A Highway to Friendly Folks and Emus

Here we are in the Central Valley, gliding back toward L.A. on a ribbon of highway that takes us past grain elevators and trucks full of tomatoes. And off to the right, an emu and llama farm.

“Maybe we could get an emu,” I tell my wife.

“Good idea,” my wife says.

“We’ll get two and breed them,” I say.

“Good idea,” she says.

My wife says this in a flat monotone. It is the same tone she used when I proposed marriage 16 years ago, meaning “no” without actually saying “no,” a nuance open to interpretation. You’d think she would’ve learned.

“Can we get an emu, Mom?” the little girl asks from the back seat.

“Yeah, Mom,” says her brother. “We need an emu.”

We all stare at the emu ranch. It’s not so much a farm as it is a dealership.

EMUS FOR SALE, the signs say. For the selective shopper, there are also LLAMAS FOR SALE. If you had the money, you could probably pick up a llama and an emu at the same time.

“What’s an emu cost these days?” I ask.

“About a hundred bucks,” the boy says.

“That’s all?” I ask.

“They used to be more,” he says.

He has a lot of answers, this kid. The boy has never seen an emu in his life, but he knows how much one costs. When you’re 12, you have to have all the answers. To not know would be a sign of weakness.

“Look, a dairy farm,” my lovely and patient older daughter says, pointing to a pen holding thousands of dairy cows, all huddling close as the evening grows dark.

“I wonder if they all have names,” says the little red-haired girl.

“Of course they do,” says the boy.

For a week we have been in the mountains, swimming in glassy lakes and gentle rivers, escaping to the wilderness with a million other families, all in search of solitude and a little rest.

Now we’re headed back, following the full moon across the Central Valley and listening to Otis Redding and Bob Dylan on the small-town radio stations, which always seem to have more interesting playlists than their big-city counterparts.

It’s a nice ride, more peaceful than the tourist-filled mountains, a long steady drive across land so fertile it feeds the world.

“California’s cornucopia,” I say, marveling at the fields, thick with corn and tomatoes.

“What’s a cornucopia?” the little girl asks.

“A basket with fruit spilling out,” her brother says.

“Dad, what’s a cornucopia?” she asks, not trusting quick answers, especially from her brother.

“A basket with fruit spilling out,” I say.

On and on we go, passing the freight trains and the trucks, down past Modesto and Turlock, closing in on Fresno, which turns out to be a friendly kind of place. Whether you like it or not.

“You first,” says the stranger, holding open the door to the burger place.

“No, you first,” I say.

“No, go ahead,” the stranger says. “I insist.”

For a moment, it appears we have reached some sort of kindness standoff, each of us determined to let the other person pass through the door first.

From what we’ve seen, this isn’t unusual in the Central Valley, with every town determined to be more friendly than the last. Almost an obsession, this friendliness. For a family from L.A., it can be a little jolting.

“You were here first,” says a different stranger at the takeout counter.

“No, go ahead,” I say.

“You sure?” the stranger asks.

“Absolutely,” I say, determined to hold my ground. Just because we’re from L.A., doesn’t mean we’re doormats.

“I’ll go, Dad,” the boy says, taking a step in front of the stranger.

“No, you wait,” I tell my son, grabbing him by the shoulder.

“Oh, all right,” he says.

The boy stands there, tired and hungry, shifting from foot to foot as the people in front of us order. For five hours, he has been breathing car trip air--three parts carbon dioxide, one part oxygen, one part little-girl perfume. Like space travel, it has affected his blood chemistry, making him woozy and famished all at once.

If he doesn’t eat soon, he may pass out. He could probably even eat an emu burger.

“Everybody’s so nice here,” the boy finally says.

“Yeah,” I say.

“It’s kind of annoying,” he says.

“You’d get used to it,” I say.

“No, you’d get used to it,” he says with a smile.

“No, you’d get used to it,” I say. “I insist.”

* Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.