John Flores...And The Stuff That I Write

A Drive into Town

December 10, 2024

A reflection of a morning drive into town...

Each morning, I drive to work from my neighborhood, a modest residential development built just five years ago. It sits on the outskirts of Fresno, California, where suburban life meets the orchards and open fields that define this agricultural hub. Despite its urban sprawl, Fresno remains deeply tied to farming—its lifeblood and identity. My daily drive reflects this duality: the structured geometry of my concrete neighborhood gradually gives way to the softer, sprawling countryside as I head toward the highway that loops back into the city center.

My neighborhood is a vibrant multicultural mosaic. Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, Black, White, Hispanic—we all live side by side in what feels like a prototype for the neighborhoods of the future. But it’s more than just diversity for its own sake; it’s a blend of cultures that interact in meaningful, everyday ways. Each morning, as I leave, I see neighbors strolling the sidewalks, walking their dogs, or chatting in driveways. I wave to them—a simple gesture that carries an unspoken sense of community.

Some Sikh neighbors cook in their garages, a habit that intrigued me at first. I later learned it’s a practical choice for some, especially when preparing dishes with strong, aromatic spices like curry. It’s a nod to their cultural traditions, adapted to modern suburban life. These small, lived-in details breathe life into the neighborhood and remind me of the richness that comes from so many traditions interwoven in one place.

Once I leave my street, I travel down a two-lane country road lined with orchards and small farms. The fields are still and quiet at this hour, with workers beginning to arrive and the occasional tractor rumbling in the distance. In spring, the orchards are at their most beautiful, with blossoms transforming them into endless corridors of pink and white. It’s a breathtaking sight, a brief reprieve from the hustle of city life. On less scenic days, I notice trash scattered along the road—sometimes from careless passersby, sometimes the remains of unlucky wildlife. It’s a reminder of Fresno’s in-between nature, straddling the line between rural and urban, never fully belonging to either.

When I reach the highway, there’s often a brief wait for traffic to clear. Over the years, I’ve gotten good at timing the flow, though some mornings it feels like the entire population of Fresno is heading west while the residents of nearby Kerman pour eastward into the city. Once on the highway, I pass my favorite burger joint, Triangle Drive-In—a new location for a nostalgic local spot whose original location feels frozen in time, even as chain restaurants spring up around it. It’s a small but comforting piece of continuity in a rapidly changing world.

The freeway carries me toward the north side of town, where I exit onto Herndon Avenue. The street is named for the community of Herndon (which may have been named after someone named Herndon), a once-distant settlement now enveloped by new homes, shopping centers, and a boulevard honoring local veterans. Amid the modern development sits a tiny sky park—a miniature airport surrounded by older homes with garages for small planes. When I was a boy, the sky park seemed impossibly far away, nestled in a sea of fig orchards. Now, it feels like a relic of a simpler time, preserved in the midst of progress.

If traffic isn’t cooperating, I take a detour through Pinedale, an old neighborhood built during World War II as a staging point during one of our country’s darkest moments as a people: Japanese Americans came through here before being sent to internment camps with names like Manzanar and Tule Lake, if they were to be “fortunate” enough to remain in California. Driving through, I imagine what it must have felt like to live there in its early days after the war—a standalone community on the fringes of the city, much like my own neighborhood today. Over time, it was absorbed by Fresno’s sprawl, its history overshadowed by modern development.

Now, Pinedale struggles with visible signs of neglect. Driving down Blackstone Avenue, I see the sidewalks littered with vagrants—victims of bad decisions, systemic failures, or both. It’s not just Pinedale; this stretch of Blackstone bears the weight of poverty and neglect all the way from the north end of town to the south. It’s a sobering sight, a stark contrast to Fresno’s aspirations of being a thriving, modern city.

A short drive and a right turn finally bring me to my office, where I’ll spend the morning immersed in tax preparation before reversing the trip later in the day.

Fresno has changed in ways both subtle and dramatic, and it often gives me pause. I wonder if I’ll finish my life here or if retirement will take me somewhere quieter, better suited to reflection and peace. Yet, no matter where I go, Fresno will always be part of me—its rhythms, contradictions, and memories etched into my heart. There are days when I feel Fresno has moved on without me, evolving into something unfamiliar. But I hold out hope that someday, in some small way, the city and I will reconnect.