Epitaph for a Peach Read Online Free PDF

inequality immediately. I adopted the popular idea of thinking globally and acting locally by doubling the prevailing wages for our workers. After calculating expenses and income for that month, I realized we had lost thousands of dollars. My idealism was then moderated. I concluded that providing jobs was the best contribution I could make to the world.
    Now I try to pay a little better than the prevailing wage and I work out in the fields alongside the workers. And sometimes I still squat with them.
    The Lottery
    A handful of lottery tickets scatter in the wind and drift into my peach orchard. I count over thirty of them, equaling more than half a day’s wages for one man. Four hours of a man’s labor and sweat, wasted and lost on a summer breeze.
    The next day I ask about the tickets. A few of the workers smile and one razzes another. None of them has ever won more than five dollars.
    Why do they keep playing lotería? Don’t they understand the terrible odds against winning and the squandering of their hard-earned wages? Their answers are probably no different from those of anyone else who gambles, especially those whose lives are and will continue to be a struggle. They play for the chance to dream.
    The California lottery payout nears a national record. We all feel the lotto fever, and I joke with the workers about it. They ask what I would do if I won. I say I’d quit farming and give them the farm tomorrow. One snaps back, “You can do that now without winning the lotería. ”
    One of the farmworkers banters with me and says, “ Patrón would never give us his farm.”
    I concede he is right.
    â€œSo,” he adds, “if I win the lotería , I can buy your farm.” The field roars with the work crew’s laughter.
    I don’t play the lottery and cannot share the dreams of my workers. Occasionally when disking the peaches or grapevines, I’ll find one of their losing tickets tossed among the leaves. The blades slice the paper and turn it into the earth, and for hours I’ll think about lotteries and hope.

chapter three
as if the farmer died
    Allowing Nature to Take Over
    I used to have armies of weeds on my farm. They launch their annual assault with the first warm weather of spring, parachuting seeds behind enemy lines and poking up in scattered clumps around the fields.
    They work underground first, incognito to a passing farmer like me. By the end of winter, dulled by the holidays and cold fog, I have my guard down. The weeds take advantage of my carelessness.
    The timing of their assault is crucial. They anticipate the subtle lengthening of each day. With exact calculation they germinate and push upward toward the sunlight, silently rooting themselves and establishing a foothold. The unsuspecting farmer rarely notices any change for days.
    Then, with the first good spring rain, the invasion begins. With beachheads established, the first wave of sprouting creatures rises to boldly expose their green leaves. Some taunt the farmer and don’t even try to camouflage themselves. Defiantly they thrust their new stalks as high as possible, leaves peeling open as the plant claims more vertical territory. Soon the concealed army of seeds explodes, and within a week what had been a secure, clear territory is claimed by weeds. They seem to be everywhere, no farm is spared the invasion.
    Then I hear farmers launching their counterattack. Tractors roar from their winter hibernation, gunbarrel-gray exhaust smoke shoots into the air, and cold engines churn. Oil and diesel flow through dormant lines as the machines awaken. Hungry for work, they will do well when let loose in the fields. The disks and cultivators sitting stationary throughout winter rains await the tractor hitch. The blades are brown with rust stains, bearings and gears cold and still since last fall. But I sense they too may be anxious to cleanse themselves in the earth and regain their sleek steel