Big Book Of Lesbian Horse Stories (11 page)

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Authors: Alisa Surkis

BOOK: Big Book Of Lesbian Horse Stories
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Finally the day came when all the cotton was picked, and Oreola had to say goodbye. She walked over early one morning to take her leave. She could stay only a little while, for she had to help Mama pack the Model-T and take care of the young Budds. Mama Ortiz wrapped a passel of her delicious tamales for the Budds' lunch, and Ana Maria and El Cid walked back with her through the fields.
“You will come back again next year, yes?” Ana Maria asked.
“I can see how we might jist do that,” answered Oreola, barely getting the words out of her tightening throat. Many times over the last month Ana Maria had asked that same question, and Oreola had given the same answer. It was easier than facing the truth—Oreola knew that with the exciting new life that awaited them in California, her family would probably never want to leave.
“I wish we could stay in touch somehow,” said Ana Maria.
“I'll write to you,” promised Oreola. “And anytime we're settled for a little while, why, you can write to me.”
“And when we're grown up, we'll live together,” said Ana Maria for the hundredth time. “I'll train horses—”
“And I'll be a nurse!” finished Oreola. When the two girls had hugged each other for the last time, Oreola buried her face in El Cid's neck, so that Ana Maria would not see her tears. As the Budds' car pulled away, Oreola pressed her face against the dusty back window of the old Model-T, waving to Ana Maria until the girl and horse were nothing but two tiny specks covered in a cloud of dust. Oreola's greatest hope had been to find one best friend. Now she had to face the heartache of losing two.
Other heartaches followed. It soon became clear to Oreola and the rest of the Budd family that their golden dreams of California were nothing more than an illusion perpetuated by the big growers looking for cheap labor. And so they joined the growing tide of migrant workers, traveling up and down the San Joaquin Valley in a blur of oranges, beans, lettuce, tomatoes, and cauliflower.
But Oreola was writing faithfully every week to Ana Maria, and when they were settled anywhere for more than a few weeks, Ana Maria would write back. When Oreola's back was aching and her hands were blistered and cut up, it was good to lie on her straw pallet in the hen coop where the fruit pickers were lodged, and read about Ana Maria and the Ortiz family and El Cid.
Dear Oreola
,
I miss you more than I can say, and it pains me to hear of your troubles. If I were there with you, I could at least rub a gentle salve onto your hands and back. Mama makes such a salve from aloe. I think you would find it very soothing.
El Cid is a yearling now and he is already smarter and faster than Mr. Pugh's pure-bred quarter horse. Mr. Pugh has again offered to buy him. I fear that he knows of our troubles paying the bank loan since his brother-in-law, Mr. Hammond, is the president of the bank, but Papa promises me that he will not sell El Cid. When we win the barrel racing competition in Austin and I get a job as a horse trainer, we will no longer have to worry about the bank loan or Mr. Pugh. Then I will be able to pay for your nursing school and buy a little house where the two of us shall live together.
With all my love
,
Ana Maria
Reading about Ana Maria's plans helped keep Oreola's spirits up as her family's situation grew increasingly worse.
Dear Ana Maria,
I shore do miss you. When I was pickin peaches yesterday, a drop of the juice fell into my mouth on accident and for some reason the sweet nectar set me to thinkin about the time we spent together. But then the nectar turned bitter in my mouth when they took the price of the peach out of my days wages.
It seems like we coudnt have got ourselves to California at a werse time. Theres so many folks comin from Oklahoma way lookin fer werk out here that the growers dont hardly have to pay a thing to git folks to do the werk. Now their payin us jist a penny a bushel for pickin peaches and with the whole family workin cept for Loula Mae and Bunnie we only made us three dollers last week. Pa ain't talkin about his farm so much or Ma about her new dress. Jeff and the twins gave up on tryin to save for a box of raisins when Loula Mae took sick and we had to spend their raisin money on the docter.
Love forever,
Oreola
Oreola reflected bitterly on the hardships her family had suffered at the hands of the bankers and now the growers. Miss Littleton, the schoolteacher back in Oklahoma, had taught that America was the land of opportunity. As smart as Miss Littleton was, Oreola couldn' t help but think that maybe she was wrong about that. Oreola couldn't see that there was any opportunity for folks like her. It seemed that opportunity was only for those that already had land and money. These hard lessons might have driven all hope out of Oreola, if not for the letters from Ana Maria.
Dear Oreola,
El Cid has grown so swift that when I ride him, the wind feels like fingers running through my hair. I only wish that I were not riding alone. I remember how you used to hold on so tightly to me when we rode Blaze. How I wish you were here now.
Still there is no rain and most of my papa's crops have failed. Mama has started to sell her tamales at the market in town on Saturdays and I have taken a job in town, cleaning the house of Mr. Hammond. This leaves me less time to train El Cid, but without this money I fear that Papa would have to break his promise to me and sell El Cid.
Dear Ana Maria,
Is your hair still long and thick? You woudnt hardly recognize me now as short as mine is. All that hair dint do nothing but get in the way of pickin and such. It just warnt practical. I shore hope that yore hair is still as pretty as I remember it though.
Lately it seems like the growers have decided that they got too many crops. So what do you think they do about it? Give the food to them that needs it? No sirree, that aint what they do. These here growers burn up whole piles of food and I'll tell you it burns
me
up.
Dear Oreola,
I wish you had saved the golden tresses that you found so oppressive. I remember how lovely your hair looked when the setting sun would catch it. At least you can do nothing to change the blue of your eyes. I will take heart in that.
El Cid grows stronger and faster every day. We rode in our first barrel racing competition last week at the local rodeo in Wheeler and our time was the third fastest. Sadly, it grows ever more difficult to find time to spend with El Cid. In addition to cleaning Mr. Hammond's house, I have now begun to manage the finances of his household.
P.S. Sometimes when the prices are very low, the farmers are forced to limit production in order to artificially boost prices.
Dear Ana Maria,
I hope all that time yore spendin doing figures for Mr. Hammond aint too hard on yore eyes. I remember real clear how they looked like deep forest pools. It would be a real shame if anything happened to change that, so you be careful with them eyes.
I'm sorry to say I don't got much happy news to report. Uncle Jo-Jo got hisself landed in jail agin. Seems to me like he sniffs out trouble the way a dog sniffs out a bone, though maybe he jist didn't know that his new girlfriend was the sheriff's wife. Then Grandma Jennie up and died. It don't seem like she ever got that Oklahoma dust out of her lungs. We had to git the coffin at the company store, where they cost twice as much as the ones in town, but them town stores won't sell to the pickers on credit. P.S. I jist cain't see that what the growers need, when there's so few of them, should be more important than what the pickers need, when there's so awful many of us.
Dear Oreola,
I have found a way to spend more time with El Cid. Mr. Hammond's daughter, Katherine, wishes to learn how to ride, so part of my job now is teaching her. She has grown very fond of me and has been very kind, but I still think of you every day and miss you very much.
El Cid and I finished in first place at the county fair in Amarillo. I don't think there is a better barrel racer than El Cid in all of Texas. Papa's crops did not do well again this year, but the whole family has been working very hard to keep up the loan payments. Jorge has started helping Papa in the fields and Juanita now keeps house for Mr. Pugh, but Mama's hands have been hurting her and she has not brought her tamales to market for several weeks.
P.S. Is it not so that an individual must live or die by the work of their own hand? Is that not what makes us free?
Dear Ana Maria,
We've moved to a new camp again. I do so wish that we could settle in one place for more than a month or two, if only so that it would be easier for your letters to find me. I've met a girl named Mary Sykes at this new camp and she and have gotten friendly. It's nice to have someone to spend time with, but sometimes being with her only makes me miss you even more. Besides, once pea picking is over, we'll move on to a new crop, a new camp, and I'll find a new friend.
P.S. How can we be truly free if we are enslaved by the chains of capitalism?
Oreola, in the midst of writing a new letter to Ana Maria, stopped a moment and tried to count up the number of different camps they'd stayed at since their arrival in California. She stopped when she got to a dozen. And in each camp, there had been new people, a new crop, and usually, for Oreola, a new best friend. Would Ana Maria understand? None of these other girls could take her place, but Depression times were lonely times and a girl had to take comfort where she could. Oreola wondered what kind of comfort Katherine Hammond provided for Ana Maria.
As Oreola signed her usual “Love forever, Oreola” and put the letter in the envelope, she thought about how much she had changed since she and Ana Maria were last together. Five years of working in the fields had hardened her and these union folks she had met recently had changed her in other ways. They'd tutored her in reading and writing, but more importantly, they'd given her the words to better express the ideas that had been fermenting inside her since her arrival in California—words like “proletariat” and “bourgeoisie.” How had Ana Maria changed in these last five years, Oreola wondered.
“Here's another letter for you, Orie.” Loula Mae, now seven and old enough to join the rest of the family in the fields, interrupted Oreola's reverie. Oreola seized the envelope curiously. Another letter from Ana Maria! The letter Oreola had just finished was in response to one she'd received only three days ago. Oreola ripped open the envelope.
Dear Oreola,
Many things have happened since I last wrote. Mr. Hammond has bought a house in town for Katherine and she has
asked me to come live there with her. She says that when I am living with her in town, she will tell her father to give me a job as a teller at his bank. I have told her that she is being too
generous, but she says that she is happy to do this for her best friend. I have explained to her
that I still think of you as my best friend, but you have written about so many other friends,
I wonder if you still feel this way about me. Next week is the state fair in Austin. After it is over, I will move into Katherine's house.
We have fallen farther behind than ever in the loan payments and Mama's hands grow worse and worse. The doctor says that if we do not get her the medicine she needs, she may never be able to make tamales again. Mr. Pugh is now offering quite a handsome sum for El Cid and there is no room for El Cid at Katherine's house, so when the fair is over, I will sell him.
P.S. I am saddened by the communistic tone your letters have taken and curious about your greatly improved grammar and spelling. I hope your new friend is treating you
kindly.
Love forever,
Ana Maria

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