Not far from here is an east-west valley between two high ridges… it's called Woods Valley. Old gnarly oak and eucalyptus trees shade the two-lane country road that winds down the middle. A fading sign announces the soon-to-be opened PGA golf course with an upscale residential map on the picturesque valley floor. It's fading because the sign has been there a long time. Apparently the once enthusiastic developer is running out of steam. And maybe out of money. No one in town is quite sure which.

Around the bend lives a wagon collector. Old horse and buggy wagons are lined up along the road just behind the split rail fence - with tall wooden spoke wheels with iron rims and leaf-spring suspension on both the wooden driver's seat and each of those four wheels. Buck wagons. Chuck wagons. Circus wagons. Conestogas. Carriages. A stagecoach or two. A dominant red barn stands behind three or four life-sized fiberglass horses and another two or three Holstein heifers and Jerseys, all frozen in place - giving the wagons a little personality. Everything's for sale.

A tall narrow square wooden shed stands back of the barn, with a flat roof, an aluminum tube chimney vent and a one-quarter moon carved on the hinged door just to add a little more nostalgia. I rather doubt that old weather beaten shed is any more operational than the fiberglass cow. It's just for show. The real plumbing is inside.  This old shell of an outhouse is for sale, too.

The drive around the next bend is just as scenic. A bit dangerous, too. You're in the country now, and the traffic coming the other way just might be sightseers just like you. So be careful. Just past the thoroughbred horse ranch and the sheep grazing in the meadow… there it is - Bates Nut Farm.

The jokes are plentiful. And predictable. Bates NUT Farm? In 1921 when Gilbert Bates took all his belongings by horse and buggy from Ramona to Valley Center he called his new valley home, "Walnut Slope Ranch." In 1953, his two boys Clifford and James gave it a new look and a new name - "Bates Bros. Nut Farm."

You might think a "nut farm" could be a lot of things. But this one grows and sells nuts. Really. In the beginning, their inventory included almonds, walnuts, pecans, and cashews. As word got out and as sales increased, the Bates Brothers ordered and sold every imaginable nut from exotic places. Then they stocked honey, candies, dates, and dried fruits from all over the world. They added a petting zoo for the kids and a country store for the moms. The dads? Well, they get big time credit for truckin' the family up here from just about everybody.

But the biggest regional hit of all is the pumpkin patch. Any October weekend, you get to the entrance on that winding road and you’ll be thankful to find a parking place. Big bright orange globes dot the patch - the "grandes" (pumpkins that grow to over one hundred pounds) are the region's grand symbol of harvest and autumn and the approach of Thanksgiving.

Which brings me to this week's assignment. My local community service club "volunteered" me.

Bates Nut Farm hosted its annual "Arts and Crafts Fair" just in time for the holiday season. Somehow, I got myself appointed chairman of the "Nut Brigade." Ever seen those guys out there with the yellow vest, a red flag and a walkie-talkie? Parking lot manager. That would be me. The point man.

Special event Saturday crowds are unpredictable at Bates. The vendors arrived the day before. They were ready for the throngs with Arts and Crafts of every sort - including the guy who carves grizzly bears out man sized pine logs with a chain saw. Live and in person. By seven o'clock, the local Rotarians had a country breakfast cooking - filling the air with the scent of hot cakes and sausage and bacon and coffee. I assembled my crew - not knowing we were seriously short handed for the coming onslaught of vehicles.

We walked the grounds. A ten acre field was marked with orange cones and hay bales. We thought we were ready.

I took the main post. Our primary task was to fill the back first... and then direct the cars row by row to the front.

Visitors started to arrive about nine-thirty. The nonstop line of cars and trucks and sport-utility vehicles and motorhomes and busses didn't break until after one o'clock.

I had the yellow vest. I had a red flag. I had a walkie-talkie. But I didn't have a gun (more than once, I wished for a Government Issue firearm - loaded). I tried to smile. Then wave the flag in a somewhat comprehensible manner. Point the proper direction. Nod knowingly when they did it right. Give a word of welcome to road-weary travelers. Shake my head disapprovingly when they had a mind of their own, ignoring or just plain disobeying my directional orders. I used the principles of positive reinforcement when parking lot behavior was acceptable.

Most people respect a yellow vest and a red flag, I learned. Generally, people are willing to take orders from an authority figure. In fact, most people expect that if you dare don the vest and wave the flag that you'd better be prepared to give appropriate, timely signals. Otherwise, many will simply sit and wait. Or shake their heads and toss up their hands in utter disgust.

During that three-hour marathon of cars, I found that some, only some, view the vest and the flag as an affront to their constitutionally guaranteed liberty. You are the primary barrier between them and the freedom to choose individual parking sites. You are in the way.

For others, you are the arbiter of the special exception. You are able to grant individual exemptions. So the requests come in, the applications are verbally submitted through an open window as they drive by - all while you are frantically attempting to maintain some semblance of order. There's not much time for deliberation, or discussion for that matter. You make quick judgments. Approved. Disapproved. It can go either way. But it's gotta be fast. You are living on the edge of parking lot anarchy. Chaos happens when you inadvertently drop the flag or turn your head away from the relentless single file caravan of automobiles.

I can’t remember such a feeling of power. The adrenaline rush was intoxicating. For three full hours.

I wondered what it must be like to hit the big time. You know, a summer Saturday morning at Disneyland, Anaheim. "The Happiest Place on Earth." Or the guys on New Year's Day lining 'em up at the Pasadena Rose Bowl. Or maybe the Cox Arena in San Diego for a Garth Brooks concert. Wow. I wondered if those guys use headphones?

* * * * *

Back to earth. Bates Nut Farm. The Arts and Craft Faire.

Our crew performed remarkably well in spite of the surprise overload. The rows were neat. It was a well-packed lot. Attendance records were set. No one was injured. Kids and grandmas and grandpas and moms and dads took pictures, ate picnics, rode hayrides, fed and pet lamas and goats and lambs. They brought home Thanksgiving and Christmas decorations. And nuts.

And when it was all done, I was exhausted.

But it was a good tired. There was a feeling of accomplishment. Volunteering has its own rewards. A simple thing - it is a giving back to a community you call home. No matter where yours is, it's home. You aren't the only one who loves the place. There are other good people just like you who want to work together to make a good place even better.

And when you give something of your time, everybody benefits. Including you.

That job they've asked you to do - you know, the one you call "pro-bono." The one that will not put money in the bank. The one that is bumping something else off your calendar. It's the one that will get you out there as a community member (not as a professional or business person) and a caring fellow resident.

That's the one you need to do.