My father was a walnut farmer, my mother was a classical concert pianist. Our 300-acre farm was in Northern California. For Mom’s career, my sister, mom and I lived in Santa Monica, California during the school year.
Daddy drove the 500 miles south to Santa Monica as often as possible throughout the year; we spent barefoot summers on the farm.
The long walnut harvest was in the fall. Â Every October I couldn’t wait: soon Daddy would be driving those long miles back to us.
MY FATHER WHISTLES THE HILLS
by April Halprin Wayland
In the bare light of the stars,
my father is driving home.
I am raking my hair with a comb;
my father is whistling out there.
He whistles high for the hills,
trills low for canyons.
He follows the natural notes of the land, and
the wheel moves in his hands.
While I stare into the mirror,
somewhere my father
is whistling nearer,
nearer.
This poem was previously published in the June 1998 issue of Cricket Magazine.
also in GIRL COMING IN FOR A LANDING–A Novel in Poems
by April Halprin Wayland, illustrated by Elaine Clayton (Knopf)
My farmer father and my concert pianist mother on the farm