I love road trips. No talk radio, no iPod tunes, no recorded books, just the thoughts in my head and the scenery before my eyes. It’s a long drive from Ukiah to Bakersfield to visit mom for Christmas, and I usually break it up by stopping in Sacramento to visit friends from the old days. I leave the capital city with three hours down and four and a half to go. Some folks say taking Highway 5 instead of 99 will shave off a few minutes. Could be, but the 5 has way too many big trucks and far too little entertainment for this connoisseur of California roads. Sure, 99 presents the inevitable proliferation of chain retail with towering signage for endless iterations of Bed Bath & Beyond, TJ Max, Michael’s, and Ross Dress for Less, making every city look alike when viewed from the freeway. But focusing beyond big corporate cookie-cutter clutter, things start to get more interesting. Past the slick urbanity of Sacramento, and coming up on Merced, I almost choke on my Triple Threat Power Bar at the sight of Lou Rodman’s Barstools and Dining billboard inviting me to “Come in and check out our stool samples.” A neighboring billboard says, “We want your junk!”, and yet another proclaims, “We buy ugly houses.” On the food scene (though it was hard to consider such so soon after Lou Rodman’s beckoning words), IHOP looks to have made a big comeback in the heartland, and Black Bear Diners are going strong—talk about leaving a big footprint! Jack-in-the-Box kept coming on to me with “MMMM-eaty!” but I stayed with my carrots and apple slices. On down the road, I’m as charmed as ever by signs for cafes named Apple Annie’s and Blueberry Hill (I can hear Fats Domino finding his “thrill”). I was tempted by a juicy plate soaring in billboard sky for Salazar’s Grill n’ Bar, but figured there was no telling what they’d serve up at Joe Bob’s Barn’ Grill. Was that just an error in spacing? It was Christmas Eve, pouring rain, and the Fed Ex trucks were out in full force to land those packages on their designated porches. The Walmart fleet was racing from store to store to fulfill their promise to America: “Save money—Live better.” The jewelry stores had amped up their ad campaigns for the holidays, for what better time to shower that special one with diamonds?! Roger’s Jewelers billboard sparkles and purrs, “Stoke the fires.” A local purveyor promises that with the gift of a glittery rock there will be, “A great day for her. A better night for you.” Another billboard of bling opts for a fear and jealousy pitch: “Your girlfriend wants me. Bad.” That one still disturbs me. Also unsettling were the numerous signs by 1-855-FOR-TRUTH (by GospelBillboards.org): “If you die tonight? Heaven or Hell.” Soon enough I found welcome distraction and immeasurable cheer in a long line-up of bare-chested Chippendales inviting me to experience “50 Shades of Men.” Suddenly the valley didn’t seem so sleepy anymore. The Central Valley is still California’s premier food-producing region, with 230 different crops including tomatoes, almonds, grapes, cotton, apricots, and asparagus, and providing 8 percent of the value of U.S. agricultural output. South of Fresno, livestock operations and huge dairy farms are frequent sights. The land extends eastward perfectly flat toward Sierra Nevada mountains which, due to valley smog, I can’t usually see. Billboards abound for tractors, harvesters, and pesticides (“Stop this bug from killing California citrus!”). Back in 2005 there were forests of billboards up and down the entire valley promising everyone an easy mortgage with “No down payment!” into a home under $150,000. Those are all gone now except for one brave, or perhaps exaggerated, claim in Kingsburg just north of Fresno: “If you can dream it, we can finance it.” All the rest noiselessly disappeared in the disastrous explosion of foreclosures on the American Dream. The ubiquitous theme these days is water, and the signs of stress and divisive interests caused by the drought are everywhere: “Irrigation matters!” and “Is growing food wasting water?” After nearly four years of drastically low rain and snow fall, the UC Davis Center for Watershed Sciences reports that the drought cost California $1.84 billion and 10,100 jobs in 2015. El Niño dangles its promise and a new billboard exhorts, “Build water storage now!” The farmers may be struggling, but it appears the personal injury/defense lawyers are on a roll. With every trip, I see an increase in the number of outraged but confidence-inspiring male faces promising me they can fight the system and, together, we can win: “Been fired or harassed? Fight back!”; “Fix that ticket!”; “DUI, crash, injury? We are here for you.” Meanwhile, the economy beer and wine industry entices with billboards every mile or two: “Raid the state of celebration!” (Budweiser), “Go long. Finish light.” (Coors), “Stella Rosa: your favorite tailgate wine” and “California loves to Stellabrate” (under $10 a bottle; heavy on the pinks and peaches). A plumbing company promises “We fix any leak…(photo of a baby in diapers)…Well, almost any.” What with Coors, Bud, Stella, the plumber and of course, Rodman’s stool samples, central CA looks like one big party with a couple of trips to the bathroom. Years ago on the drive south, my passenger from San Francisco commented on the cutsy names of towns and roads in the valley. I was so used to growing up near Buttonwillow, TerraBella, and Pumpkin Center that I was embarrassed to say I’d never even noticed. Plus I felt like a hick around my friend from The City. Now I revel in the folksy charm of towns named Gustine, Snelling, and Chowchilla. I nod at the faded sign that still heralds Selma as the “Raisin Capital of the World”, and drive on past off ramps for Dinuba, Goshen, Tipton, Pixley, Conejo (Rabbit), Earlimart, and Alpaugh. The Elmo Highway to McFarland is a sign Bakersfield is near. The Lerdo Highway to Shafter means I’m getting warmer. Then there’s Kimberlina Road, and finally the sign that tells me I have arrived—at least to the northernmost end of greater Bakersfield: Oildale. There’s still Merle Haggard Drive and Buck Owens Boulevard to navigate before I reach mom’s. Fast forward five days: Santa and his little burros have come and gone; the goose was cooked and eaten; the gifts have been torn from their wrappings; the fourth wise man was turned away for bringing a fruitcake; I’ve picked as many grapefruit from the family tree as I could fit in the car; and I’m on my way back north on Hwy 99, immensely grateful for the 70 mph limit between Bako and Fresno that lets me fly. On that fast stretch, I strain my eyes to the east for Madame Sophia, in her fourth or so decade of reading palms in a rundown little house along the side of the highway. I always think I might stop to meet her someday. A little farther north around Modesto, I see she has competition: “Hermana Milagrosa” (Miraculous Sister) is obviously in the business of palm reading as well with a 30 foot sign along the 99, beside an equally dumpy little house, topped by a huge hand sporting a long and promising life line. Approaching Sacramento and just about the time I think the entertainment has played out, a billboard for Planet Fitness in Stockton renews my faith in the power of remodeling the hackneyed phrase to provocative effect. The gym promises that with your 2016 membership, you’ll “Pay diddly for your squat.” Comparing the north valley to the south, the fields are greener, the sky is more blue, no K-12 recesses are cancelled due to intense smog, and I can often see the mountains on both sides of the freeway. I admire the views but miss the entertainment and already anticipate a future foray through California’s heartland to feel the pulse of this great state, and sample what they’re serving up on Highway 99.

Susan Janssen, Ukiah resident, needs glasses to read a map but has 20/20 vision for anything on the other side of the wind shield or through the rear view mirror. She can be contacted at lex.i.conalley@gmail.com