Epitaph for a Peach Read Online Free PDF Page A

peaches goes beyond my individual back-to-nature pursuits. I do not farm this land as a hobby.
    My farming creates work.
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    M Y WORKERS COME from many places in Mexico and live in small towns scattered throughout the valley. Del Rey, where many of them stay, is the nearest town to my farm. The estimated population is about 1,500, but during the summer harvest the town swells to twice that size. The workers live in rented rooms, small cramped boardinghouses, or hidden bungalows in converted garages and toolsheds.
    I visit one of these apartments. The workers live in a small outbuilding behind my foreman’s house. Some of the men are standing, others are crouching in a familiar squat.
    My grandmother squatted that way, peasants I saw in South America squatted that way, old folks in rural Japanese villages did the same. It is a common-folk way of resting and a fine observation point from which to watch the world. It’s the squat I use when I’m waiting, not for anything in particular but the waiting and resting that’s part of farming.
    Squatting evens out physical differences. Tall people and short ones become closer in height when squatting. You share with others a common point of view. Once you squat you have to think twice about getting up; you become conscious of choices and decisions. Squatting is a mark of country folk who have worked the land and whose legs are in excellent condition. You can’t squat well if you are overweight, if your legs are used to sitting in chairs, or if you are lazy. I wonder if we’ve lost the art of squatting. In our fast-paced world today, we’re too busy or think we’re too good to squat.
    On my visit to their home, I recognize two of the squatting workers who picked my peaches that morning. With beers in their hands, crushed cans lying next to them, one jumps up and waves me over to offer a beer. I am about to accept in a gesture of friendship, but somehow I can’t. I know the price they pay for a six-pack of beer equals an hour of work. I calculate that a single beer equals picking one extra tree in 105-degree heat. I think of that worker earlier in the day, his sweat mingling with peach fuzz, his expression exhausted. I politely decline the drink and squat next to him.
    I examine the workers’ apartment, converted from a toolshed or a freestanding single-car garage. I’m sure it isn’t legal housing and I’m positive my foreman makes a good income from renting out the space. Yet I’m certain the workers are satisfied with finding any housing at all and with the protection they receive from my foreman, a good man who seems fair and quiet. He doesn’t allow gambling, drugs, or prostitutes on his place. In fact, his own family lives in the adjacent house and one of his daughters is married to one of the steady workers. One farmworker tells me he has returned here for ten years, coming back to Mario’s place every time. For these farmworkers, this is their shelter.
    Inside the house are rows of bunks and a small kitchen, with a bathroom attached to the outside. One fellow is designated cook, and he explains how skillful he is at saving money and stretching the meat with beans and vegetables. The cook says he makes lunches for everyone who has work the next day. They pool their expenses. Some of my peaches are sitting on the counter to be shared. He finishes his beer, asks if I’d like a peach, and smiles. I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.
    I am relieved to see that everything seems adequate and that my workers are being treated fairly. A lot of farmers do feel responsibility for their workers. Most of the older farmers know from personal experience what it is like to work the land for low wages and to live in simple shelters.
    As I leave, I think of the disparity between my home and the farmworkers’ housing. I remember my first summer after college at Berkeley. I wanted to solve the problems of poverty and