Nov 16, 2025
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Planting a Tree with Ferlinghetti
by d’Arci Bruno
Please support our stories by liking articles—thanks!
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, circa 1955, put his money where his mouth was in terms of literature, law and love. Photo: courtesy City LightsWith Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s passing, on February 22nd, 2021, when he was 101 years of age, the last of the big beats passed into history. Arguably not the movement’s greatest writer or painter, he was one of its greatest individuals, its strongest stand-up guy and its most responsible organizer.
Ferlinghetti started City Lights Bookstore in 1953, legally defended Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl” from censorship prosecution in ’57, and helped hundreds of other authors, artists, friends and causes. While Jack Kerouac died at 47 from alcohol poisoning and bitterness, the Italian-Jewish American Ferlinghetti, who was orphaned as a child and raised by relatives in Europe, where he studied the classics and became a poet and painter, lived a long, lovely life, exemplifying the best of humanism as well as beat culture.
cineSOURCE has covered Ferlinghetti before, here and here. We’re honored to have the Bay Area artist d’Arci Bruno tell her story of how Ferlinghetti touched her life.
Author d'Arci Bruno beneath the famous Bixbee Bridge which marks the entrance to 'the real' Big Sur and is near the property of Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Photo: courtesy d. BrunoIN 2005, I WAS LIVING WITH MY THEN BOY-
friend, Al, an Italian musician and designer, in the carriage house behind a famous musician, who knew quite a lot of artists, musicians and literati of note in the San Francisco Bay Area. The house was located in Bernal Heights and had a large, lovely garden, in which many parties were thrown, and it was there that we were lucky enough to meet many special and talented people.
I am not exactly sure on how Al met Mr. Lawrence Ferlinghetti or the subject of carpentry at his Big Sur cabin came up, but I do know that a work deal was sealed when it was discovered that Al and Lawrence’s son shared a name: Lorenzo. Kismet!
As Italians go, this was all that was needed to ensure all would be well. I was added to the mix as the “helper,” a good cook and organized camper, with many useful skills listed on my growing resume. I am also Italian, so there you go—perfetto!
At the time, I was the overworked manager and merchandiser of a popular women’s clothing store in Half Moon Bay owned by one of my best friends, Danette Pugliese, the bedraggled new mother of twin boys. I was also taking care of another best friend, Diane, who was losing her year-long battle with ovarian cancer. Hence, the prospect of spending two weeks of solitude in Big Sur sounded very appealing.
A plan was made to go to Lawrence’s property to scope out the needed work on May 7th—the Saturday of Mother’s Day weekend, 2005—and meet Lawrence there on Sunday.
The drive down to Big Sur is a beautiful one, and it was a glorious sunny day when we set out down the coast. We stopped at the Carmel Highlands General Store for some snacks and a bit more gas—the Coast Highway is a bit desolate between the little settlements—and, by the time we got to the turnoff at the Bixby Bridge, we were ready for a beer and a snack.
After our refrishments, we had a gate code to figure out, halfway down the dusty dirt road, and another one at the property gate. Al was always nervous with codes and alarms, since he tends to set them off, but these went without a hitch. We were let into a sunny clearing surrounded by trees, with two darling, slightly rundown cabins sitting right next to each other.
I had to pee, so I went looking for the outhouse, down a short path through some trees. It was old, and the wood had turned dark and silver over time from the elements—a classic! I swung open the door and scanned for spiders and critters and installed the TP roll I brought. I left the door open to take in the view, which was peaceful, sunny and full of spring.
As my eyes adjusted to the dark inside, I began to notice visitor’s names carved into the wooden walls. Suddenly, one stood out—Jack Kerouac. Before that moment, I must confess, I had not really made the connection to where I was. But sitting there, with my pants pulled down, I was hit by a lightning bolt of historical awareness.
My mouth hung open in awe. I reached out and touched the name with my finger. I don’t know if it was actually carved by him, or done in homage or as a joke, but still—this WAS the place he stayed! It WAS here he wrote the book “Big Sur” (1962).
I ran back up the path to tell Al what I had found, and we began to explore the rest of the property. There were three structures in the compound: the Old West Hotel, which was Lawrence’s cabin, the Kerouac Cabin, located about 15 feet to the right, and another cabin across the clearing and up a short path, the Meditation Cabin. We were there to work on the Old West Hotel and the Meditation cabin.
The Old West Hotel is a two-story structure designed to look like the Old West, with a bedroom with a balcony on the top floor and a fireplace and main room on the bottom, with a wrap-around porch perfect for staying cool when the sun is high and playing guitar and drinking wine/whiskey when it gets low.
It was very charming on the outside, but bare-plywood, cold-bachelor, anti-chic on the inside. No heat, insulation or running water—rustica, molto rustica!
The Kerouac Cabin, on the other hand, was the opposite: very plain and square on the outside, but extremely charming—though completely rundown—on the inside. It had been overrun by mice and other crawly creatures over the years and had that musty, unmistakable rodent urine smell as soon as I opened the door.
Ferlinghetti in front of the 'cabin' he called the Old West Hotel, circa 1998. Photo: courtesy City Lights
It was dark and slightly damp (foggy, wet coastal air) but there was a stone fireplace, a little bed, dresser, some shelves and table and chair. The romantic me imagined living there: chopping wood for the fire, gathering berries for a pie, drinking tea by candlelight, while reading a good book in the evening—a little like Steinbeck’s Doc in “Cannery Row”.
I fell in love with it, but it was way beyond any modest help that I could give it, so I shut the door. But I could not for one minute imagine the surly, drunk writer who had made it famous ever living there, or loving it for what it was.
We unloaded the rest of our stuff from the truck and decided to go and find the beach while the sun was still out, shoving a couple of beers and the bag of chips into a backpack. We found a little path to Bixby Creek, where we could get water, and followed Lawrence’s directions to the beach by walking along the path at the end of the gated road, and then going down under the Bixby Bridge.
The first house directly behind Lawrence was a giant, modern concrete-and-glass monstrosity, with fancy landscaping going out to the surrounding poison oak, coastal trees and scrubby plants. It looked way out of place amidst the old vacation cabins and small older houses.
The path started off in the dark canopy of trees, surrounded by lush ivy and sloped gently downward, nestled next to the creek and winding through the canyon under the bridge to the beach. There was a funny, little altar near the end of the trail, a place where people tied and propped up things that they found on the beach. It was a fun and whimsical art gallery of sorts, and I enjoyed looking at all of the treasures.
Just after the “Treasure Tree,” the path opened up to the beach and view of the ocean right underneath the beauty of the bridge. Al and I poked around the whole area, skipped rocks, took off our shoes and sat on a log and drank the beers in the afternoon sunshine—heaven!
As the sun began to fade, we wandered back up the path and set about getting some food ready and sorting out our sleeping gear. The cabin was cozy warm from the fire we built, and the bottle of wine we shared did not hurt.
Bruno hard at work on the Old West Hotel. Photo: courtesy d/ BrunoI slept great, a heavy, dreamy sleep that you only get with crickets and fresh air. In the morning, I made some good strong coffee on my camp stove and we got ready to meet our host, who was due to arrive at 11 am.
I had never met Lawrence before, so I was a bit excited. I set about tidying stuff up, while Al got out his measuring tape and began to take notes regarding the job: insulating and covering the walls of the Old West Hotel with cedar tongue-and-groove—a live-in cigar box, I thought!
Mr. Ferlinghetti arrived right on time, with a big tree sticking out of his truck. He got out, waved and smiled and shouted, "Hello!" He grabbed a couple of Trader Joe’s shopping bags from his passenger seat and set them on the porch: tins of black beans, some tortillas and a few bottles of Two Buck Chuck Cabernet Sauvignon.
He was very spry for his age, which I guessed to be mid-80s. His eyes were pale and a bit watery, but they held a mischievous sparkle and you could tell that he liked to laugh and have a good time. He was tall and in good shape, which I think he must have owed to his spartan diet of beans, tortillas and wine. His handshake was firm and warm and he grabbed my offered hand with both of his at once.
This is going to be OK, I thought. I asked him if he wanted any lunch, and I fixed us all something while he and Al went over the details of what he wanted done. I called them over when lunch was ready and Lawrence opened a bottle of Chuck and began to tell us stories and tales about all the happenings in Bixby Canyon.
And then he asked me if I would like to help him plant a tree.
“The tree in your truck?” I asked. That was the only time I saw him vexed, as he began to talk about the changes happening in his backyard: the big modern concrete house, the noise, the trucks, the dust, the monstrosity of it all—progress in all of its ugly glory.
He wanted to plant a quick growing, bushy tree to block the view of the big, ugly house. He had bought a buckeye, and he told me a story about why this particular tree, but I can’t remember it now.
At the spot where he wanted to plant it, all I saw was fountains of poison oak spurting out of the ground and spilling off of the bushes. I asked him if he owned any dishwashing gloves, and lo-and-behold he scrounged a pair up. I began to gingerly snip and chop a clearing so we could dig a big hole. I was snipping away, using pruners with the long handles, to remove each offending piece. My only goal from that point on was TO NOT GET Poison Oak.
Al, in the meantime, was on the phone ordering supplies and finding out where to get what in the area, and making lists of lists, and more lists, of stuff we would need. Lawrence also wanted some work done on the Mediation Cabin—mouse proofing and stair fixing—so that had to be measured, too. Lawrence opened a second bottle of Charles Shaw’s finest and got a shovel.
Lawrence began to ask me questions about myself and offered me a glass of wine, which I declined until Operation Poison Oak was finished. He pulled up a stool and told me about his son and his friend’s visit to the cabin. I had noticed two surfboards at the Old West Hotel, one yellow and one purple. I imagined the boys carrying them through the woods on the windy trail to the sea for some fun on hot days.
I asked him about running the book store and we chatted a lot about that. I had been a customer for many years and told him that City Lights was always one of my SF Tour highlights when anybody came to town. We talked about the city changing and both got a little wistful.
I began to dig, mainly because I liked hearing his stories, and I wanted him to keep talking. I took him up on the offer of a glass of vino and we spent a good two hours chatting and flirting (thanks Chuck!) and taking turns digging. When the hole was big enough, Al helped him get the tree, and they put it into place. We replaced the dirt and went to the creek and got a couple buckets of water and gave it a good drink. I often wonder if the tree grew big and bushy enough to hide that awful house from his view.
After we were done planting the tree, we made a plan to begin work the following week, and we all left to go back home to the city. I never met Mr. Ferlinghetti again.
Ferlinghetti's guitar in the Wild West Hotel after Bruno and her boyfriend Al toungue-and-grooved the walls. Photo: d. BrunoAl and I worked hard for two weeks on the property. I removed quite a bit of poison oak but never got itchy once. We did a really nice job on the cabins, and I heard afterwards that Lawrence was very pleased with the result.
Every morning that I was there, I touched the name Jack Kerouac in the outhouse like a ritual. It was like touching history, and I am part of this history, even though hardly anybody will ever even know I was there.
Maybe the Buckeye remembers.
d’Arci Leigh Bruno Rhine is an artist, educator and all-around adventurer taking a break from the Bay Area in Seattle, who can be reached .
Posted on Jul 07, 2022 - 03:54 PM
by d’Arci Bruno
Please support our stories by liking articles—thanks!
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, circa 1955, put his money where his mouth was in terms of literature, law and love. Photo: courtesy City LightsFerlinghetti started City Lights Bookstore in 1953, legally defended Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl” from censorship prosecution in ’57, and helped hundreds of other authors, artists, friends and causes. While Jack Kerouac died at 47 from alcohol poisoning and bitterness, the Italian-Jewish American Ferlinghetti, who was orphaned as a child and raised by relatives in Europe, where he studied the classics and became a poet and painter, lived a long, lovely life, exemplifying the best of humanism as well as beat culture.
cineSOURCE has covered Ferlinghetti before, here and here. We’re honored to have the Bay Area artist d’Arci Bruno tell her story of how Ferlinghetti touched her life.
Author d'Arci Bruno beneath the famous Bixbee Bridge which marks the entrance to 'the real' Big Sur and is near the property of Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Photo: courtesy d. Brunofriend, Al, an Italian musician and designer, in the carriage house behind a famous musician, who knew quite a lot of artists, musicians and literati of note in the San Francisco Bay Area. The house was located in Bernal Heights and had a large, lovely garden, in which many parties were thrown, and it was there that we were lucky enough to meet many special and talented people.
I am not exactly sure on how Al met Mr. Lawrence Ferlinghetti or the subject of carpentry at his Big Sur cabin came up, but I do know that a work deal was sealed when it was discovered that Al and Lawrence’s son shared a name: Lorenzo. Kismet!
As Italians go, this was all that was needed to ensure all would be well. I was added to the mix as the “helper,” a good cook and organized camper, with many useful skills listed on my growing resume. I am also Italian, so there you go—perfetto!
At the time, I was the overworked manager and merchandiser of a popular women’s clothing store in Half Moon Bay owned by one of my best friends, Danette Pugliese, the bedraggled new mother of twin boys. I was also taking care of another best friend, Diane, who was losing her year-long battle with ovarian cancer. Hence, the prospect of spending two weeks of solitude in Big Sur sounded very appealing.
A plan was made to go to Lawrence’s property to scope out the needed work on May 7th—the Saturday of Mother’s Day weekend, 2005—and meet Lawrence there on Sunday.
The drive down to Big Sur is a beautiful one, and it was a glorious sunny day when we set out down the coast. We stopped at the Carmel Highlands General Store for some snacks and a bit more gas—the Coast Highway is a bit desolate between the little settlements—and, by the time we got to the turnoff at the Bixby Bridge, we were ready for a beer and a snack.
After our refrishments, we had a gate code to figure out, halfway down the dusty dirt road, and another one at the property gate. Al was always nervous with codes and alarms, since he tends to set them off, but these went without a hitch. We were let into a sunny clearing surrounded by trees, with two darling, slightly rundown cabins sitting right next to each other.
I had to pee, so I went looking for the outhouse, down a short path through some trees. It was old, and the wood had turned dark and silver over time from the elements—a classic! I swung open the door and scanned for spiders and critters and installed the TP roll I brought. I left the door open to take in the view, which was peaceful, sunny and full of spring.
As my eyes adjusted to the dark inside, I began to notice visitor’s names carved into the wooden walls. Suddenly, one stood out—Jack Kerouac. Before that moment, I must confess, I had not really made the connection to where I was. But sitting there, with my pants pulled down, I was hit by a lightning bolt of historical awareness.
My mouth hung open in awe. I reached out and touched the name with my finger. I don’t know if it was actually carved by him, or done in homage or as a joke, but still—this WAS the place he stayed! It WAS here he wrote the book “Big Sur” (1962).
I ran back up the path to tell Al what I had found, and we began to explore the rest of the property. There were three structures in the compound: the Old West Hotel, which was Lawrence’s cabin, the Kerouac Cabin, located about 15 feet to the right, and another cabin across the clearing and up a short path, the Meditation Cabin. We were there to work on the Old West Hotel and the Meditation cabin.
The Old West Hotel is a two-story structure designed to look like the Old West, with a bedroom with a balcony on the top floor and a fireplace and main room on the bottom, with a wrap-around porch perfect for staying cool when the sun is high and playing guitar and drinking wine/whiskey when it gets low.
It was very charming on the outside, but bare-plywood, cold-bachelor, anti-chic on the inside. No heat, insulation or running water—rustica, molto rustica!
The Kerouac Cabin, on the other hand, was the opposite: very plain and square on the outside, but extremely charming—though completely rundown—on the inside. It had been overrun by mice and other crawly creatures over the years and had that musty, unmistakable rodent urine smell as soon as I opened the door.
Ferlinghetti in front of the 'cabin' he called the Old West Hotel, circa 1998. Photo: courtesy City LightsI fell in love with it, but it was way beyond any modest help that I could give it, so I shut the door. But I could not for one minute imagine the surly, drunk writer who had made it famous ever living there, or loving it for what it was.
We unloaded the rest of our stuff from the truck and decided to go and find the beach while the sun was still out, shoving a couple of beers and the bag of chips into a backpack. We found a little path to Bixby Creek, where we could get water, and followed Lawrence’s directions to the beach by walking along the path at the end of the gated road, and then going down under the Bixby Bridge.
The first house directly behind Lawrence was a giant, modern concrete-and-glass monstrosity, with fancy landscaping going out to the surrounding poison oak, coastal trees and scrubby plants. It looked way out of place amidst the old vacation cabins and small older houses.
The path started off in the dark canopy of trees, surrounded by lush ivy and sloped gently downward, nestled next to the creek and winding through the canyon under the bridge to the beach. There was a funny, little altar near the end of the trail, a place where people tied and propped up things that they found on the beach. It was a fun and whimsical art gallery of sorts, and I enjoyed looking at all of the treasures.
Just after the “Treasure Tree,” the path opened up to the beach and view of the ocean right underneath the beauty of the bridge. Al and I poked around the whole area, skipped rocks, took off our shoes and sat on a log and drank the beers in the afternoon sunshine—heaven!
As the sun began to fade, we wandered back up the path and set about getting some food ready and sorting out our sleeping gear. The cabin was cozy warm from the fire we built, and the bottle of wine we shared did not hurt.
Bruno hard at work on the Old West Hotel. Photo: courtesy d/ BrunoI had never met Lawrence before, so I was a bit excited. I set about tidying stuff up, while Al got out his measuring tape and began to take notes regarding the job: insulating and covering the walls of the Old West Hotel with cedar tongue-and-groove—a live-in cigar box, I thought!
Mr. Ferlinghetti arrived right on time, with a big tree sticking out of his truck. He got out, waved and smiled and shouted, "Hello!" He grabbed a couple of Trader Joe’s shopping bags from his passenger seat and set them on the porch: tins of black beans, some tortillas and a few bottles of Two Buck Chuck Cabernet Sauvignon.
He was very spry for his age, which I guessed to be mid-80s. His eyes were pale and a bit watery, but they held a mischievous sparkle and you could tell that he liked to laugh and have a good time. He was tall and in good shape, which I think he must have owed to his spartan diet of beans, tortillas and wine. His handshake was firm and warm and he grabbed my offered hand with both of his at once.
This is going to be OK, I thought. I asked him if he wanted any lunch, and I fixed us all something while he and Al went over the details of what he wanted done. I called them over when lunch was ready and Lawrence opened a bottle of Chuck and began to tell us stories and tales about all the happenings in Bixby Canyon.
And then he asked me if I would like to help him plant a tree.
“The tree in your truck?” I asked. That was the only time I saw him vexed, as he began to talk about the changes happening in his backyard: the big modern concrete house, the noise, the trucks, the dust, the monstrosity of it all—progress in all of its ugly glory.
He wanted to plant a quick growing, bushy tree to block the view of the big, ugly house. He had bought a buckeye, and he told me a story about why this particular tree, but I can’t remember it now.
At the spot where he wanted to plant it, all I saw was fountains of poison oak spurting out of the ground and spilling off of the bushes. I asked him if he owned any dishwashing gloves, and lo-and-behold he scrounged a pair up. I began to gingerly snip and chop a clearing so we could dig a big hole. I was snipping away, using pruners with the long handles, to remove each offending piece. My only goal from that point on was TO NOT GET Poison Oak.
Al, in the meantime, was on the phone ordering supplies and finding out where to get what in the area, and making lists of lists, and more lists, of stuff we would need. Lawrence also wanted some work done on the Mediation Cabin—mouse proofing and stair fixing—so that had to be measured, too. Lawrence opened a second bottle of Charles Shaw’s finest and got a shovel.
Lawrence began to ask me questions about myself and offered me a glass of wine, which I declined until Operation Poison Oak was finished. He pulled up a stool and told me about his son and his friend’s visit to the cabin. I had noticed two surfboards at the Old West Hotel, one yellow and one purple. I imagined the boys carrying them through the woods on the windy trail to the sea for some fun on hot days.
I asked him about running the book store and we chatted a lot about that. I had been a customer for many years and told him that City Lights was always one of my SF Tour highlights when anybody came to town. We talked about the city changing and both got a little wistful.
I began to dig, mainly because I liked hearing his stories, and I wanted him to keep talking. I took him up on the offer of a glass of vino and we spent a good two hours chatting and flirting (thanks Chuck!) and taking turns digging. When the hole was big enough, Al helped him get the tree, and they put it into place. We replaced the dirt and went to the creek and got a couple buckets of water and gave it a good drink. I often wonder if the tree grew big and bushy enough to hide that awful house from his view.
After we were done planting the tree, we made a plan to begin work the following week, and we all left to go back home to the city. I never met Mr. Ferlinghetti again.
Ferlinghetti's guitar in the Wild West Hotel after Bruno and her boyfriend Al toungue-and-grooved the walls. Photo: d. BrunoEvery morning that I was there, I touched the name Jack Kerouac in the outhouse like a ritual. It was like touching history, and I am part of this history, even though hardly anybody will ever even know I was there.
Maybe the Buckeye remembers.
d’Arci Leigh Bruno Rhine is an artist, educator and all-around adventurer taking a break from the Bay Area in Seattle, who can be reached .
Posted on Jul 07, 2022 - 03:54 PM
