"Silver wings, shining in the sunlight,
Roaring engines, headed somewhere in flight.
They're taking you away, leaving me lonely.
Silver wings, slowly fading out of sight.
Don't leave me I cried, don't take no airplane ride,
But you've locked me out of your mind and
Left me standing here behind."

Eerily, this song plays on the old country-radio station every time he drives me to the airport.

It is 7:30 p.m. in late fall. The sun is low. It's about to set and it glows like a branding iron in the fire. The oil burning in the refineries creates a haze that smothers the San Bernardino Valley, where Bakersfield lies. The oil-drilling rigs are scattered throughout Kern County in business parking lots, along the road, in cow pastures, and in the oil fields. This doesn't come as any surprise; Kern County has the five largest producing oil fields in California.

I'm wearing shorts, an orange tank top, and black flip-flop sandals. I slide off the upholstered seat of the truck and get a shock as I close the door.

"Damn. Not again! Every time," I laugh. I seem to create enough static electricity down here that it happens literally every time.

Merrill grabs my carry-on suitcase from the back of the truck. We walk slowly hand in hand to the terminal. The sun filters through the palm trees in the parking lot at Meadows Field, the Kern County Airport. It kisses my already flushed and hot cheeks and I savor every second, as soon I will be flying home to a cool and moist Humboldt County. No doubt I'll be cold in my Bakersfield attire. I didn't exactly plan ahead.

This goodbye was different from those we had earlier in the summer. This might be my last trip to visit Merrill in Bakersfield because his job here is ending. We kissed goodbye again and again, and I'm tempted to never leave. I don't know if the next time we see each other will be in one, two, three or maybe even four weeks.

As I board the plane, the sun is setting and truly the last burning rays reflect off the silver wings of the plane. I find my seat and look out to see Merrill standing behind the iron gate with his black Resistol cowboy hat and red shirt. As we take off, Merle Haggard's voice in my head sings "Silver Wings." The tears well up in my eyes as the valley, sprinkled with oil rigs, truly fades away and leaves him standing there behind. My mind races through a myriad of memories from my time in Bakersfield.

Merrill and I grew up in the small Northern California town of Arcata. I was the younger sister of one of his boy-scout friends. When we met again, our relationship took on a different form. We became friends and had spent a very short time together before I knew my feelings for him went beyond friendship and leaned more in the direction of serious relationship. I'd go anywhere to be with him. Even Bakersfield.

When I visited Bakersfield, I stayed with him in his 19-foot Coachmen RV trailer at the Southland RV Park. Yes, he lived in a trailer park, but not a mobile-home trailer park. This really was an RV park. His job moves him from location to location. The job was temporary and the rent was cheap. He worked long days and spent little time at the trailer.

My first time to the trailer park it fit every preconception I'd had about a trailer park in Bakersfield. As we entered the park, we drove past the first and second rows of trailers. His was at the end in the fourth row against the wall that bordered a canal and Highway 99, which bisects Bakersfield.

As we crept down the road observing the 5 mph speed limit, I was disturbed to notice the permanence of many of the trailers. Tires were flat and seemingly had been for seasons. One trailer had a set of wooden steps complete with a railing and geraniums in pots all around. Cactuses were used to cover the trailer hitches. A Confederate flag hung against the fence in one slot and a sign indicating "BEN'S PARKING" in another. There were old trailers, new trailers, fancy ones with pop-outs, and run-down, dilapidated ones, like Merrill's neighbors', on both sides. It was everything I'd expected it to be and more. My friends at home would make fun of me, calling me trailer trash, and joke that I'd end up pregnant and barefoot, living in the trailer park.

The hum of air conditioners filled the air, as did the smell of hot cornfields, hot alfalfa hay, and hot pavement. It was hot. I would later find that the benefit of having such a small trailer was the efficiency of its air conditioner.

On the other side of the fence to the south was a huge cornfield. We always noted the time between my trips by how tall the corn had grown.

There was a parking spot for the trailer and one beside it for the truck. He backed the truck in, leaving room for his folding camping chairs, coolers, a bag of mesquite charcoal, a roping dummy, a makeshift clothesline, and a mini barbeque.

This 8- by 10-foot cement pad was the front yard, backyard, patio, and dining room. The neighbor's broken trailer bathroom window looked over this not-so-private area. We later would find our only privacy would come when we left the park.

Living in the trailer wasn't that bad. Sure, it was a little small for two people but I was never there longer than a week. I got a taste of what it really would be like to live here. I'd heard songs about the "Streets of Bakersfield," and "A Bar in Bakersfield," but I really wanted to know the story. How did Bakersfield of all places become the nexus of honky-tonk music? I wanted to experience that first-hand too.

I had the chance to meet some of the trailer-park residents a time or two. One neighbor, in particular, I saw quite a bit.

Under the trailer that bordered our patio area lived the loneliest dog in the world. He was a chow-type mutt, tethered to the trailer by a 3-foot chain. The smell of his dwelling was almost more unbearable than the thought of his pitiful life.

You know how they say some owners match their pets? Well, in a way Nicole matched her dog. I have never met a more lonely person, desperate to have a friend.She was three years older than me, and had three children too. Her hair was dyed a brassy blond. She wore glasses and had a killer tan. For having three children, her figure hadn't suffered more than a few stretch marks visible when she walked around in her bikini top and shorts. She had no husband, no car, no job, no money, and no way out. Her parents lived in a trailer in the row directly across from ours. They had migrated, somewhat like the Joads, to Bakersfield, and Nicole was the Rosasharn of the bunch.

About half of the seven or eight trips I made down, Merrill and I had plans to either leave town or stay in a hotel away from the park. The other trips were when I got to know Nicole and her children, and I got a glimpse into the depressing, hard life lived in the trailer park.

Some days Merrill would get up early, 1 a.m. early, and leave for work. I'd sleep until the neighbors started yelling at each other or their two toddler-aged sons. This was the Ross family. The mom would stay at home and the Dad was a plumber. She told me once that they were trying to save enough money to buy a house. The license plate cover on his car boldly stated, "If you ain't a Ross, you ain't shit!" While Merrill worked, I had time to do laundry, sit by the pool or talk on my cell phone to my friends at home to escape the nowhere-ness of the trailer park. I could hardly stand the idleness for a day, and a lifetime seemed unimaginable. I would go crazy here. A vacation in the sun by the pool is always nice. But in a trailer park, even this, every day, would be frustrating.

Nicole would often come and find me at the pool or knock on the trailer door during the day and want to talk. After our first conversation she told me I was her best friend. I felt guilty, knowing that she was hardly my friend. She was only an acquaintance. Merrill would tease me about having a new best friend, but I didn't want to have much to do with her. I didn't want her to know anything about me, Merrill, or our relationship. She was next door when I was 600 miles away. I was jealous that she got to see Merrill every day and had the chance to talk to him when he got off work. Was she jealous of me? He is my boyfriend. Is she jealous that I don't have any kids? Or that I am in college? Or that I don't have to live in a trailer park? Or that Merrill and I get to leave the trailer park and go on vacations to Sedona, or Laughlin, San Luis Obispo, or Bishop?

"You know, Liz, she's just waiting for the golden ticket," Merrill said to me once. I didn't understand and he explained. "She's looking for some guy to get her out of here. How else could she get out? Like one of us guys with a good job and a home other than here."

She told me stories about how she eats every other day when her kids are with her because she can't afford to feed them and herself every day that they're here. This was extremely upsetting to me, so whenever possible I'd have a snack for her and the kids or offer them some of whatever I was eating. I'd buy extra groceries at the store knowing that Merrill and I wouldn't eat them so that I could give them to her when I'd leave.

I also would feel guilty when Merrill and I were barbecuing steaks, hamburgers, or having a shish-kabob contest. The three kids would come over after catching a waft of the charcoal starting up, and wait until we offered something or their mother yelled.

Tyler was 8. He was scrawny, had a buzzed haircut, and was wiry. Merrill was probably the closest thing that Tyler had as a positive male role model in his life. He adored Merrill. As soon as the truck could be heard coming home from work, Tyler was out front of the trailer waiting to talk to Merrill or show him his NASCAR collection for the umpteenth time. The girls were shyer. They latched onto me and wouldn't leave without getting a hug, especially Shelby. She was 4 1/2 years old and had a flow-bee type haircut that her mother had given her. Hayley was 6, had the same haircut, but was different in every other way. She was very polite. She thanked us for things when we'd share them with her. She didn't hang all over us. She was graceful. She was nothing like her siblings or her mother.

"Get your asses back here right now!" barked Nicole from the lawn chair across the road at her parent's trailer.

"Buuuuttt, Mommmm," whined Tyler.

She'd yell again and Hayley would walk over calmly. Shelby wouldn't leave without her hugs, and Tyler would stay put until his mother had to march over and give him some sort of an ultimatum. At that point Nicole would stay over in our patio. Merrill would offer her a beer or I'd offer a glass of wine and she'd sit down with us and talk for a while, usually about Jason. Jason worked with Merrill out at the hot plant, and one night got drunk with Nicole and the rest is history. She'd bitch about him as she took drag after drag of her cigarettes. How does she have enough money to buy cigarettes when she can't afford to buy food for her kids? Her dog would run back and forth, dragging the chain across the pavement, whining until Merrill would throw a scrap of food. I wanted to be with Merrill alone.

I wanted to find the honky-tonks. We searched and the closest places to them were Trout's, the Monte Carlo, and the Crystal Palace.

This place has history. Merle Haggard was born in a boxcar here, for cryin' out loud. My trips wouldn't be complete without trying to find where it all began. Trout's is in Oildale, just a mile or two past downtown Bakersfield to the North. We decided to go one night and live it up, so we took a cab. Red Simpson plays here regularly. He's the guy Merle sings about in the song "Bar in Bakersfield," the guy who watched all his friends make it big while he was "still playing the guitar in a bar in Bakersfield."

We got into the cab and our driver literally spoke no English. Hello! Am I the only one who thinks this might not be a good idea? He looks at us puzzled when we say, "We're going to Trout's."

No answer. Puzzled look.

"You know, like Oildale, the bar, with a fish sign."

Eyebrows raised, shoulders shrugged and we left the park with the insouciant cab driver. At least we were headed north. This is just great.

I watched the fare price go up and up as we finally got to the right exit. It kept going up and up, $20.80, $32.40, $41.40, as we drove down probably every street in Oildale before we actually made it to the bar. Either this cab driver was a smart businessman, or new to the area, I still don't know. We said "gracias," and made our way to the bar. I already felt out of place with Merrill and Jason both wearing cowboy hats and boots while I was in my khaki cargo pants, black v-neck top and black flip-flop sandals. To a honky-tonk bar? Was I crazy? Talk about a fish out of water!

Trout's isn't the bar where Merle Haggard got his start but it's in the town that he was born in, in a boxcar, actually. None of the old honky-tonk bars he played are around anymore. Blackboard's, Clover Club, Sad Sack, Lucky Spot, High Pockets, and Tex's Barrell House are all long gone, but I bet they felt something like Trout's.

The strands of colored Christmas tree lights cast a glow against the corrugated tin walls, as did the neon beer-advertising lights. Cigarette smoke created a haze and the only way it seemed I could fit in was drinkin' beer. Jason bought the first round and we found ourselves standing in the only open spot against the bar watching the live band and dancers swinging their partners around. Damn, I didn't bring my dancin' shoes. Why was I wearing flip-flops?

The lady behind the bar was probably in her late 50s and wore her hair the same as she did in the '50s. There were pool tables in the back and video-poker units on the bar. The music was loud and the crowd was too. The overhead lights were red and gave the bar an "Urban Cowboy" feel.

Merrill and I had a spin on the dance floor. I was still wearing my flip-flops, but a few more beers and I didn't notice the inconvenience. We danced more and drank more and headed two doors up the street to a bar that was quieter, even with the karaoke. I was beginning to feel more comfortable around the locals. They all seemed really nice; just like normal folks.

I found an empty table and sat against the wall and watched Merrill buy us another round and Jason check out the song lists.

Bam! Bam! Bam! The seat under me pounded.

A scruffy man was hitting the bench seat right next to me with his fist. He sat down and tried to talk to me.

"Hey there, how are you?" he mumbled.

"I'm fine, thanks, and you?" I responded.

His next line caught me completely by surprise. "I got the beer shits!" he blurted out as he leaned uncomfortably into my personal space. I looked to Merrill at the bar for a rescue and he gave me a goofy smile and a thumbs-up for finding, presumably, a new boyfriend.

"Uhh... that's gross," I answered. "I didn't need to know that."

"I live in a box sometimes and I used to take a shower every month, but now I take one every week," he said.

"Well, that's good. I shower every day, sometimes even more than once," I said patronizingly.

How did he get like this? I wonder if he wanted to be a policeman or a firefighter. I'm sure if you'd asked him when he was 10 what he wanted to be when he grew up, he wouldn't have said "a lonely, stinky guy."

It was then apparent that he was due for his weekly cleaning. I wonder what his story is.

Merrill and Jason finally made their way over to the table and saved me from this awkward conversation. The stinky, scruffy man proceeded to tell them also of his bowel troubles. They laughed out loud and sat down, and the "beer shits" guy scooted back on the bench to his table.

I sat in disbelief with my eyebrows up, raised my beer to the guys, said "cheers," and had a glug.

Ahh... karaoke. I can't carry a tune in a bucket so I declined the offer to sing. Neither Merrill nor Jason held back at all.

Merrill's name was called and his face glowed with anticipation as the music started in. He gave me a wink and Roger Miller's "King of the Road" started. I chuckled, knowing the irony of this.

This "Trailers for sale or rent É man of means by no means" song has special meaning to Merrill. Merrill lives in a trailer, works hard, but by no means has the "no means," as in the song. He half-laughed through the whole song and I laughed out loud and took pictures. I fell in love with him all over again as he sang "Let's Chase Each Other Around the Room Tonight," another Merle Haggard classic, and "Good Hearted Woman" by Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson. That last song struck a chord in my heart. It's about a "good hearted woman in love with a good timin' man, the good life he promised ain't what she's livin' today." I never thought I'd be sitting here, in the bars of Bakersfield.

After the guys had enough singing and more than enough beers, we wandered back down to Trout's to close down the bar. We asked that bartender to call us a cab and they ushered everyone out of the bar, as it was closing time.

We waited outside, and waited, and waited, and no cab came for almost 30 minutes. Thank goodness the temperature that night was still above 80 degrees. I went back into the bar to ask the bartender to call again and they shooed me out, saying they already did. So we waited and waited and waited again. Finally the cab came but once we were in it and listening to the cab driver talk, I realized I felt safer standing in the dark alley behind the bar. In Oildale, no less. If you think Bakersfield has a bad rap for being trailer-trash capital, you haven't crossed the tracks, literally, to Oildale.

Jason sat in the front seat while Merrill fell asleep on my shoulder in the back seat. Please, God, just let us get home to the trailer park safely. Please, God, let this night be over. Please, God, don't let this cab driver, who told us he just got out of prison, hurt us. After a $25 cab fare, we were back at the trailer park and safe at home in the Coachmen.

Another place I fell in love again with Merrill was the bar named the Monte Carlo, yet another place with a story. It's a rundown farmer hangout outside of Bakersfield on Old River Road. Old River is a town of about 200 just west of Bakersfield, where the cotton, alfalfa, tomatoes, and dairies are. The Monte Carlo is only a 5-minute drive from the trailer park. Merrill had been there before, but this was my first time. There is a roof over a concrete island in the front. It looks like it could have been an old gas station. The bar seats about 15 and there were two seats left. The beer is kept on an old wood and glass cooler with the fancy latch handles. We got our beers and I took a look around -- which, by the way, meant looking down the bar 15 feet to one side and 10 more to the other side of the L-shaped bar. We're the only ones in the place who everybody didn't know.

These are the locals. These are the real people of Bakersfield. They're the second, third, and more, generations to be living and farming here. One gal named Liz stood behind me with her dog in her arms. Everybody knew everybody here. They all caught up on the latest, and the dog got to run around on the floor. The old guy next to me asked, "Where are you from?"

"I'm from Northern California, almost Oregon, actually, Arcata. It's in Humboldt County. I'm visiting my boyfriend," I said as I pointed to Merrill, who was talking with the guy on his other side. "He's working down here making asphalt for the I-5 job."

He showed a hint of recognition when I mentioned Humboldt County and referred to the paving operation.

Everyone who drives in Bakersfield is familiar with the re-paving of the thoroughfare where I-5 meets Highway 99, running 30 miles north and south. The construction had slowed traffic down since April.

"They do their own growin' up there, but I'll bet it ain't alfalfa," said the old guy. No doubt this remark referred to the "green gold" cash crop of marijuana the county is famous for.

I asked to use the bathroom and was directed around the corner of the bar and walked through a bedroom and down the hall. This is where the bartender lives. Her bedroom is literally around the corner from the bar, with no real divider from the bar. She grew up in this house and her father had run the bar before she did. She must be in her 60s. This was part of her story. After a few more beers, with Merrill buying a round for the whole bar, most everyone in there had talked to one of us. The jukebox in the corner played the old country music, the kind Merrill listens to. Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Marty Robbins, Johnny Cash, Jerry Jeff Walker, and Patsy Cline all have been playing in the background. This was my last night in Bakersfield for that trip, so Merrill and I left the bar after another beer to retire for the night. Alone, without Nicole or the kids knocking on the trailer door. Alone, without the neighbors yelling at their kids. I let the beer tune that out and I smiled at Merrill. He smiled back.

Bakersfield is also home to country music legend and "Hee Haw" television star Buck Owens. Buck and the Buckaroos play live every Friday and Saturday night at the Crystal Palace, his restaurant and concert showroom. According to some natives in the area, this is one of the last places you can really get the feel of his honky-tonk music live.

We had rented a room at the hotel next to the Crystal Palace so we could walk, or stumble over at the end of the night and not worry about driving anywhere. That night we had tickets to see Charlie Robison in concert. Charlie is a 6-foot-something, blond Texan with a scratchy voice and a Dixie Chick wife.

It seemed that Buck was intoxicated as he opened the show, swaying and slurring the words of his famous songs like "Tiger by the Tail" and "Together Again, Again." The old-timer has sung these songs thousands of times but still has a spark when he performs. He sang some requests, and hollered at his stage manager, who apparently had done something wrong. We sat "on the rail," which meant we had pretty good seats and were near the bar. There is a Cadillac behind the bar with longhorns as the hood ornament and silver dollars in the upholstery. All around the walls are windows that showcase various Buck memorabilia, like his flashy rhinestone-studded Nudie suits and "Hee Haw" props.

Merrill and I danced and drank the night away and talked with Robison after the show.

The next evening back at the trailer park, Nicole came over when we rolled in.

"You guys looked so cute dancing together last night!" she said. Merrill and I looked at each other, confused.

"Were you there? We didn't see you," I answered.

"No, you guys were on the news tonight. They had a close-up of you dancing at the concert last night. I wish you had seen it," she said.

I know I didn't need to see it. I have the image and feeling planted permanently in my head. Just like all my other great times in Bakersfield.

We never saw Merle Haggard, and we never saw the original honky-tonks, but even though the buildings aren't there, you can feel them in the music.

I don't know when I'll be riding on silver wings again to Bakersfield. Merrill isn't working there any longer. Even the corn had been plowed under on my last trip.

As for the neighbor, I haven't talked to Nicole in months. Merrill moved to a trailer park higher up in the hills along the Grapevine, but we heard she married one of the guys from the lay-down crew. She got her "golden ticket," after all. Her story had a turning point. I hope things will be better for her.

After experiencing first-hand living in a trailer park and meeting people who live in such places, my opinions of them have changed. Now I keep in mind that everyone has a story. They all have a way and a reason they got here.

So, when Merrill and I make the next trailer park home, I'll have my Bakersfield stories to help me start with an open mind. Just because people live in a trailer in a trailer park, they aren't inherently trailer trash.

Wherever home may be, I'll always think of Bakersfield when I hear honky-tonk music, or smell alfalfa, or pass an RV park, or fly again on silver wings.