works in his fields and endures public ridicule for maintaining his way of life. He is portrayed as stubborn, backward, holding up progress, holding out for a windfall. Labeled eccentric and strange, he continues to live in the old farm house and grow crops on a patch of land ripe for multimillion dollar condominiums and shopping centers instead of berries or figs.

I farm and I’ve known a few of these men--the George Clouds of Fresno, the Fujishige brothers of Anaheim--who farm within city limits. They have clung to their lands and their work, simply wanting to farm the earth. Yet it’s as if they’re punished for choosing such a way of life.

George Cloud of Fresno was one who wouldn’t give in to this type of urban imperialism. Years ago his 10-acre fig grove was no different from any of the surrounding farms. But as Fresno expanded north, the farms disappeared, and soon the Cloud land was enveloped by suburbs on one side and commercial development on the other. The worth of Cloud’s land swelled to more than $4 million dollars, but the monetary value never altered his beliefs. Right up until his death in 1986, he lived very simply. He subsisted on fresh or canned food so never had need of a refrigerator; he refused to install indoor plumbing or electricity in his home until a city ordinance required it in the late 1950s. Today, the original farm shack, generations old and condemned in 1959, still stands on the property, a monument to Cloud’s values and chosen life.

Cloud was a touchstone to our past, but I must admit, I’d drive past and wonder about the wisdom of clinging to that old, unproductive farm. Even as a farmer, I failed to see the individual who was speaking a language beyond the dollars and cents of agribusiness, making a statement with his land and home.

The Fujishige brothers of Anaheim may be an extreme case, but perhaps only because of the huge sums involved: They farmed 58 acres near Disneyland valued at $1 million per acre.

One entrance to their farm is from a left- turn lane off Harbor Boulevard. Anticipating the inevitable, the city put in a left-turn signal for an eventual road extension that would slice the Fujishige strawberry fields in half. Now, though, you turn with a green arrow directly onto farm property, from the asphalt of an eight-lane city street into the fine, dusty loam of the Fujishige farm.

Watered by sprinklers, the strawberry plants sparkle in the sun. The glass windows of the neighboring eight-story hotel cooly reflect a blue hue. The two elements create an eerie complement of colors and light, of farming and city life.

A corner of the strawberry field was pointed out to me, a section that was stung by a mild frost last winter. Normally a light wind blows from the northeast and keeps the temperature above freezing. But last year the breeze hit a “wall”; the motionless cool air layered, and a chilling frost settled near the ground, burning the delicate berry plants. Later I was told that the “wall” was a multistory hotel directly across the street.

Such winter chills may be easier for a farmer to accept than the heated battle over the farm and its potential for development. The Fujishige brothers were not interested; they simply wanted to farm and be left alone. They refused even to sell acreage for the access road that an adjacent developer needed, because it would cut their property in half; perhaps even their house would have to be moved. Court battles ensued, the city invoked its power of eminent domain, and one day an arson fire burned the small, wooden fruit stand on the edge of the property, nearly killing a farm worker.

Then, in the summer of 1986, one of the Fujishige brothers killed himself with a shotgun. He had been ill, and some said that his health had been weakened further by the stress caused by the city and developers.

The farm was “in the way of progress,” a phrase I heard over and over again. Eventually, the developers will have their way.

Every day, thousands pass by these and other city farms. Commuters quickly become accustomed to the pleasant surprise of nature and greenery breaking miles of freeway pavement, tract homes and office blocks. Yet as urban development continues and land values rise, the farmer is forgotten and the land is thought of only in terms of the millions that it’s worth. A depersonalization occurs and human perspective is lost.

Farmers--even city farmers--relish their solitude and privacy, yet they are held up to public judgment and often misunderstanding. If they hold fast, they are accused of standing in the way of progress; if they bend to development pressures, they are “selling out.” For many, selling their family farm was not an abandonment; rather it was as if they relinquished their fragile claim to the land--a claim, not a right. Many will depart with a simple summary: “The farm was good to us.”

Today it’s common to hear that farming is a business and not a way of life. Farming has always been a business; the investment of a few thousand dollars and a lot of mental and physical work has made many farmers financially comfortable, even millionaires. What the general public finds hard to understand is how a farmer worth millions prefers to keep the traditional life of hard work and simple pleasures. This anomaly challenges some of our basic notions about work, money and meaning.

The farms that remain within our city boundaries represent a window into a world where one’s work was also one’s way of life, where one’s self-esteem and satisfaction counted more than one’s value at the bank. And as each of these pioneers passes away, there’s not just one less city farmer on the census; there’s one less farm to see along the commute to your work.