Epitaph for a Peach (9 page)

I try to rationalize that my folks enjoy finding a new role on this farm, rediscovering their place here, contributing their skills and expertise. Yet it's not quite that simple. I sense an additional significance, something about being a seasoned team that only comes from years and years of working together. We're veterans at being a family.

The shed will include a collection of the new and the old. Instead of a rubber stamp and ink pad, I plan to use a glue gun to attach my own fruit label to the boxes. I design a simple label on my computer and produce copies on a laser printer.

The fruit will still be cleaned first with an old machine from an earlier generation of home packing, a wonderfully efficient and simple device we call a defuzzer. It does just what it says. Through a series of spinning brushes it gently wipes the fuzz off the peach, along with dust and leaves. I have thought about leaving some of the fuzz on as proof that these peaches are organic, fulfilling the image that “natural” means rough. But once defuzzed, the reds and yellows of Sun Crest appear more like a blush, a rouge for these wonderful-tasting peaches, appealing to the eye, attracting those who believe that appearance is part of good taste.

I know of the defuzzer because I recall watching Dad make one. We were a young family then, struggling financially, and Dad's engineering and design skills were really put to the test, requiring him to copy or invent machines we couldn't afford. The family didn't know if his version worked better or worse than a commercial model, we never got the chance to compare. Instead, his creation became our standard, and as far as we were concerned it was the best. It was “good enough.” Our father had built it and that's all that mattered. I grew up working with machines that often had an imprint of family.

But now I cannot locate a commercially manufactured defuzzer. I believe the machine has become obsolete—older, fuzzier varieties of peaches having been replaced by new varieties that do not require as much defuzzing. A shiny and smooth peach has evolved and become the industry standard, and the packing houses have responded with new wash baths instead of defuzzers.

I recall seeing an old defuzzer someplace, perhaps in a neighbor's shed. For days I keep trying to imagine the shed where I had seen it. Finally I ask Dad what happened to our old one, and he says he sold it when he decided to stop home packing.

I know of that decision because I was the cause of it. We stopped packing our own fruit when all the children left the farm. I was the youngest and the last to leave, becoming an idealistic college student at Berkeley who longed for adventure and an escape from the provincial life of rural California. Dad responded to his changing family by sending his peaches to a commercial packing shed.

He sold the defuzzer to a Japanese American farmer in a neighboring community who has since passed away. His widow believes the defuzzer was then resold to another Japanese farmer, although she can't recall exactly who. I begin visiting the Japanese farmers in the area who once packed their own fruit. We talk of the fruit harvests of the past. Some remember the shipping dock in Fresno and watching me grow up through the years. I too remember the scene: Dad talking with his comrades about work and fruit prices while I shared a Pepsi with other farm kids who also tagged along with their fathers and received an end-of-another-workday reward of soda water.

One of these neighbors still farms but no longer packs his fruit. I phone and inquire about his old packing shed. He says he will be happy to show me the operation. As I drive into his yard I spy a shed full of old equipment that looks as if it has not been moved for twenty years. Spiderwebs and layers and layers of dust date the objects. Everything seems to be standing in the exact location as when the family stopped home packing. My suspicions are validated when the old farmer locates hidden electric cords, plugs in the motors, and flicks obscure switches. His smooth gestures suggest that his actions are still routine, habitual behavior from daily chores during summers of harvests. I hear a rumble of chain drives as a giant twelve-foot-diameter packing turntable begins to shake off a layer of caked dust and dirt and a conveyor belt struggles to break loose from hardened rubber drums. The brushes and vacuum motor of a defuzzer churn with new life.

The whine of the machine sounds familiar. I ask where he got the defuzzer or if he made it. He shows me a machine he did make, standing outside, covered with a weathered and torn tarp. Proudly he says, “That is one of the very first models ever made. I invented it. Your dad came over to see this, you know.”

He explains that the one currently in his shed was bought from another farmer. Used equipment frequently journeys from family to family, often within a community of relatives or friends. As I examine the machine more closely, the switch looks like the same one I once worked with. Even the waste bag is familiar, a yellowed white rice sack with a faded red rose print and black lettering. One of my jobs was to periodically untie the waste bag and dump it in the fields. This bag is attached to an old rain-gutter drain, just like the one on my folks' house. I am positive this machine is the one Dad made until I recall who built my dad's house. The contractor was a Japanese American who built most of the Japanese American houses in this area; he probably used the same rain gutters on all of them, so this attachment could have come from any home within the community.

I buy the conveyor belts, turntable, rollers, and defuzzer from the neighbor, and he smiles at finally reclaiming his shed. Dad inspects everything as I unload the truck. I pause to study the defuzzer with him, asking if it looks familiar. I anticipate he'll look for a subtle mark, a hidden nail left behind as an artist's signature, a distinct welding bead he alone recognizes as his own.

But Dad can't say for sure and moves on to study the other old equipment. “Thirty years is a long time,” he comments. “Besides, it's yours now.”

As I position the defuzzer along with the rest of the home packing line, Dad and I tell stories about picking and packing peaches. Marcy, Nikiko, and even little Korio listen and want to help. Niki asks if she has a job, and I picture her as my floor manager in charge of quality control. She'll chastise Baachan for trying to sneak in marginal fruit, reminding us of a new style of management; in Nikiko's language, “The eater is always right.” Korio quickly turns his attention to the rollers and plays with the spinning wheels, trying to get them all whirling before the first one stops. I know the game well. Playing on the farm remains equally as important as the work. I will introduce Marcy to another aspect of our family farm and she will see another side of me. The lines between home and work blur as I foresee her becoming my head packer. The presence of my family adds another generation to this farm and creates a new family of memories.

Perhaps salvation for my peaches will become a family affair.

Walking a Field

I call them farm walks or walking a field, but they're not what most people would imagine. My daily trudges through the farm begin with a specific task such as tramping through a vineyard to fix a broken wire or spot-checking an orchard for worm damage. As I march down a vine row or move from tree to tree I can't help but monitor the life around me: the new leaves, the fruit size and stage of development, the cover-crop growth and the location of weeds, the relationship between ground moisture, weak soils, and stressed plants.

I'll usually carry a shovel and impulsively start cutting sucker growth from vines and tree trunks or begin a never-ending battle against weeds. My walking pace slows and my focus shifts to a micro level. I examine the humus and mulch layers for spiders and study the life on the undersides of leaves. I notice gray ants are everywhere.

As I wonder why the ants scour the trees and vines, my imagination balloons into worry and fear. The ants seem content to wander in the leaf canopies; they run from me and don't bite. I haven't heard of any peach-eating ant species, at least not while the fruit is still attached to the tree and green and growing. I call Pat, my entomologist friend, and he is equally excited but with a scientist's sense of mission. I just want to know what the hell ants are doing in my trees.

Pat believes these ants are preying on worms and other pests. To test his hypothesis, he superglues a worm larva onto a stem. The glue keeps the worm from scurrying away. A gray ant arrives and tries to pull the worm down the tree into the colony. Unable to budge the worm, the ant calls in reinforcements. A company of five ants frantically pull and pull until they rip the larva in two, part of the creature remaining glued to the twig. The rest is carried off for dinner, a truly portable feast.

Pat's story intrigues me. We conclude that the ants are friendly and I should quell my nightmares of killer insect armies ravishing my fields. Now, when I walk, I see the ants as my conservation partners, along with the trees and spiders. I also chuckle, thinking about Pat's creative use of superglue.

Family Heirs

Not that there aren't horror stories on the farm. They involve nature, though not an ant invasion or a killing frost in spring. Instead, these farm tragedies ensue from a tangle of human nature and inheritance.

I hear of a kind old farmer who leaves his farm to his children, and a Japanese American King Lear drama unfolds. Only one son wants to farm, and he already lives on and works the land while taking care of the folks. But the land is legally in all four of the children's names and the other three want out.

“Sell the farm,” they say.

The son who wants to farm cannot afford to buy out the others. The story begins with the end, the inheritance of a farm generating disagreement and division within a family. The land eventually loses its family title.

Tradition from Japan would have given the land to the eldest son, who is obligated to stay and care for his aging parents. For my parents' generation, the Nisei, such traditions were carried out more often than not. Many number-one sons did forsake a career. Some speak with regret about lost dreams of electronics or business and the fact they were never given a choice. They were born expected to stay on the farm.

But for my generation, the Sansei, America's education system has worked all too well. With a promise of mobility and opportunity, most of us left the farm for college and advanced education and now work away from the land. The family farm remained so in name only. At some point, those of us who stayed behind face the issue of land ownership and our futures. Most of the younger farmers delay confrontation with siblings and allow fate to dictate inheritance.

Not I. I ask too many questions. I wonder if I should buy the land from my dad and protect my long-term interests. Should we form a partnership or corporation? How do my brother and sister fit in the picture? Then I hear another King Lear story about a family breaking up over the distribution of a farm estate (I side with the one who stays on the farm and imagine an evil seed growing within the rest of the family). I then devise a plan to lock in a fair market price for the land, with an equitable payment schedule to the family. Dad asks why he can't just give it to me all at one time. I try to explain the tax consequences and bring up the issue of potential inequity for my brother and sister.

He says, “But they're not farming.”

 

I
N ORDER TO
buy the farm, I don an estate planner's hat. But I fear the moment I begin thinking of my vines and orchards as commodities with estate tax ramifications. I know that if I put on a businessman's hat, it won't take long to realize that there are a hell of a lot better ways to make money than working with nature to produce a product with fluctuating prices and no job security!

So I farm with my farmer's hat and plan with an estate planner's hat. I work the books with a businessman's hat and occasionally play lawyer with a hat to protect myself from bad people. I have to admit it can be fun wearing hats for careers I'll never have.

When I decided to return to the farm from college, my parents warned me, “You'll be cash poor but land rich.”

At the time, I didn't know what they meant. It sounded like a student's life, substituting land for knowledge. Now, a decade later, I've gradually paid off more and more of the farm and have devised a long-term estate plan with my parents. My parents' wills reflect their initial warning about being “land rich.” I get the remaining farmland and my sister and brother get the cash.

Land Claims

Our family didn't own land until after World War II. Few Japanese Americans did. In America it was a bad time to be Japanese. First, the Issei could not buy land (the Alien Land Law of 1913 had singled out all “Orientals” and barred them from owning land). But their children, the Nisei, born in America and thus citizens, could. However, when the Great Depression descended, all families struggled and dreams of land ownership were dashed.

Dad tells the family story: “Just when we were getting back on our feet, all us brothers old enough to work and save a little, the damned war started.”

Bad timing and the wrong face. Japanese Americans looked like the enemy who bombed Pearl Harbor. As wartime hysteria grew, we were singled out as a threat to national security. Suddenly Japanese American farmers were perceived as taking over certain agricultural industries. It was imagined that Japanese American fishing communities were potential ports of entry for the enemy. Buddhist churches and Japanese language schools were thought to be strongholds for spies and fifth column activities. Dreams of buying a family farm died.

Over 120,000 Americans of Japanese ancestry, the majority of whom were American citizens by birth, were uprooted and forced to live in isolated camps scattered across the western states in desolate locations. They were imprisoned for four to five years, living behind barbed wire, yet none were ever convicted of sabotage or of aiding the enemy. Many helped in the Allied war effort, bought war bonds, or worked making Allied camouflage, and thousands volunteered to fight the Axis enemy, some of whom formed the 442nd infantry battalion, which became the most highly decorated unit in U.S. military history. My grandparents lost their eldest son, George, in the war. I have a snapshot of his funeral and often stare at the silent and still faces, trying to make sense of the expressions frozen in the snapshot. Baachan lifts a photo of her dead son dressed in his military uniform. Jiichan's hands are loosely holding the tightly folded American flag. The aunts and uncles gather to the side; they look uncomfortable, cramped next to one another, unsure about their hands. Dad remains in the back, his face blurred in the shadows. While Uncle George fought in Europe and died for freedom, his family lived behind barbed wire with tens of thousands of others in the desert of Arizona.

When World War II entered the final days, the military began closing the relocation camps and issuing tickets to return home. My grandparents were confused. Three sons were either dead or still in the military. Another son and a daughter, hungry to begin their own lives, had left the relocation camps months earlier when the government opened zones for Japanese American travel. Only my one aunt, a bubbly young teenager, was still with my grandparents. But Jiichan had grown weak and was an aging farmworker. The average age of the Issei when they were evacuated was between fifty and sixty. Baachan remained bewildered. She spoke no English. The family was broke. Now the government demanded they again relocate by “going home.”

My grandparents were one of the last families to leave camp. They had no farm, they had no home. Given little choice, they asked for a ticket back to Selma, California, their last address. Others more fortunate, especially those with property, had already returned to their homes but often discovered vandalism and possessions missing. Some found their farmhouses had mysteriously burned in their absence.

One Nisei woman tells of a missing tea set. Her mother was outspoken for an Issei and insisted on inquiring about the lost set, dragging the Nisei daughter along to act as translator. Their Caucasian neighbor shook her head and had no idea concerning the disappearance. Instead she invited the two in for refreshments. When they had tea, the Japanese American mother and daughter discovered their missing property.

“Did your mother say anything?” I ask.

“No,” says the Nisei daughter, “I couldn't believe it, either. During the whole visit, Mom just sat there, tight-lipped, and occasionally sipped some of her tea.”

A few lucky Japanese American farmers had good neighbors, good people who managed farms for their interned friends. There's little documentation of their acts; usually it was an agreement sealed with a handshake between neighbors. These farmers were called “Jap lovers.”

A good neighbor named Kamm Oliver explains. “We didn't have a lease or anything written. I just sent the Hiyamas a check at the end of the year. There was some back talk for a while…but what the heck, it was the decent thing to do. I was raised to treat others as I'd like to be treated…our families were good friends. Yeah, I tried to farm their place just like it was mine.”

A family friend wrote to Jiichan and Baachan before they returned to Selma and said they could stay at their empty grocery store for a few months until the store could be reopened. So the family returned, veterans from a different war, and faced a new battle in the fields of California.

I imagine that returning was like emigrating once again, arriving in a land as a foreigner with nothing. However, it was a lifetime later, and among their possessions was a life history of shattered dreams.

Dad became head of the household, laboring in the fields and leasing some land. Then, tired of working for someone else, he risked all his savings and purchased a farm.

Baachan objected. “We can't afford a farm. Can't take the gamble. Can't take risk in America.”

But Dad figured, What the hell, what have I got to lose? If we don't make it, we're just back where we started.

 

A
S
I
DREAM
and plan to make the farm my own, I have inherited this family history as my legacy, part of the baggage that comes with my land. After hearing these stories, I can't help but be aware of them each year and each season. They have become part of the farm landscape.

Wild Walks

With harvest a few weeks away, my farm walks acquire a wild pace. Changes unfold daily: the peaches swell, fresh green shoots continually reach for sunlight, the weeds race to flower. If I stop to check a tree or a branch, throngs of insects and spiders greet me. I make up names for them: “the little jumpy spider with an attitude problem,” “the hard-shelled black beetle from a Nintendo game,” “the flying critters that move so fast it's hard to even tag them with a nickname.”

Even the dirt seems to change daily. Moisture in the soil is quickly sucked out by the tree roots and by our 100-degree summer days and 70-degree nights. The air becomes parched and so dry that on many mornings dew does not visit. I try to monitor the soil dehydration by shades of color, from the lush dark chocolate brown of mud to the leathery tan of drying topsoil and the bleached silt that cracks in our native desert heat.

But my eyes deceive me, for I need to know what's going on below the surface, where the roots lie. I consider buying an expensive tensiometer, a shiny metal stake I can jam into the earth that reads moisture levels. Then a neighbor tells me how much soils differ from one end of the farm to the other. Even around a tree, the earth varies and distorts moisture readings, compounded by human error when someone digs a few inches deeper or shallower with each sample.

As an experiment, I poke a skinny metal pipe next to one tree and hit a root about eighteen inches down. In another spot my probe doesn't penetrate beyond two feet and gets stuck, and I have to use a shovel to dig it out. My soil must be extremely compacted but the tree doesn't seem to mind, it stands flush with growth and bears a heavy crop. So I resort to using the old farmer method of moisture testing. I dig and grab a handful of dirt and squeeze it. If the earth sticks together without crumbling there's probably enough dampness without stressing the tree or vine. If it doesn't hold together, I might start to think about watering soon.

An uneasiness accompanies my preharvest walks. Thoughts of the potential price of peaches start to disturb my vision of natural farming. The two coalesce as uneasy bedfellows, a blend of bottom-line thinking driven by economics jumbled with believing in one's work as something beyond monetary value. I can rationalize lousy prices as part of a yeoman's lifestyle, but I also know good prices make work a whole lot more fun. The rollercoaster ride toward harvest begins.