SoC 3:1

Little Rabbits

 

I was with the University system then, and we were conducting pruning experiments on lemon trees in the desert. A local grower let us use ten acres in one of his orchards. The harvest crews had been hard at work and we would know in a few days if any of our efforts had increased the yield of fruit.

On this early chilly morning I walked the grove with the foreman of the crew. He was a short, gruff-talking old Mexican named Felipe. He had broad shoulders and big hands. As we walked along the rows he muttered greetings to one or another of the pickers. Most of them were young, up from Mexico for the harvest and hoping for a long season. They were adjusting canvas gauntlets over the sleeves of their shirts to protect them from the wicked thorns. The foreman's words were returned with respect by the workers. Several of the pickers were older men, like Felipe, more than ready for retirement.

As we started down the next row Felipe spoke to a young couple. They nodded and looked away when they saw me. They were white, blonde and blue-eyed. The clothes they wore were worn and faded. I wondered at their whiteness and their youth. This was a job that attracted Mexicans because the growers could not find many Americans to do the work. It was hard work.

We continued along the row and I looked at him and nodded over my shoulder. He knew what I meant.

"Conejitos!" he said. "What they look like to me." He shook his big head slowly.

"Little rabbits?" I asked.

"Simone., si! Yes, you know, like they stay close together. They're scared, you know, like the hawk or the coyote is going to get 'em. They don't go around nobody."

"When did they start? I didn't see them yesterday morning."

"No, they come around in the afternoon. They wanted work. You only got to look at 'em to see they was hungry. They slept in their old car last night, right there by the road."

The old man looked into the trees or down at the ground while we walked. I knew he didn't want me to look into his eyes. An old bracero like Felipe had worked hard all his life. He didn't want to be seen as a pushover, but he wouldn't let these kids starve, either.

"How are they doing?" I asked.

"They never picked lemons before. Couple old men are showin' 'em what to do. The boy works on the ladder, the girl on the ground. They're not makin' much money. I can give 'em a little work."

Felipe's big face was impossible to read, but I could tell that helping them gave him pleasure. I left him to go to my truck. When I was almost to the end of the row I looked back. He was talking with the young white couple again. I saw the blonde head of the man bowed, looking at his feet. Felipe pulled out his wallet and was looking around. I turned quickly and left the grove.

I was busy for the next few days on another project. When I finished that I drove by the lemon harvest. Only three cars were parked at the far end of the grove. Most of the pickers had moved on to another orchard. I parked my truck and walked down a row.

I heard trees rustling and Felipe's voice speaking calmly. He spoke first in Spanish and then in English. When I was close to them I stopped. The young couple was still here, and the two old men. Felipe had let these few stay behind to finish the grove.

The market-ready lemons were taken quickly by the ambitious young men, but there was always fruit left on the trees. The foreman had stayed behind with the old men and the young couple to finish the picking. There could still be a little money made. The white boy was speaking in halting, uncertain Spanish and the old men were laughing. The girl laughed too. There was a slow and friendly tempo.

I felt as if an illusion would vanish , like Brigadoon, if I showed myself. The inexperience of youth had survived; they were scratching out a living and they were together, finding their way among strangers. It seemed they were also finding friends. I was smiling when I turned and walked between the fragrant trees back to my truck.