Leaves of Grass and East of Eden: Laying Josh Jensen of Calera to Rest

June 28, 2022 – It was a cool day for June. Dark furrowed clouds looked down on the sun-bleached hills, while a bright blue sky made merry in the background, as if to remind us that the sun was still in charge. A few pink bellied morning glories burst forth from the monotony of dead grass with a glee that could only come from a carefree life form. Flowers do not concern themselves with death, or tomorrow, or yesterday. They are planted, grounded, in a predictable reality with which they seem at ease. 

The IOOF cemetery on Buena Vista Road in Hollister is as bucolic a spot as you will see in these parts, a joining together of cultures, reflective of our collective end of days and of the true common ground we inevitably share. It is here in this mostly humble windswept place, that Josh Jensen was laid to rest. 

Two large bouquets sat beneath photos of Jensen: one from his high school yearbook, another from a poster made for an Italian spaghetti Western in which he’d been an extra. His daughter Silvie said they’d watched it the night before and he made a great looking bad guy, with a stern scowl that made her laugh.

She spoke of her father with gratitude for the time she got to spend with him during his last years and days on earth. He had wanted to be buried at Calera, where his heart was, where his life had played out, a high stakes gamble that all his friends and enemies predicted he would lose. Ah, but they were so very wrong. There is not a corner of high-class culinaria in the world that hasn’t heard of Calera.

But, in California, one cannot be buried on private land. So they chose this Oddfellows cemetery: desolate, non-denominational and tranquil, with views of the vastness of this East of Eden place that cannot be captured in photograph or a simple sentence. It must be felt. The simultaneous heat and chill of the relentless wind, the eternity of the horizon in all directions, punctuated by towering, craggy peaks that seem to be gesturing to one another in defiance. 

She read a passage from Steinbeck’s East of Eden that laid out the drought cycle of the Salinas Valley, with its gloriously green years of rain and the misery of starving cattle and dried wells in the years when the rains never came. The grainy truth of the words rang inescapably in all ears, as the wind whipped plastic flowers and pinwheels on neighboring graves. Her father had resonated deeply with Steinbeck’s prose as he lived out that vicious cycle at Calera, decade after decade.

Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass was another favorite of father and daughter and she read two poems from it: evocative of the land he so loved.  A passage from one of them mentioned a lone hawk circling above. 

Josh’s son, Duggan, a virtual carbon copy of his father, save for his far more Connecticut conservative taste in fashion, was wearing a splashy Gianni Versace tie his father had given him, most likely purchased at the outlets in Gilroy, where he loved to stop on trips between San Francisco and Hollister. He recounted how he’d attempted to tone down Josh’s love of vivid color by giving him a black on black Versace shirt that was so subtle his father wondered, “What’s the point in wearing Versace if it doesn’t scream Versace?!” He ended up giving the shirt back to Duggan. His Scottish frugality was always in evidence. Duggan recalled visiting his Dad, walking into the kitchen where Josh stood next to the toaster with tongs, waiting to pluck the bread before it became carbon. “The control is broken,” he explained. “Why not get a new one?” Duggan asked. “There’s nothing wrong with this one. You just have to pay attention!” 

Josh may have been frugal in his personal life, but he was very generous with those he loved. Winemaker Mike Waller highlighted how Jensen started a 401K plan for everyone in the company, and realizing it was a little late in coming for those folks who had been there for decades, contributed the maximum amount allowed for each person. He also paid for medical expenses of employees and dear friends in need. Anyone who knew Josh well was the recipient of at least one extremely long voicemail from the man, who wasn’t wasting a good connection to say something simple like, “Call me back.” No, he would give the time and date and location, and would pretty much ramble on and on until the machine cut him off. 

And then it was time to lay Josh to rest, in a simple, unadorned pine box. And what a magnificent statement it made. Such a tall man required a very long coffin. One could imagine a shipwright in the glory days of schooners looking for the very tallest trees from which to fashion those enormous masts. So, too, the pines that framed Jensen’s coffin paid silent yet vivid homage to his striking stature. As he was lowered into the very long and narrow trench, we threw flowers from the bouquets a long time friend had sent from Tokyo. They loved him in Japan, and he loved everything about that beautifully buttoned down country, steeped in tradition and respect, yet wholeheartedly embracing the divinity of wine. I chose a purple rose, but a large bright pink bough insisted on coming with it. There was a thud as the flowers hit the wood below, like a massive cellar door closing. Perhaps the door to an underground wine cave. 

Then, directly overhead, a hawk rushed past, chased by a sparrow. Silvie looked up, clasped her hands and exclaimed “Dad!” A magical moment: a palpable spark of connection we all felt intensely, as if witnessing a miracle. Call it coincidence, kismet, proof that souls live on. I think it was Josh waving farewell in his own unforgettable way.