Chapter Eight

 

Vincent’s formative years, as a young adult…

 

 

“Honest work establishes the man.” These were the words Pops used to admonish his grandson the day Vincent began working on the farm. “In honest work we don’t just make a buck, we establish ourselves and build a good reputation,” he continued, “Be a person that is free from debt and deceit.”

Frank looked at his grandson, a strapping young man, and felt pride swell within. He paused, wiped the sweat off his brow, and continued.

“When you earn it, it is truly yours,” he concluded, “yours to use as you please. No one can take it from you. You will always enjoy the fruits of your labor.”

 

The boy, now yearning to become a man, rode on a metal seat that lacked any padding for comfort. The contraption pulled by the old John Deere M was manned by two. Bart sat directly across from him. The beveled edges of the metal plow formed a narrow furrow. When the machine clicked, a rider quickly placed a young strawberry plant in the ground. Water squirted in and the narrow trench was closed. As Vincent reached to the crate for another seedling, it was his partner’s turn to do the planting.

 

He’ll never forget that day when he reported for work and she was there, standing near Pops in the field. She was sixteen then, more mature, enticing. They were eager teenagers.

She came to the field because her father, Hank, desperately needed extra money.  He was ailing at home.  Although his ulcers were slowly improving, he was unable to work and the family’s savings were nearly depleted.

Vincent would walk with her as she returned home at the end of their work day. She shared the stories she heard from her father.  A distinguished Civil War colonel who retired nearby to a mountain resort with a mansion was said to be a confidant of her great-great-grandfather.  In another tall tale her ancestor was a spy for the Union, penetrating Confederate territories and eavesdropping on officers of the southern government.  And there was the rumor of Civil War gold.

One June day she asked Vincent if he believed in angels. Enthralled by her presence, consumed by her glory, he could only say yes.  She reached for his hand and held it gently. They came upon a large mossy boulder poised under a giant oak. “Let’s take a break,” she suggested, “We can rest here, just for a minute. I’ve got to get home to make my Daddy his dinner.”

Vincent nodded with understanding.

They sat there not speaking a word, but gazing into the sky, and then imagined animal figures in the great blue beyond. She pointed out a kitten, a unicorn, and then she found her angel.

“Vincent?” she inquired softly and squeezed his hand. As he turned toward her their eyes locked into a gaze that peered deep, even unto their pleating hearts. She leaned toward him and closed her eyes. Still wondering, he felt her lips touch his, and then closed his eyes, letting his mind swirl unto a mystical place previously unknown to him.

Vincent felt the kiss release and opened his eyes to see hers twinkling with delight. It was their first kiss, innocent and pure, sweet sixteen!

They looked back to the sky expecting to see Cupid there. A large bird was soaring on the wind, tilted and flew overhead, momentarily casting a shadow upon them.

 

Vincent had once encountered the crow while delivering Granny’s goods.  The Mansfields’ reception was contrary to the appropriate and expected response of generosity from a friendly neighbor, to say the least, and Frank instructed his grandson to stay away from their property. Emma objected to the exclusion but submitted to the directive of her husband’s unrelenting demand for the boy’s safety.

 

Barton walked the distance to the farm where he requested work from Frank. Other than the rumors, little was known about his folks who kept to themselves. The less than anxious applicant refused to answer questions. It was only Pops who was willing to give him a chance, and so Barton came to work reluctantly, with a hard heart.

“Why would you hire him?” Vincent asked one afternoon after Barton disappeared from their sight. He had already left for home.

“The boy has his problems, no doubt” Frank reasoned as he stroked his chin, deep in thought.  “But many of them were not of his own doing,” he declared.

Vincent returned a confused look.

“He doesn’t have to own what his father does,” Pops continued. “He needs to find a way to escape from his heritage.  He’s still young.  Let’s give him a chance.  Maybe he will decide to be a better person.”

But Vincent wasn’t convinced. “I don’t think we can trust him,” he objected. “There must be someone else you can hire,” he paused as he felt he may have overstepped his place as the grandson, “isn’t there?”

Pops returned a stern look and a long sigh.

“I really don’t trust him,” Vincent reiterated. “He acts one way when you’re watching, but what do you suppose he is saying and doing when our backs are turned?”

Pops pushed his hat back and scratched at his hair line, deep in thought. “I wouldn’t say that he is two-faced, at least not yet. A person becomes two-faced when they begin lying to keep a secret,” he noted.

“Perhaps one of the hardest things in life is learning to live truthfully, knowing when to disclose more of what is held in confidence, but never pretending to be someone or something that we aren’t.”

“But, but…” Vincent objected but then began to perceive the greater truth of his grandfather’s spoken words. It silenced him.

 “We all have our crosses to bear,” Frank elaborated. “In truth we find sympathy and understanding, but in lying for a secret we will only know deception until it increases and consumes us.”

“How do you mean it?” Vincent asked.

“The lie changes our focus. Our lives are no longer an open book, but have the cover of deceit. Maintaining our other self, the self that is established in such deception, becomes our purpose.  Don’t let a secret tangle you in a web of lies,” the elder, wiser man admonished. “We lose some of our humanity, our capacity to love, when we continually hide behind secrets.”

 

The next day, Thursday, was again market day.  For Vincent it was a special occasion when he was chosen to accompany Pops into the city where they were greeted with enthusiasm and heard stories from his customers.  If someone was feeling better, Pops always gave credit to God, even if the person was a non-believer. He would remind them of the nourishment of his berries, a gift of the Creator. It was his privilege to be the taskmaster and provider.

Even after all the produce on their folding table was sold, others who heard recommendations would come and request the fruit of his fields, the labor of his hands. Spotting a carrier with eight quart baskets full of berries, and a pasteboard box containing several small jars of jam still on the truck bed, someone pointed and demanded that he sell them. “What about them?” the man demanded. “I’ll buy them.”

“They’re not for selling,” Frank explained. “They’re for giving, and I’m sorry, but they’re already spoken for.”

Vincent’s grandparents knew of others who continued to suffer and prayed diligently for their blessing to be received.  It was a time when people really cared for each other. Granny Em possessed little but generously shared what she did have: strawberry jam and fresh strawberry pie when it was in season.  

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It was a hot June day in the beginning of the month, the third year he worked at the strawberry farm.  Vincent walked toward the packing shed with a carrier of berries, eight full quarts. He saw Bart talking to Julianne. She was frowning and indicating “no” as she turned her head from side to side, although Vincent could not hear their words. Bart reached for her hand. As she withdrew he grabbed her wrist. She tugged against his grip, obviously wanting to get away.

A few strawberries fell to the ground as Vincent quickened his pace, almost running. “Hey Bart,” he yelled. The couple continued to argue and pull at each other. “Bart, leave her alone!” Vincent demanded. Just before reaching them, she broke loose and ran toward Em. Bart snarled as Vince came closer. He shoved him backwards, causing him to fall. The carrier dropped into a row of plants, the baskets nearly emptied as the berries scattered on the ground.  He looked like a monster standing above Vince, silhouetted by the sun that was positioned behind his back. His shadow, appearing as that of a giant, reached far into the field.

“You little weasel,” he snarled. “Can’t you see it? She likes me. She’s my girl,” Bart growled.

“No!” Vince managed as he raised himself with his arms braced behind his back and looked for his feet. “She doesn’t want you!” he wailed. “I saw her trying to get away from you!”

Bart leaned over his rival and pointed at his face. “She’s mine. Stay away!” and he paused, “or else,” he threatened.

 

Twenty cents per quart – it was the wage of the strawberry picker, a tedious, back-breaking job. The picker entered the field at 8 AM, got a thirty minute lunch break promptly at 12 noon, and continued to work until at least 4 PM. The best pickers could fill more than 100 quart size baskets each work day.  They were constantly on their feet, bending at the waist, and pinching off berries with both hands, reaching for the carrier to gently place them in the baskets only when both cupped hands were full. The berries were held gently, so as not to bruise them. The picker, a young man or woman, nudged the carrier forward as it sat on the straw covered aisle, about eighteen inches wide, between the rows of strawberry plants. They often worked in the full sun all day long. They carried no snacks or drinking water into the field. They were allowed to refresh themselves from the community water bucket when a full carrier was taken to the packing shed. A couple tin cups were attached to the half-barrel with twine. The need for hydration served as additional motivation to fill their baskets quickly.

Em received the carriers and on a sheet of paper kept a tally for each picker. She quickly surveyed the baskets and offered advice such as, “pinch off the stem and leave only one-quarter of an inch,” or, “the berries have to be fully ripe: fully red without any blemishes, but not rotten or partially eaten by a slug.”

Three dollars – it was the hourly rate for the packers and the straw boss. After updating the picker’s record Emma pushed the carrier on the narrow counter top toward a packer. The packer’s job was to quickly rearrange the top of each basket so that it was most appealing to the buyer. They used another container of berries from which they selected large ones to replace any that were not up to their standard. They were constantly tossing the rejects behind them. The luscious berries quickly formed a mound that extended two inches above the basket’s rim.

Frank busied himself with inspecting the final product, supervising the packers, loading the flatbed truck, supplying additional baskets and carriers for the pickers, and consulting with the straw boss. Of course he had to tend to any other immediate demand the farming business interrupted him with.

The straw boss was an older teenager, often able to drive if he was needed to run an unexpected errand, but his job was primarily to supervise the pickers in the field. He carried a long stick and used it to push back the leaves so that he could determine if the picker was collecting all the ripe berries. He was vigilant against anyone being idle, eating berries off the vine, or throwing them. It was the first and oldest trick to place stones in the bottom of the basket and the boss was always watching. He moved constantly, sometimes hopping over the rows, to sneak up on a picker he suspected of an offense.  Filling baskets with stones, excessive eating and loitering was reported to Frank and that picker was usually dismissed immediately upon approaching the packing shed with a carrier.

The carrier was handmade by Frank in his workshop during the off season. He disassembled old crates for the material needed. The ends of the carrier were shaped from thicker wood and formed a rectangle at the base with a triangle on top. Near the very top was a hole that contained the dowel, the handle that connected the two ends.  Vertical strips of narrow wood were attached to the front and rear edges of the ends, spanning a distance that was just the right length for four quart baskets to be comfortably placed in a row. There were two rows in the carrier, separated by another narrow strip of wood that went down the center. And then Frank added its bottom, long slats of crate wood trimmed and nicely fitted on the bottom of the rectangular ends and spanning the length of the carrier. Everything was attached with small flat head nails, carefully pounded in by a hammer so as not to split any of the wood. Frank soon learned that it was necessary to drill a pilot hole down from the top of the ends into the handle so that the nail could be placed to secure it there.

Repairing the carriers and replacing them with newly constructed ones was tedious work as the farm required an inventory of about one hundred. Frank approached this chore late in the fall after the plants were mowed over and covered with straw, the irrigation system was dismantled and stored for the winter, and the most urgent equipment repairs were completed. He welcomed the time spent in his workshop, a large room designated at the end of a larger storage shed, another pole building referred to as the barn. The shop was warmed on days that were unseasonably cold by a small wood stove located near the entrance door. The only electricity in the shop was for lighting, several incandescent bulbs that precariously hung on a wire from the roof rafters where they were stapled. The implements, including the saw and drill, were rusty old hand tools.

 

After 4 PM the straw boss would holler, “That’s it for today.” The pickers urgently topped off any partially filled baskets and went to the packing shed to complete their day’s tally. A line quickly formed there. Those most determined to prove themselves, likely competing with a peer, lingered in the field to fill all the baskets in their carrier. The most aggressive pickers paced themselves so that they took eight empty baskets into the field about 3:30 PM.  They would be the last in line at the packing shed for the final count.

 

Finally, they walked down a lane to the entrance of the farm where there was a small parking lot. They lingered there, joking and teasing each other, until the old Chevy truck was seen bouncing down the alley riddled with stones too large to remove. Frank exited with a small gray cash box and placed it on the tailgate. He paid each picker in cash, with the exact change, according to the notes on Emma’s roster. He would call a name, state the total number of quarts picked, and that person stepped forward to receive his or her day’s earnings. Some left quickly while others lingered to learn of the achievement of the best pickers. This public announcement promoted a competitive spirit among the farm workers. Occasionally Frank would comment on a picker’s achievement, especially if it was a new record or a milestone for that particular person.

 

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