Meet the new Grange same as the old Grange at Ramona

A smattering of Ramona folks, hats in hand and grins wide, gave a hearty cheer on February 4th as they hitched themselves to the notion of reviving their long-dormant Ramona Grange.

It was a sight fit for a painter—some twenty souls gathered in a meeting hall, bent on deciding the fate of a once-thriving society of farmers, ranchers, vineyard keepers, and assorted agricultural folk.

At the heart of it all stood Karen Carlson, freshly anointed as president of the Ramona Grange No. 632. She took in the room with misty eyes, overcome with something more than just the dust in the air. A woman of the land, she keeps her five-acre spread well-stocked with livestock and knows the worth of community.

“I’m so excited, I did cry,” she confessed, dabbing at her cheek, though she looked none too ashamed of it. “The people of Ramona pulled together to bring back the Grange, and I tell you, that’s something mighty special. Folks showed up, ready to lend a hand, and that means everything.”

Overseeing the affair with a satisfied nod was Joseph Stefenoni, the grand pooh-bah of the state Grange—president and CEO, no less. He was tickled to see the Ramona chapter shaking off the dust and coming back to life.

“For over 150 years, the Grange has been a cornerstone of community,” he declared with the air of a man who’s said as much before. “And this fine bunch is set to carry that torch forward.”

The state Grange had thrown a line to Ramona last month, hosting a gathering aimed at stirring up interest, and sure enough, it bore fruit. According to Stefenoni, California is home to 121 active Granges, boasting some 6,000 members, with another ten chapters in the midst of pulling themselves up by the bootstraps. Nationwide, there are about 1,400 Granges still kicking.

So, with handshakes, well-wishes, and a fair bit of back-patting, the Ramona Grange found its feet again. And if the spirit in that room was any indication, it’ll take more than a few tough seasons to knock them down again.

nd so, on that fateful February day, a stirring commenced—a flurry of paper-shuffling, hand-shaking, and head-nodding that signified serious business was afoot. The Ramona Grange, long slumbering in the annals of memory, was at last being shaken awake, like an old hound roused from its porch-side nap.

The effort required no fewer than thirteen dedicated souls to see it through. Eight were needed to fill official posts, tasked with keeping the whole operation from tipping into chaos, while nine more were necessary to tend to various executive duties—an arrangement that, if nothing else, ensured there would always be enough hands around to argue over how things ought to be run.

Back to the future hops for Ramona Grange organizers/First Congregational Church of Ramona

At the January meeting, the call had gone out, and by some miracle—or perhaps just good, old-fashioned determination—a dozen willing applicants stepped forward, their names inked onto paper with the solemnity of a treaty signing. By February, another fifteen had followed suit, swelling the ranks to a respectable muster.

And so, with quorum met and spirits high, the great enterprise barreled ahead on February 4th. Under Stefenoni’s watchful eye—part mentor, part referee—the gathered townsfolk waded through the nitty-gritty of bylaws, those sacred rules that ensure an organization does not dissolve into anarchy over the placement of a pickle jar at the annual picnic. Every head leaned in, every voice pitched in, and before long, they had themselves a foundation upon which to build.

No doubt, some found the business of rule-making a touch dry, their minds wandering to the more pressing matters of the day—like whether the cattle had broken the fence again or if the winter rains had done in old Thompson’s vineyard. But even so, there was a feeling in the room, a certain quiet satisfaction that comes from pulling together and making something real. The Ramona Grange was no longer just a fond recollection of bygone days—it was a living thing once more, standing on its own two feet, ready to serve the community that had willed it back into existence.

And so, with officers elected and sleeves rolled up, the good people of Ramona set about breathing fresh life into their Grange. It was no easy task, mind you—starting up a thing is one matter, keeping it going is another—but if there was one thing these folks had in spades, it was gumption.

Barry Neilson took the vice president’s chair with a sturdy nod, Naomi Oakes agreed to put her voice to good use as lecturer, and Julie Crider, with the measured sensibilities of a woman accustomed to keeping both horses and books in order, took on the treasurer’s post.

Tony Montegna accepted the secretarial duties, which would no doubt involve an abundance of paper and patience. The rest of the officer positions were claimed by a hearty crew, including young Ashlyn Clark, who was set on seeing the next generation take their rightful place at the table.

Now, just what all this newly minted Grange would get up to remained to be decided. There was talk of homeschooling, livestock education, even homesteading—noble pursuits all. Some cast their thoughts toward community service, while others leaned toward keeping the agricultural spirit alive in a world that was becoming altogether too comfortable with concrete and cubicles.

James “Kirby” Hitt, a lifelong Granger and seasoned hand from Rainbow Valley, shared stories of the many ways a Grange could serve its people—blood drives, crop swaps, spay and neuter clinics, seed banks, even a good old-fashioned game of bingo when the mood struck. It was the kind of thing that brought folks together, young and old, farmers and townsfolk alike.

Unidentified Ramona Grange youth members at 2015 ag event/Facebook

And speaking of youth, Ashlyn Clark, full of fire and enthusiasm, was already setting her sights on the future. “We need more kids,” she declared, and she wasn’t wrong. A Grange without young blood is like a farm without spring—it won’t last long.

She wanted to learn livestock handling, jam-making, crafts, even how to turn odds and ends into something useful—because if there’s one thing a farm teaches a person, it’s that nothing ought to go to waste.

Beyond the local doings, Stefenoni reminded everyone that the Grange wasn’t just a collection of folks swapping seeds and swapping stories—it was a voice for farmers and rural communities across the state and nation.

There were policies to be shaped, laws to be watched, and rights to be protected, and some among the Ramona crew were keen to make sure small farmers and markets had their say in the matters that governed them.

The Ramona Chamber of Commerce threw its support behind the venture, with promises of promotion and connection to local businesses. And even the county government got in on the action, with a representative from Supervisor Joel Anderson’s office handing out certificates of appreciation to those who had stepped up to lead the charge.

But for all the talk of legacy and policy, there was still the matter of practicality. The old Grange hall, standing tall on Seventh Street, had seen better days. It had served its share of purposes over the years—sheltering the faithful, feeding the hungry, and even playing host to the occasional dance—but now it sat quiet and in need of repair.

Carlson, undeterred by peeling paint and borrowed furniture, took one look at the empty space and declared it a challenge worth meeting. “We need chairs, tables, a stove, kitchen basics—you name it,” she said, tallying up a list longer than a harvest season.

And so, with a hopeful heart and a fundraising link, she set out to rally support, knowing that a community willing to rebuild its Grange wouldn’t hesitate to help rebuild its home.

And so the work began—not just in bylaws and meetings, but in hammers and paint, in new members and new ideas. The doors of the Ramona Grange stood open once more, and all were welcome, whether they hailed from Ramona proper or the wild backcountry beyond.

It wasn’t just the rebirth of an organization—it was the revival of a spirit, the kind that keeps small towns thriving and neighbors looking out for one another. And if the good folks of Ramona had anything to say about it, that spirit wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.