Harry McAllister is the crusty Big Sur old-timer par excellence after 30 years of living on his Apple Pie Ranch, making fine furniture, tending to his chickens and lambs, and muttering to himself in this way: ""We're sun's people, free born eagles, writing on the stones and fields without shadows; making, leaving no marks other than ourselves, and no wound save maybe a tone of feathered air."" And Harry is forever waging battles--with over-zoning, under-zoning, coyotes, predatory neighborhood dogs, a promiscuous younger daughter. . . or with his own badly arthritic hip sockets. But then Harry's long-time wife Greta is persuaded by the hired hand to grow marijuana on some outlying acreage (all this unknown to Harry); she makes enough money for Harry to be operated on. And, able to walk again, Harry begins an infatuation with one of his daughter's girlfriends. But this--like all the other limp plot developments here--is scorched away by a contrived, climactic brushfire which everyone only barely survives. Slow, aimless, totally undeveloped fiction--with no apparent point except the droning, macho self-pity of its central character.