Epitaph for a Peach

by David M. Masumoto

  “I know,” he said.

  Puddles began to appear in the rows. Fed by clouds, they slowly advanced toward the grape trays. Raisins can tolerate a light rain, but this time, with constant long showers, a year’s work began to rot. The stench would soon fill the countryside.

  “How bad do you think they are?” I asked.

  “We’ll see when it stops,” Dad answered.

  It rained more than an inch. The paper trays seemed to melt, saturated with water. The lower third of each tray became submerged with loose grapes floating in the pools that had formed. I grew restless, hating the sound of the rain.

  Dad occasionally glanced out the window, pretending to look for the newspaper or the mail. He spoke little, saying nothing about the harvest lying outside. He spent the day reading old issues of Popular Mechanics and some farm magazines. The newspaper had been accidentally thrown into a puddle. “Son of a bitch,” he said, returning with the drenched sheets. “At least I want my paper dry.”

  The rains continued. Dad wrestled with the soaked newspaper, peeling the pages apart and spreading them over chairs to dry. A few years before it had rained like this, over two inches in twenty-four hours. We had tried to salvage the harvest, working with each bunch, picking away the mold on each grape. For a few days, the sun had appeared and the ground began to dry; we made a crude dehydrator to speed the process. Then another storm and another inch. Saying he couldn’t stand the sight of the rot, Dad had hooked up the tractor and in a single day disked under the entire crop.

  This time rain ended the next day. We walked outside, dodging the deeper puddles. I wanted to hope, to try and save something. Dad bent over a tray, picked up a bunch, and shook off the water. The skins of the grapes, half raisins by now, had already decayed into a yellowish brown. As Dad ran his hand over the bunch, the skins broke and the meat of the grapes oozed onto his finger.

  He carefully replaced the bunch, rose, and said, “I’m not going to spend the next couple of months crawling around on my knees. Not for this crap.” He turned toward the shed, grabbed his shovel, and left for a walk through his fields.

  Diary of a Raisin Harvest

  LATE AUGUST.

  Workers scarce and in demand. Harvest delayed. I may not be able to pick for weeks. From the porch I watch the grapes grow heavy. Some of the berries are turning amber; swollen with juice, they are ready to be picked. I rationalize that by delaying harvest, sugars can increase even more and each bunch will gain in weight. They estimate one point of Brix—a measure of sweetness—gained each week. Translation: about a 5 percent weight gain. Greed helps justify the delay in harvest.

  I think about my Sun Crest peaches and their successful year. But on a farm, everything becomes connected and interwoven. Next year a good grape crop may be what I need in order to keep the peaches, a successful raisin harvest may allow for many more peach harvests in the future. Suddenly peaches and the late summer raisin weather are related more than ever. I can no longer ignore thoughts about September rains.

  Without workers, I have little choice but to gamble and wait. Instead I’ll watch the grapes growing fat. I explain my strategy to Dad. He nods. He understands how I feel about another uncontrolled force in this farming game. He consoles me by saying, “You never know, maybe we can count on the weather in September.” We both know he is lying.

  You can’t trust the weather. Even during my few years of farming, I have witnessed four devastating years where thousands and thousands of trays lay vulnerable to the clouds marching in from the Pacific. As a child I remember watching my parents as they stared at the rain pounding their harvest and their dreams. Now I’m the adult with the unprotected harvest, my family and our dreams threatened.

  SEPTEMBER 8TH.

  Still waiting for workers, feeling helpless. I’m picking a few rows myself, anxious to have something to show for the last two weeks. I made the fatal mistake of selecting a long row. There’s an unwritten custom in grape picking: once you start a row, you finish it, part of a stake you make on territory when you lay down those initial few trays from the first vines. The work, though, is cathartic. I sweat out some of my anxiety and tension and return home for breaks, too thirsty and dirty to worry about fields without workers. But the remedy is short-lived. Walking past unpicked grapes gnaws at my nerves, my stomach muscles tighten.

  In the evenings I phone uncles, cousins, and neighbors. They all say the same: “Labor’s tight and the picking slow.” The usual workers who come from Mexico for the harvest have gone someplace else. Perhaps crops in the Northwest? Texas? We depend on labor from Mexico, part of a seasonal flow of men and families. Many come here for the summer, return to Mexico during the slow winter months, and return the following year. They’re predominantly young men with the faces of boys. We’re dependent on their strong backs and quick hands. And they are hungry for work.

  Everyone is paying higher wages this season, but it doesn’t matter, my grapes needed to be picked yesterday with no one scheduled to work tomorrow. Plus the grape crop is huge. Workers are detained at each farm for a few extra days to complete the picking. That delays the start of the next farm and then the next and the next. I’m a small-time operator with only about forty acres of raisins, so I’m last on the list according to the laws of real economics and pecking orders. Although I’ll pay the same wages or even higher ones, work crews satisfy the larger places first, farms that give them more work throughout the year.

  And I don’t get angry enough. Unlike working with mother nature, where complaining won’t stop a cold front or an invasion of worms, grumbling to a labor contractor might result in some workers for my fields. In fact, the louder I bitch the more pickers I may get. I talk with a neighbor about our plight. We both agree, if we yell and curse, perhaps we’ll get a small work crew started. The old squeaky wheel theory. It’s a game I have yet to learn.

  SEPTEMBER 10TH.

  Finally we start. A few workers arrive and the harvest begins. The chance of rain increases with each passing day. I feel more and more precarious. I can count on the weather shifting into a fall pattern, the temperature dropping each week. I watch the shadows lengthen as the sun continues its southern trek, drifting away from my farm. The nights are longer, sunrise a minute later, sunset a minute earlier. The change seems subtle but the grapes know the difference: they will dry more gradually with cooler days and chilly nights. I fear I may grow old this season.

  SEPTEMBER 12TH.

  I try not to get angry, although stress accompanies my morning coffee. I see an ugly side of human nature: neighbors competing for the same workers, desperate about getting their crop laid down. I hear stories of crews leaving fields half picked, lured by a neighboring farmer’s promise of paying a few cents more.

  One farmer uses the same labor contractor I employ. The contractor understands psychology well. He promises both of us workers, says what we want to hear, plays us off against each other with hints about more workers with more pay. I’m not sure who would end up with the extra wages, the workers or the contractor. Yesterday I had only one family picking my crop. Today a few other cars show up, with a promise of more. I stand with the labor contractor when the other farmer comes by. He pulls the contractor aside and they talk quietly. An hour later, the cars pull away.

  This September, farmers drive down the road staring straight ahead, steering clear of a chance meeting with a competitor who was once a neighbor. Eyes avoid eyes, hands hesitate and refrain from waving. It’s an ugly September.

  SEPTEMBER 15TH.

  On the news I hear that a weather front is approaching. It’s still hundreds of miles off in the Pacific, churning in our direction, swinging toward the West Coast. No one knows for sure where it will hit. It could take a northern path and track toward Oregon or Washington, or swerve south and crash into warm southern air and break up into harmless overcast skies and tepid breezes—unless it taps into tropical moisture from a dissipating Mexican hurricane. Then it becomes a new monster la
den with sheets of rain. Despite our sophisticated technology, no one can predict the weather more than a few moments into the future.

  Old-timers understand weather better than I do. They have had years of practice interpreting the clouds on the horizon and the shifts of temperature. Their wisdom is manifested in a few phrases, accompanied by a subtle nod of the head or other body movement. My favorite is, “Don’t worry, every wind has its own weather. You can’t change that.” A slight sigh and a gentle shrugging of the shoulders follows.

  Part of me is beginning to understand such behavior but another part simply can’t stand still and wait for disaster. I keep a vigil on the weather using all my tools: weather radios, updated reports, even radar imagery from Dad’s satellite dish and the Weather Channel. Armed with my information, I can play weatherman and compare my forecasting with that of the professionals.

  I detect two distinct personality types when it comes to predicting rain. One is based on a local TV weatherman named Sean who leans toward the pessimistic side. He forecasts the storm to move into central California with “possible rains of one to two tenths of an inch…a chance of some showers….” As a private weatherman, it’s better to predict rain and have it not come true than the opposite. The public rarely thinks of Sean during good weather.

  On the other hand, Ron, with the U.S. Meteorological Service, has a different outlook. Farmers listen to his reports on little weather radios that play a continuous tape, repeating conditions over and over. Ron updates his forecast when needed and seems to use more precise language. It has to do with his audience, farmers who constantly battle the weather. I will make decisions based on his call: one tenth of an inch could possibly be tolerated, a quarter of an inch of rain requires action (like rolling trays to protect them from the moisture). Thousands of dollars could be spent because of the difference between one tenth and one quarter of an inch of rain. So if Ron thinks it will be light showers, no more than a tenth of an inch, he’ll say so. On the other hand, Sean will give ranges. Both work under the pressure of being right.

  Ron’s forecast for the approaching storm sounds more optimistic than Sean’s. He even says the storm is tracking northerly and the bulk of its strength should be absorbed by the northern coast. The term absorbed lingers in my thoughts.

  Who do I believe? Ron updates his reports as conditions change. Sean projects into the future, the only reporter on the evening news who has to predict the news. Weekends seem especially difficult for Sean. He has to forecast days ahead, knowing that once the Friday afternoon commute starts, the weekend begins and most people won’t listen to another weather report. So Sean predicts “between a sprinkle and light rain,” hedging on carefully chosen words to keep his accuracy rating up.

  Ron predicts a 50 percent chance of rain. But he speaks in terms of measurable rain (one hundredth of an inch is considered measurable), and I have to take that into consideration.

  Sean uses language the general public understands. He says, “There’s a chance of some showers, certainly not a gully washer, just something to help keep the dust down. But it wouldn’t hurt to pack an umbrella for the big football game on Saturday evening.” I interpret his report as nothing to get excited about.

  SEPTEMBER 16TH.

  We dodged a bullet. The storm passed to the north and we only received a trace of moisture, just enough to keep Sean’s dust down. But there’s talk of a second front forming,

  What are my options? We’ve almost finished picking, and 35,000 trays of withering grapes lie on the ground, waiting for the sun to dry them into raisins, the grapes still too green to roll and protect from approaching rain. How do I ride out these storms?

  In front of my family I try to hide my emotions. I walk the fields, visualizing the damage that may occur, imagining what work is needed with a light rain, versus a heavy storm of over half an inch.

  Part of me tries to be objective and businesslike. With heavy rain, I’ll have to take decisive action. I’ll need to take charge and accept responsibility. But I can also feel a tightness in my gut. I remain tense thinking of previous disasters, lost income, wasted labor, and emotional turmoil.

  My imagination runs wild. I feel persecuted by the power of mother nature, who dwarfs my farm with her unpredictable character. Yet I cling to a spirit of survival. I observe others, my family and neighbors, as we brace for the storm with a humbling humility.

  SEPTEMBER 17TH.

  Rain strikes the porch roof. I cringe and watch the yard turn dark, colored by the falling drops. I curse the weather as my stomach knots. Puddles grow and hopes are crushed.

  Weathermen had predicted the storm would miss us or, at worst, we’d receive less than a tenth of an inch. Yet the morning begins with clouds, high clouds, with some darker ones on the horizon. I watch a satellite picture and it reveals an army of clouds maneuvering off the coast, poised for an assault on the beachhead. Something is not right.

  The rain begins by afternoon. How it falls is as important as how much falls. It rains in increments: sprinkles first, followed by fat drops and steady showers for a half hour, then a pause, an interlude before it repeats. I step out and check my rain gauge. The first rains result in one-tenth of an inch. I sense most farms in the area received similar amounts. The clouds hang over the land like a thick quilt, a uniform gray that carries grief shared democratically.

  A tropical storm is visiting our valley, a slow-moving, lumbering monster heavy with moisture from the Pacific. As it pushes north and east, the Sierras act like a mighty wall, trapping our uninvited guest from the south. Clouds pile up against the mountains and jettison their cargo before passing over them.

  I stand and watch. The potholes and divots in my yard quickly collect pools of water. Between the showers a balmy wind blows from the west. It hugs the earth, dries the surface, and soothes the nerves of a desperate farmer. I peek beneath a paper tray, relieved to discover dry soil; the moisture has not yet penetrated.

  The storm teases us. A calm settles over the valley. I want to believe the storm has passed, the damage consummated. My emotions rise with the first rays of sunlight poking through the clouds. Then the assault strikes again and again.

  The rains continue all through the afternoon: a light sprinkle and shower, wind, and more sprinkles. Evening turns into night, a blessing because I can no longer see the rain. The storm pauses, only to return as I lie in bed. I hear a tap-tap-tap on the roof. I cannot sleep although the sounds are soft and gentle.

  At midnight the downpour begins. I stand on the porch in the darkness, the deluge pounding the land, tens of thousands of drops striking per second. I imagine the pools of water forming on trays and puddles filling footprints. The rain crashes to the earth, and I know mud is splashing onto the trays. Sand particles will become embedded in the raisins, trapped in their wrinkles.

  I time the downpour with a watch, my own method to measure the rain. This episode lasts only a few minutes.

  SEPTEMBER 18TH. EARLY MORNING.

  At 2:00 A.M. the rain begins anew. I time it again but my strategy turns on me. The minutes pass and the gale continues. I grow to hate the clock; I want to smash its face. I turn on the dishwasher as a distraction, and the familiar sound of splashing water fills the kitchen. It finishes before the rain does.

  For a moment my anger is directed, focused, targeted. Then other emotions swell as the rain continues. I hide under the pillow, but the soft sounds persist. Nothing in my past has prepared me for this.

  The danger of rain is part of my harvest rites. Yet each season new technology is introduced: bigger tractors, better disks, new chemicals and treatments; even with raisins they experiment with different paper trays and ripening agents to accelerate harvest. It’s easy to begin believing you control nature. Allied with technology, who needs faith? Science does anything and everything, problems are solved with discoveries and breakthroughs. I am trained to be master of my land, to control and dominate its crops. Nature is gradually disconnected from my d
aily practices.

  I awaken and discover that the rains have stopped. I begin thinking of the work that lies before me. I cannot fix the raisins. The damage is like death, irreversible. Resolution lies in living with the dead.

  SEPTEMBER 18TH. DAYTIME.

  We are tormented by a bright sunrise, the pools of water glisten in the morning rays. This weather tortures farmers with the promise of drying winds and warm sunshine. It seduces our faith and toys with our emotions, for we know yet another front sits off the coast gathering strength before heading inland.

  We are taught a harsh lesson. Even though we can enlarge a grape berry by adding a growth hormone, kill a pest expeditiously with new chemicals, control a disease effectively with safer sprays, farming remains a sea of uncertainty. We have lost touch with more than just the elements. Our farms function more and more as businesses with rigidly scheduled work calendars. We trap ourselves in our offices, in self-imposed exile from our fields. We model our operations on industries designed to produce a commodity. All the while we fool ourselves into believing we are somehow insulated from nature.

  By afternoon the other front arrives. Mold is already beginning to grow on the soaked bunches, their berries bulbous with moisture. The rot begins to fill the air. I can smell it from the porch. I search the horizon for blue sky but find only black clouds.

  I visit Dad and walk defiantly from the truck to his patio despite the pouring rain. We watch in shared silence. Mom sticks her head outside and snaps at us to get in before we catch cold. She looks up at the gray sky and shakes her head.

  The wind occasionally blows, darker clouds pass to the north. There’s little consolation in realizing that someplace else they’re receiving even more rain than here. The puddles creep higher and higher in the fields. In some places the water level rises so quickly and high, it covers the lower sections of the trays. Berries float. It rains into the evening, shifting to a slow but constant drizzle. The weather station reports that some places were caught under a thunderhead and were hit with over half an inch in a few minutes.