Epitaph for a Peach (7 page)

Most of my irrigation lines run between three and five feet below the surface and require a rather large hole. The holes also seem deeper because, as I remove earth, a pile of dirt grows around me, proportionate with the hole. A four-by-four-foot hole five feet deep contains a huge amount of dirt. The mounds make me think of hunkering down for trench warfare.

Fixing a leak becomes a war of contradictory forces. Cracks often form at the weakest point where the pressure is the greatest—in other words, where the line is the deepest. Also consider the fact that wet earth weighs more than dry. The deeper I dig, burrowing closer to the leak, the more mud I excavate. Finally, the concrete pipe needs to be dry in order for a cement patch to bond and seal, but these lines are filled with water. So I have to pump all the water out before patching.

I use an old gas-powered pump, the motor permanently borrowed from a discarded lawn mower. Starting the motor is a challenge. Swearing rarely helps, though pleading seems to have an effect as I delicately adjust the balance between the choke and the fuel mixture and the proper tug on the cord. After the hundredth pull, and quick reflexes to tap the choke partially inward, I triumph: a puff of exhaust is released, a sputtering begins, and
voilà!
the engine finally starts.

But that's just the first test. I still need to prime the pump. The source of the water sits five to six feet below ground level. Water has to be drawn upward and pushed out with a strong suction. After I punch a hole in the pipe large enough to slip in a hose, I try to siphon water in and air out by rapidly lifting and dropping the hose, shaking out air pockets and hoping water will snake in. An hour later, feet numb from standing in mud, I manage to coax out enough air and a prime is established; water gushes out and into my fields. Since the leak often occurs at the lowest portion of the pipe, water flows into the section from everywhere on the farm. It may require hours to drain the line. I keep vigil so that I don't lose my prime and the pump doesn't run out of gas.

Once a neighbor hired an irrigation company to come out and fix some leaks. They worked hard and did the job well, but for six hours they sat, waiting for the pump to drain the line. They ate lunch, took a nap, read part of a newspaper, walked around on the farm, and drove into town for coffee. Just when they left for town their pump ran out of gas. As soon as they returned they refilled the small tank and resumed their waiting. Those six hours just about killed my neighbor. He'd come by and check on their progress and calculate the cost of their water watch and instantly become a prime candidate for a heart attack. Farmers work at a different pace. They don't sit around and wait.

Cement is the farmer's clay. With a proper blend of cement, sand, and water, rolled into a pliable ball and then gently molded along the seam, masterpieces are created inside cracked pipelines. A smooth patch is a work of art, the laborer a craftsman. Like the artist who works not for an audience but for the sake of art, we seal our work within the pipe.

I feel more like an apprentice, since most of my time is spent setting up in order to patch the leak. I trench and excavate a huge hole, locate the leak and punch an access slot, then sit and monitor the draining water. Reaching into the pipe preparing the surface for the wet cement, I'll scrape my arms and rub my knuckles raw. My legs will ache from the preparation work, cramped quarters, and odd angles as I straddle the line.

The consistency of my cement and sand mixture is never the same and I lack the confidence to trust a thin, gentle coat along a seam. My patches become gobs of cement, a bucket of concrete slapped together in wads resembling a protruding blood vessel. The hole resembles a battleground, with cement dripping from the pipe and splattered along the earthen walls, not to mention some of my own blood from scrapes and cuts. I am positive I will acquire trench foot from the hours of standing in water. I do not yet consider myself an artist.

But like a true apprentice, my work improves with each job and progress is duly noted as the next irrigation round begins. I check the spots I've worked and discover that the earth remains dry.

I don't know of many farmers who think of themselves as cement artists, and few artists consider blue-collar hand laborers their peers. But some farmers and artists share a common understanding that their work is often incomplete, their craft still developing. As the summer unfolds and my strategies to save my peaches take shape, I realize that few problems are ever solved. A farmer fixes leaks in pipelines, an artist progresses to the next challenge, and I know that come the time for a future irrigation, I'll find more leaks.

Babies and Mildew

I have a confession. I plan to use a chemical on some of my grapes to kill mildew (although I'll keep a small block unsprayed and organic). I have struggled with the dilemma for days. This contradicts my belief in natural farming practices, although the chemical won't harm humans. But I've thought it out and I think it's worth it to spray to lessen my tedious workload so I can spend more time with my family.

Mildew hides all spring and summer. The spores overwinter in my field, grow in the cool days of spring, and thrive in the microclimates of lush grape-leaf canopies. You can't see them reproducing and spreading. Untreated, mildew coats young grape berries with spores that will quickly infect and strangle tissue. With the summer heat, the tiny berries swell but their skin has grown brittle. The flesh cracks and juices ooze out and coat the entire bunch. They will drip onto neighboring bunches and rot will invade. Then insects arrive, feeding and breeding on the rotting meat.

Because this enemy is invisible during the early stages of growth, I can't walk my fields to check for damage, I don't see chewing creatures munching on my crop, and I can't check to see if my control methods are working. So I must treat preventively, usually with a series of dustings of sulfur, a few pounds an acre every seven days for two to three months. Should a spring shower wash the fields, I must reenter as soon as the fields dry and recoat the bunches with more sulfur, which sucks the moisture out, drying any environment conducive to mildew.

Farmers have used sulfur for generations; it has in fact been effective for centuries. Some people are allergic to it—my eyes burn when I'm dusting, and if the wind gusts in the wrong direction, my skin will smell of sulfur for days. The treatment program remains simple and it works. Sulfur doesn't kill per se. Instead, it wreaks havoc on mildew's habitat, destroying the damp interiors of grape bunches and dense leaf clusters. For that reason, mildew strains haven't built up resistance, like other pests, and sulfur doesn't appear to be very toxic to other life. But you have to keep on schedule, every week without fail, without interruption. That can leave little time for family.

I talk with a pest control adviser, a bug man who helps monitor fields and gives farmers recommendations on controlling problems.

“Is something wrong with your sulfur program?” he asks.

“No, nothing's wrong.” I know I sound defensive. “But I'm looking for an alternative to sulfuring all the time.”

My adviser then develops a three-year plan with lots of scheduled purchases and sales commissions. When I try to explain why I am looking for an alternative in the first place, he can't understand my paradox. “Don't think so much,” he cautions.

Ironically his advice helps. My decision is narrowed when Nikiko asks, “Daddy, why do you always smell like sulfur?”

I decide to use a systemic fungicide on my grapes, which, according to the advertising, “provides weeks of residual control.” I will only have to spray once a month. The poison will attack my mildew, destroy it, and keep the grapes clean for weeks. I will enjoy the free evenings to spend with my family, and when we hug they'll smell my flesh.

But I hope no one drops by and sees the bags of fungicides. I imagine a skeptical neighbor stopping in, grinning as I dump the toxic powder into my sprayer, nodding his head in an I-told-you-so fashion. Later he may call me a hypocrite or remark that I've regained my senses. I guiltily imagine a stranger judging my work, ignoring my green cover crops with their ladybugs and lacewings, never acknowledging that I've changed my farming practices to safer, less destructive pest controls. All the stranger will see and remember is my last decision: I'm the farmer who uses a poison on his grapes.

I am reminded that in some valley wells they have found traces of a chemical called DBCP (dibromochloropropane) in ground water aquifers. DBCP was linked to sterility in males and is now banned in the United States. My dad used some DBCP years ago. It was supposed to kill nematodes, microscopic pests that chewed up roots. No one knew it would contaminate drinking water. Neighboring city folks are angry with farmers for damaging their water supply. “How could you farmers poison the water?” they ask.

My dad didn't choose to pollute the water table. He did nothing illegal. He simply trusted the chemical company and the governmental regulatory agencies. He made a decision based on a recommendation from a pest control consultant, advice that turned out to be bad. Dad acknowledges his mistake and asks, “What do you want me to do now?”

Yet I still hear angry people who blame the farmers. “Those farmers used the poison, didn't they? It was their choice, wasn't it?” Newspapers write headlines:
FARMERS CONTAMINATE THE ENVIRONMENT
. Farmers are portrayed as polluters. People remember your last decision as your only decision. My dad grows embittered. Suddenly I feel even more torn about my decision to spray.

Family Dinner Tables

I work a family farm. My parents, wife, and children spend time in the fields. They help with chores and give advice and suggestions. Their presence inspires and motivates. My extended family also influences the way I farm, either through conversations, comments, and occasional criticism or through my memories of growing up with uncles, aunts, and cousins on the farm. They are part of the historical landscape that defines my family farm. Even Marcy's family plays a role.

Marcy's extended family has been farming for generations in the rich Wisconsin dairy land region. I've discovered an odd affinity with her family and their farm communities. They're German Catholic and Lutherans instead of Japanese American Christians and Buddhists. They have dairies and cows and grow corn, while we in California have peaches and grapes and make raisins. But we both share a strong sense of family, something that is keenly displayed at the dinner table.

Marcy's Grandma Rose reminds me of my
baachan.
Both surviving farm matriarchs have outlived their spouses by decades, continue to value hard work, and remain deeply spiritual and physically strong. They consider family meals a centerpiece to farm life, though their approaches differ greatly.

Grandma Rose comes to life in the planning and serving of family dinners. She considers homegrown produce superior to anything store-bought. A neighbor's gift of garden peas is welcomed at meals, and bartered goods—beans for a granddaughter's baby sitting services—achieve special homegrown status. She values knowing where foods come from and who is responsible for them; she honors them by attaching names to dishes. Around the dinner table I can hear, “Please pass Glady's squash” or “Little John's first deer venison sausage.” Even my California raisins have a place at the table; after Marcy and I were married, she called them “Mas's raisins.”

Food often becomes the focus of mealtime conversations. Grandma Rose's history unfolds as we talk of apple orchards, summer fruit canning, and summer sausage. She educates me about root cellars that housed a winter's menu of sausages hanging from racks to piles of produce preserved for months by Wisconsin's hard, deep snows. Even bratwurst contains a flavor of history. When I eat a meal of “brats and kraut,” I not only learn who grew the cabbage and made the sauerkraut but also am apprised of the evolution of the “brat”—where the pig was raised, who butchered the animal (and if an agreement was made for the butcher to keep a full ham), and who stuffed the links with their secret blend of spices. Fortunately she refrains from announcing the name of the creature that gave its life for our meal. Instead the family tries to decipher the secret of the spice blend.

(In order to continue the bratwurst tradition, Marcy once had an office party to celebrate a California-style Oktoberfest. She made a door sign inviting everyone to our farm that read
BYOBB: BRING YOUR OWN BEER AND BRATS
. Some of our guests apparently didn't get it. One of them couldn't figure out why she was the only one who brought kids to the party!)

I can understand why Grandma Rose's family consumed lots of meat and potatoes. Fresh produce was a luxury, arriving only in summer. Yet traditions take time to change, and despite the fact that fresh produce is now available year round, she still plans meals featuring lots of meat and only an occasional stewed fruit or overcooked vegetable. Once during a visit, I devoured a lettuce leaf garnish, longing for something fresh. I realized that a regional cuisine is firmly entrenched in these farm communities.

Family traditions accompany meals. In Wisconsin, going to Grandma's house for Sunday dinner means a visit to the farm. The sons and daughters are obligated to return home, and the adult kids still slip to their designated spots around the family dinner table. Grandma Rose insists that the family wait until everyone has arrived before starting dinner. Grandchildren complain and adults comment about the perpetually late brother, but the family will wait and then begin the meal with a prayer.

For Grandma Rose, grace before a meal represents an affirmation of family strength. I can hear her commanding voice, with family gathered before her: “Blessed art thou…” She speaks loudly as if, by example, she will encourage everyone to join in. The family follows Grandma Rose's lead; then halfway through her voice grows soft. I wonder if she's checking to make sure everyone is participating in their daily rite of gratitude to the Lord.

Occasionally I sneak a peek and can see her gazing at the family with her glassy eyes. At first it appears she's conducting a head count, but her eyes move too slowly as she pans the bowed heads and faces of her family. During our last visit with her I thought I saw her old, tired eyes begin to water and tear with the delivery of grace.

 

I
WOULD LIKE
to say that Baachan also speaks to us through her cooking, but that is not true. The Masumoto clan comes from peasant stock, we are not samurai. We know more about growing, harvesting, and carrying buckets of produce than we know about preparing fine meals.

The legacy of Baachan's cooking remains. We serve rice at most meals. She often made
okazu,
her term for anything stir fried and served with white rice, or
gohan.
She would add meat or fish if it was available. In her later years, “washing the rice” was her contribution to meals. She would rinse and drain uncooked rice (originally to remove dirt and talc) and set it aside to soak for hours before cooking.

Taking responsibility for the rice also served as Baachan's method of assembling the family. I remember that when I was a teenager, she'd survey every family member to ask who would be at dinner. Her excuse was that she needed to determine how much rice to wash; I believe it was really her strategy for gathering the family for a meal.

Sometimes she'd walk out into the fields and flail her arms, waving to get my attention. When I'd see her, panic would run through my thoughts. “What happened? Was there an accident at home?”

But she would simply ask,
“Gohan?”

I would nod and commit to stay at home for family dinner. She would trot home, her mission completed: a teenage grandson taken care of for another evening.

I most vividly remember Baachan carrying buckets of vegetables or fruit from the fields into the kitchen for meal preparation. She'd balance two buckets, one in each hand, both filled so full that the top layers had to be individually stacked in a pyramid design, each fruit strategically placed to hold the one above it. As she trudged along the dirt path, I could see her dust shadow trailing behind her. She would drag her feet slightly in order to glide across the uneven terrain. The buckets pulled her arms, whose blood vessels protruded from the weight; the wire handle must have felt like a knife cutting into her palms. I could see her knuckles turn white. Yet she journeyed on, intent on delivering her contribution.

During meals, Baachan would remain quiet, sitting in a corner rather than at the head of the table. As soon as we were done, she'd pounce on the dirty dishes and start putting away leftovers. Wasting food was not tolerated. She didn't
say
much about a wasted plateful of food, but by piling it on a single tray for our dogs and letting it sit for all to see, she communicated clearly.

Despite being born and raised on opposite sides of the earth, both grandmothers share a common history of poverty that made simply getting food on the table a challenge. They must shake their heads at today's change in attitudes—being wasteful, especially with food, remains a sin for them. Not only is food part of their livelihood, it carries a special significance: a communion with family.

I wonder if my peaches belong to a past generation, those who savor produce and value the taste of natural foods. Sun Crests are not to be consumed like fast food. I agree with my grandmothers when they call my peaches “family food.”

Knowing Your Father's Work

I return to my daily field walks and watch the peaches and grapes grow fat. Perhaps only a farmer would find it exciting to begin talking to himself in conversations filled with farmer jargon. “The fruit needs to put on size.” “They're just beginnin' to break color.” “I can see the first blush with just a hint of jet green.”

The cover crops and weeds mingle in the fields. In some places the clover dominates and grows like a green carpet, in others the weeds have taken over and choke the earth with their thick stalks. I wonder how much they compete for water, nutrients, and root space.

Sometimes the family takes an evening walk or bike ride with me, but I make a poor companion unless the topic centers on the farm, on peaches or water or weather. I can't help but stop and pull a weed as we walk, making a mental note about a broken vineyard wire or noticing a sagging tree limb I will need to prop. Sometimes I jam a stick in the dirt along our path as a reminder, flagging the spot for work tomorrow.

Even if I try to concentrate on a conversation about Marcy's work or Nikiko's school or two-year-old Korio's entry into a new childhood phase, my metaphors revolve around the farm. I try to compare Marcy's work with farming, but vines and trees do not behave like her staff or hospital management team members, although sometimes my pest control strategies would seem more appropriate for her challenges. Niki's daily school lessons are more like mine. We both share a hunger for discovery and new knowledge, but also wish to have our daily seminars remain fun. As for Kori, he easily behaves like my young trees or vines, which need freedom to grow and explore under gentle guidance and training. As I walk the farm, I am unable to separate my work from my family.

I grew up knowing my father's work. He left in the early morning for places I often visited. Rarely did he return late, in darkness or at night, or weary with problems I could not imagine. I saw him at work daily and sometimes worked with him. As a young child I knew some of the crises he faced. I cringed at the sight of worms attacking ripe peaches. I too could feel the searing heat of the summer sun as it blistered exposed fruit. I would shiver with a late spring frost and watch the delicate fresh vine shoots turn brown and then black within hours from the freeze.

My children will know the work of their father too. But I show more emotions than my father did. My daughter has seen me yell at the approaching clouds of a September rain on my raisins and curse about lousy fruit prices when no one wants my peaches. My children know the thrill of driving a tractor: the roar of the diesel engine and the bouncing ride down dirt avenues with a tepid breeze stroking our faces. They are learning the skills of howling at a full moon in summer and sticking their heads out a pickup window, dodging gnats and bugs before they lodge in their mouths and throats. Our family is bound to the land. Our farm survives as both a home and a workplace.

When I was in college, I often enjoyed asking friends about their parents' work. I was interested in why people chose their professions and what their work meant to them. I thought my questions would become a safe method to get to know someone. But most of my friends never ventured beyond one-line answers: “My dad is an engineer” or “He works for a bank” or “He handles sheet metal for an air-conditioning company.”

I'd respond, “What kind of engineer?” or “Why'd he choose banking?” or “How's the sheet-metal business?” Such questions alienated lots of friends. Family seemed to be a painful subject.

After I told them my dad was a farmer, rarely did they ask a second question. I stopped interpreting their initial response, “Oh, really?” as one of positive surprise. I realized the rise in their voice meant they had nothing else to say and had no intention of finding out more.

Following college and my return home, I felt uncomfortable telling others, “I farm.” I translated blank looks as disdain mixed with condescension. I could see images flash through their minds of Old MacDonald and hayseeds who spend weekends watching corn grow. As my peers were securing their corporate jobs and advancing as professionals in law or medicine, I spent long lunch hours talking with my dad, getting to know fifty acres of vines and twenty acres of peach trees. I didn't know it at the time, but I was laying the groundwork to save the Sun Crest peaches.

It required hours of listening before I noticed that Dad's stories about his father, my
jiichan,
seemed to revolve around the pronoun “they” much more than “he.” “They” meant Jiichan and Baachan or the entire family of four sons and two daughters. I had to adjust my thinking. My image of work was singular in nature, one man in one job, not of a family and their combined effort to make a living. I learned the significance of work that is inseparable from home, when work is also the place you live and play and sleep.

Dad tells the story of hot summer nights and Jiichan's wooden platform. Fresno's 100-degree days would beat down on the place where they lived, a shack with a tin roof that required hours to cool after sunset. They didn't have a cooler or fan—out in the country there was no electricity—but it didn't matter.

Jiichan made a low wooden platform from old barn wood. It rose about two feet off the ground with a top area big enough for all six kids. In the evenings, Jiichan led everyone outside and the whole family would lie on the platform, side by side, almost touching.

After a long day in the fields where they worked together as a family, and following a simple dinner and refreshing
ofuro,
a Japanese bath, the family gathered and began an evening ritual of talking, resting, and gazing upward at the night sky. The dirt yard was beneath them, the vineyards beginning a few feet away. If a little breeze came they could hear the grape leaves shifting and rustling, creating an illusion of coolness. It seemed to make everyone feel better.

Every summer the family lay outside into the late evening, until their shack home had cooled and they could go inside to sleep. Sometimes the boys would sleep all night on the platform, quiet and peaceful.