Published Jan. 23, 2013 in The Foothills Sun-Gazette
"Oh, honey, the heat don't bother me none. I worked in all kinds of crops," Beulah Nix of Lindsay told me over a decade ago from her chair in the hallway of the Porterville nursing home she would come to rest in. "But I never did work in the oranges. Them ladders," she said, shaking her head, "they scared me." She spoke of people she'd known who had fallen and been hurt, some never to work again.
It was our first real conversation, and I was so grateful for it that I now have forgotten what crops she said she picked or chopped. Mostly what Beulah said from that chair in the hallway was "Scuse me, hon, but can you tel me how far it is to Lindsay?" Mostly what people would tell her was "Sorry, no," or "It's too far." I would tell her "It's about 15 miles," to which she would reply "Do I have time to walk there before dark?" Mostly I would tell her "I don't think so. Dinnertime's almost here..." or some other reason. It never made her feel better, but at least it was an answer.
But on that day I had said "Oh, Beulah, you don't want to walk there today - it's so hot! Feel my arm," having just stepped from my air-conditionless pickup, my left arm still burning from hanging out the open window. And thus began the first of many conversations we would have before her death, totally surprising the staff who thought she could speak only one or two sentences.
I was reminded of them ladders at the market a few nights ago. This time of year people are working seven days a week in the groves. As the daylight fades, they begin to come into the store in their bandanas and layers of shirts creased with dirt. I scan their groceries, take the bills from their hands and give them their change as respectfully as possible. It feels like a privilege, exchanging with those hands.
One day last week I was talking with a friend, an orange grower, as he picked a few mandarins from his tree to take to his lady friend. He selected the ripest ones carefully, clipping the stems close like he'd been taught as a boy, enjoying this small act of harvesting. The conversation moved to the pickers and how hard they work. "The way they run up and down those ladders," he said, impressed. "Boy, I sure wouldn't want to do that." At my age, I wouldn't want to, either, though I noted the irony.
Sunday night at the market a customer I've come to appreciate came through my line. "How are you?" I asked him, really wanting to know. He said he was wonderful "gracias a Dios. Y usted?" I was instantly better and asked him if he was working. He nodded, adding "naranjas." "Hard work," I offered, and he nodded again, adding something in Spanish that I couldn't quite catch but assumed he was referring to his ability and Grace. Then in English he said that eating well, no drinking, going to bed early and getting a good night's sleep - these things make it possible.
As I scanned his groceries, I thought about him running up and down those ladders on these cold days, his slim body carrying the heavy bags. When we said goodbye, I couldn't help but add "Be careful. Don't get hurt." His eyes flashed back to mine for a second, seeming thankful for the recognition of the danger.
Be careful on them ladders, everyone.
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Trudy Wischemann is a rural writer who works in the retail end of agriculture. You can send her your ladder stories % P.O. Box 1374, Lindsay CA 93247 or leave a response below.
This column is not a news article but the opinion of the writer anddoes not reflect the views of The Foothills Sun-Gazette newspaper.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Two Letters, Three Words
Published Jan. 16, 2013 in the Foothills Sun-Gazette in slightly edited form.
Sometimes little changes make a big difference, sometimes they don't. In my column published in last week's newspaper, somebody changed two letters in the title - "st" to "ch" - moving the meaning from East of Us to Each of Us. Although the author of the book I was reviewing and I both really liked "East" and were sad that the copies we're sending to friends and family aren't quite perfect, it's not a big thing. Whether a typo or somebody's attempt to make better sense of my writing, I know it was an honest mistake. It was not intended to hurt.
The same cannot be said for the language changes regarding public participation in Lindsay's City Council meetings over the past year. After the Valentine's Day meeting last year, three words were dropped from the agenda template - "or the public" - stripping the public of the right to have items removed from the consent calendar for separate discussion. During the three-minute public comment period, citizens can still ask to have items removed, but it is up to the individual Council members to do so. Luckily we now have members who will respect those requests.
At the same time an entire sentence was also removed from the agenda packet under the heading "Citizen Participation in Meetings" which instructed citizens how to place an item on the agenda. About six months later that sentence was replaced by one which says that during the three minute public comment period citizens can ask the Council to place an item on the agenda of a future meeting but that they are "under no obligation to do so."
This summer another sentence was removed regarding the public's right to comment or ask questions on agenda items while they are being considered by the Council. The old sentence indicated that we could; it was replaced with one which limits us to the pubic comment period entirely, citing the Brown Act. (I do not think the Brown Act says what they say it does, and that this is just an attempt to make it look legal.) This prevents the public from engaging in the discussion of its business by staff and council members, since the public comment period occurs at the beginning of the meeting, before those items are discussed and voted upon.
There was nothing accidental about these changes, nor were they innocent. They were made by staff without any formal action by the Council, and they were intended to curtail public involvement just at the time the public was getting involved. At a time when the current administration was claiming to be working for greater transparency and accountability, they made it harder for people to see and question what they were doing.
At last Tuesday's council meeting I thanked everyone who ran in November's long-overdue election and congratulated the three winners, all of whom have been chosen by the people for the first time. I also spoke my hope that in two years the same will be said for all five.
I thanked Ramona Padilla for stepping up to the plate for Mayor, and for being willing to contest the way the choice of mayor was planned. When she cast her "aye" vote, she not only voted for herself but also for following the rules. "I look forward to more rule-following in the future," I said.
And then I asked that the old language regarding citizen participation be restored. It's a small thing - three words, a couple of sentences - with big implications. Restoring rights for public participation could restore some faith in our government, recharging what has become a very dry well. I look forward to seeing this on some future agenda.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Trudy Wischemann is a writer interested in rights. You can contact her % P.O. Box 1374, Lindsay CA 93247 or respond to this blog, below!
This column is not a news article but the opinion of the writer and does not reflect the views of The Foothills Sun-Gazette newspaper.
Sometimes little changes make a big difference, sometimes they don't. In my column published in last week's newspaper, somebody changed two letters in the title - "st" to "ch" - moving the meaning from East of Us to Each of Us. Although the author of the book I was reviewing and I both really liked "East" and were sad that the copies we're sending to friends and family aren't quite perfect, it's not a big thing. Whether a typo or somebody's attempt to make better sense of my writing, I know it was an honest mistake. It was not intended to hurt.
The same cannot be said for the language changes regarding public participation in Lindsay's City Council meetings over the past year. After the Valentine's Day meeting last year, three words were dropped from the agenda template - "or the public" - stripping the public of the right to have items removed from the consent calendar for separate discussion. During the three-minute public comment period, citizens can still ask to have items removed, but it is up to the individual Council members to do so. Luckily we now have members who will respect those requests.
At the same time an entire sentence was also removed from the agenda packet under the heading "Citizen Participation in Meetings" which instructed citizens how to place an item on the agenda. About six months later that sentence was replaced by one which says that during the three minute public comment period citizens can ask the Council to place an item on the agenda of a future meeting but that they are "under no obligation to do so."
This summer another sentence was removed regarding the public's right to comment or ask questions on agenda items while they are being considered by the Council. The old sentence indicated that we could; it was replaced with one which limits us to the pubic comment period entirely, citing the Brown Act. (I do not think the Brown Act says what they say it does, and that this is just an attempt to make it look legal.) This prevents the public from engaging in the discussion of its business by staff and council members, since the public comment period occurs at the beginning of the meeting, before those items are discussed and voted upon.
There was nothing accidental about these changes, nor were they innocent. They were made by staff without any formal action by the Council, and they were intended to curtail public involvement just at the time the public was getting involved. At a time when the current administration was claiming to be working for greater transparency and accountability, they made it harder for people to see and question what they were doing.
At last Tuesday's council meeting I thanked everyone who ran in November's long-overdue election and congratulated the three winners, all of whom have been chosen by the people for the first time. I also spoke my hope that in two years the same will be said for all five.
I thanked Ramona Padilla for stepping up to the plate for Mayor, and for being willing to contest the way the choice of mayor was planned. When she cast her "aye" vote, she not only voted for herself but also for following the rules. "I look forward to more rule-following in the future," I said.
And then I asked that the old language regarding citizen participation be restored. It's a small thing - three words, a couple of sentences - with big implications. Restoring rights for public participation could restore some faith in our government, recharging what has become a very dry well. I look forward to seeing this on some future agenda.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Trudy Wischemann is a writer interested in rights. You can contact her % P.O. Box 1374, Lindsay CA 93247 or respond to this blog, below!
This column is not a news article but the opinion of the writer and does not reflect the views of The Foothills Sun-Gazette newspaper.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
East of Us
Published in the Sun-Gazette Jan. 9, 2013
The new novel by Tulare County author Sylvia Ross, East of the Great Valley: The Story of Merab McCreary, is a marvelous portrait of how we came to be who we are here in one of the great valleys of the world. It takes place in the 1860's, the time between the discovery of gold at Sutter's Mill and the Golden Spike, between the establishment of a crude form of Anglo government and the almost total decimation of the native societies that had lived here with their own forms of law and order prior to the arrival of those from the east.
Where it takes place is along the western slope of the Sierra Nevada in the Gold Country, beginning in Crane Valley (now Bass Lake) in eastern Fresno County northwestward to Angels Camp in Calaveras County and back again, with stopovers in Sonora and Bootjack and the vast territory between them. It is the story of a Chukchansi girl orphaned at age 2 and her adoption into the McCreary family by the mother, Nancy, only to be sold off by the father, Frederick, at age 6 at Nancy's death. It is the story of men and women and children coming of age telling the story of our state coming of age through a very dark puberty.
But the story is told so beautifully that it invites our understanding of this history. Sylvia Ross is a very fine writer, both compassionate and unblinking. She lets the details tell the story, from her first description of 2-year-old Merab's tiny comprehension of what's happening as her mother dies, to her last as the girl realizes she's become a marriageable woman with a good husband in sight. And though many places in between we ache for the girl, her growing understanding of the world is far more compelling than her pain. We don't feel sorry for her: we feel admiration.
One very important, though subtle, asect of the story is the connection between California's development and the nation's Civil War. The divide between North and South on the eastern half of this country was muted here, but played itself out in subterranean ways. The McCreary family finds itself divided by the conflict, portraying the strong difference between the two sides regarding human equality that existed between Frederick and Nancy at the family level, and within the communities themselves regarding not only natives, but the immigrant Chinese and other pilgrims to this land. In this book, the tolerant and intolerant are seen working side by side, with peace kept only partially by human skill and ingenuity, with flare-ups common and brutal.
Near the end of the book, when Merab is re-united with her Chukchansi grandfather Ootie, the subject of survival is raised. How to survive as a whole human in a society dominated by those who fear your difference? Adaptation is his advice; stay connected to your roots is her appreciative reply. Ms. Ross leaves us with the impression that it takes both. You don't have to be Chukchansi to know the truth of that, but hearing it from this woman's pen is a gift.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Trudy Wischemann is a native from other places who writes in Lindsay. Sylvia's new book is available at the Three Rivers Historical Museum, the Porterville Historical Museum, the Book Garden in Exeter, and online from Amazon.com.
The new novel by Tulare County author Sylvia Ross, East of the Great Valley: The Story of Merab McCreary, is a marvelous portrait of how we came to be who we are here in one of the great valleys of the world. It takes place in the 1860's, the time between the discovery of gold at Sutter's Mill and the Golden Spike, between the establishment of a crude form of Anglo government and the almost total decimation of the native societies that had lived here with their own forms of law and order prior to the arrival of those from the east.
Where it takes place is along the western slope of the Sierra Nevada in the Gold Country, beginning in Crane Valley (now Bass Lake) in eastern Fresno County northwestward to Angels Camp in Calaveras County and back again, with stopovers in Sonora and Bootjack and the vast territory between them. It is the story of a Chukchansi girl orphaned at age 2 and her adoption into the McCreary family by the mother, Nancy, only to be sold off by the father, Frederick, at age 6 at Nancy's death. It is the story of men and women and children coming of age telling the story of our state coming of age through a very dark puberty.
But the story is told so beautifully that it invites our understanding of this history. Sylvia Ross is a very fine writer, both compassionate and unblinking. She lets the details tell the story, from her first description of 2-year-old Merab's tiny comprehension of what's happening as her mother dies, to her last as the girl realizes she's become a marriageable woman with a good husband in sight. And though many places in between we ache for the girl, her growing understanding of the world is far more compelling than her pain. We don't feel sorry for her: we feel admiration.
One very important, though subtle, asect of the story is the connection between California's development and the nation's Civil War. The divide between North and South on the eastern half of this country was muted here, but played itself out in subterranean ways. The McCreary family finds itself divided by the conflict, portraying the strong difference between the two sides regarding human equality that existed between Frederick and Nancy at the family level, and within the communities themselves regarding not only natives, but the immigrant Chinese and other pilgrims to this land. In this book, the tolerant and intolerant are seen working side by side, with peace kept only partially by human skill and ingenuity, with flare-ups common and brutal.
Near the end of the book, when Merab is re-united with her Chukchansi grandfather Ootie, the subject of survival is raised. How to survive as a whole human in a society dominated by those who fear your difference? Adaptation is his advice; stay connected to your roots is her appreciative reply. Ms. Ross leaves us with the impression that it takes both. You don't have to be Chukchansi to know the truth of that, but hearing it from this woman's pen is a gift.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Trudy Wischemann is a native from other places who writes in Lindsay. Sylvia's new book is available at the Three Rivers Historical Museum, the Porterville Historical Museum, the Book Garden in Exeter, and online from Amazon.com.
Monday, January 7, 2013
On the Solstice
Christmas letter, December 21, 2012
Here we are, the shortest day, the longest night, the pivot point between diurnal waxing and waning. There's some wonderful connection between Christ's birth in four days, near the end of a string of the 10 longest nights of the year, and the fact that the new solar year has already begun, though imperceptibly to all but those who study minute detail.
He is coming, it won't be long now. Mary's water will break, the lowly stable will be found for shelter, the shepherds will get astounding news from angels they've never seen before and, with the wisdom of innocents, follow the angels' directions to the stable's doorway. What a blessing they will be to Mary and Joseph, confirmation of a divine dream arriving through the bodies and hopes of peasants. Can you imagine?
I am awake early on this shortest day, wanting to be fully present for every moment of it. It is not quiet: the wind machines have been running for three nights, as have the men who tend them, keeping watch over the orange, lemon and mandarin crops. A friend who farms at the foothills' edge called two nights ago remembering the 1990 Freeze, an event that pulled me here just as certainly as the star pulled the wise men. This year won't be that: rain is forecast for the weekend. But we remember - everyone over 25, anyway.
The friend also paid me a compliment. I'd been talking about not having the qualities required for an executive director position, and she said "Oh, no, you're a dreamer." She'd called initially to congratulate me on the triumph we've had in Lindsay replacing intransigent city council members and electing this city's first Latina mayor, which I'd announced in my column in this Wednesday's paper (see "The Promise to Listen," below.) "Lindsay's always been this way - you can't change it" was the town's mantra I'd heard since coming down from Davis to investigate the impacts of the 1990 Freeze. But I joined up with some other dreamers 2 years ago, and this is where it led. For the past year my columns have been posted to a blog site sponsored by the paper, and anyone interested can read this past year's efforts at trudysnotesfromhome.blogspot.com.
A phrase from a sentence I wrote 20 years ago arrived this morning as I woke. The sentence was summing up the work of Paul Taylor, my Berkeley mentor, whose work on farmworkers and water law, particularly the federal acreage limitation and residency provisions intended to promote a system of small-scale resident family farms in the arid west, is the set of rails I rode to become a resident of Tulare County, this sometimes unholy Holy Land. I wrote: "Paul was a keeper of the dream that dreamed Jefferson: human equality maintained through democracy, democracy maintainable only so long as the resources of the country are equally distributed." When I spoke that sentence at a conference in Sacramento, the phrase "the dream that dreamed Jefferson" turned on the lights for Jeff Lustig, one of the conference's convenors who'd already given a few years to Paul's subject but had never seen the source. It turned on the lights for me this morning about why I'm here, after spending yesterday thinking I'd put all my eggs in this basket without first checking for holes.
The sky has lightened, the sun's almost up. It's a new day in Lindsay, as it is everywhere, every day. Tomorrow the days will begin waxing, though we won't be able to discern the change for weeks and will simply have to take it on faith that Copernicus was right about the earth turning on its axis. We'll have to take it on faith that we're here for a reason, like Mary and Joseph trudging toward Bethlehem, supposedly to be counted, but in fact bringing Light into a dark world. Trudge on, fellow dreamers: follow that star.
With all my love and hope for a new year, Trudy
Here we are, the shortest day, the longest night, the pivot point between diurnal waxing and waning. There's some wonderful connection between Christ's birth in four days, near the end of a string of the 10 longest nights of the year, and the fact that the new solar year has already begun, though imperceptibly to all but those who study minute detail.
He is coming, it won't be long now. Mary's water will break, the lowly stable will be found for shelter, the shepherds will get astounding news from angels they've never seen before and, with the wisdom of innocents, follow the angels' directions to the stable's doorway. What a blessing they will be to Mary and Joseph, confirmation of a divine dream arriving through the bodies and hopes of peasants. Can you imagine?
I am awake early on this shortest day, wanting to be fully present for every moment of it. It is not quiet: the wind machines have been running for three nights, as have the men who tend them, keeping watch over the orange, lemon and mandarin crops. A friend who farms at the foothills' edge called two nights ago remembering the 1990 Freeze, an event that pulled me here just as certainly as the star pulled the wise men. This year won't be that: rain is forecast for the weekend. But we remember - everyone over 25, anyway.
The friend also paid me a compliment. I'd been talking about not having the qualities required for an executive director position, and she said "Oh, no, you're a dreamer." She'd called initially to congratulate me on the triumph we've had in Lindsay replacing intransigent city council members and electing this city's first Latina mayor, which I'd announced in my column in this Wednesday's paper (see "The Promise to Listen," below.) "Lindsay's always been this way - you can't change it" was the town's mantra I'd heard since coming down from Davis to investigate the impacts of the 1990 Freeze. But I joined up with some other dreamers 2 years ago, and this is where it led. For the past year my columns have been posted to a blog site sponsored by the paper, and anyone interested can read this past year's efforts at trudysnotesfromhome.blogspot.com.
A phrase from a sentence I wrote 20 years ago arrived this morning as I woke. The sentence was summing up the work of Paul Taylor, my Berkeley mentor, whose work on farmworkers and water law, particularly the federal acreage limitation and residency provisions intended to promote a system of small-scale resident family farms in the arid west, is the set of rails I rode to become a resident of Tulare County, this sometimes unholy Holy Land. I wrote: "Paul was a keeper of the dream that dreamed Jefferson: human equality maintained through democracy, democracy maintainable only so long as the resources of the country are equally distributed." When I spoke that sentence at a conference in Sacramento, the phrase "the dream that dreamed Jefferson" turned on the lights for Jeff Lustig, one of the conference's convenors who'd already given a few years to Paul's subject but had never seen the source. It turned on the lights for me this morning about why I'm here, after spending yesterday thinking I'd put all my eggs in this basket without first checking for holes.
The sky has lightened, the sun's almost up. It's a new day in Lindsay, as it is everywhere, every day. Tomorrow the days will begin waxing, though we won't be able to discern the change for weeks and will simply have to take it on faith that Copernicus was right about the earth turning on its axis. We'll have to take it on faith that we're here for a reason, like Mary and Joseph trudging toward Bethlehem, supposedly to be counted, but in fact bringing Light into a dark world. Trudge on, fellow dreamers: follow that star.
With all my love and hope for a new year, Trudy
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Return of the Gingerbread Woman
She almost didn’t make it, that gingerbread woman ornament I wrote about hanging in my kitchen window every Christmas. Working on a tough story about family dysfunction and pain the first half of the month, I almost didn’t make it to Christmas myself, dragging my tired carcass between desk and cash register each day, shoulders aching and spirit bedraggled.
But my customers at the market saved her from spending Christmas in a box, and friends rescued my spirit. It’s been two years since this paper published my piece on the gingerbread woman, but I have customers who still ask about her. It seems they’re tickled at knowing my true identity as both a closet gingerbread woman and the writer of this column. Thank you, customers, for your affection. Thank you, paper, for giving me a place to come out into the open.
A neighbor stopped me in SaveMart the week before Christmas, and after questioning my shopping loyalties, expressed appreciation for this column. Looking for the right words for what he likes about it, he finally said “You’re so open.” It’s been hard to get there, I guarantee, but without the interest you all keep expressing, it never would have happened. Thank you, neighbors, for being there and speaking to me all these years despite my yardkeeping habits.
A friend called last Wednesday after reading about the election of our new mayor, Dr. Ramona Padilla. “What a triumph,” she said, knowing Lindsay’s long history of managing city politics from inside a small circle, congratulating me for accomplishing something here after 20 years of trying. It wouldn’t have happened if there hadn’t been a core group of Lindsay residents who were activated by their outrage over the blatant misuses of power and became willing to stand up and say so, and then step up to the plate of candidacy. Thank you, all you residents of Lindsay who knew it was time for a change and did something.
It also wouldn’t have happened without this newspaper. The Porterville Recorder played a part in breaking the most volatile news, but Reggie Ellis and the Sun-Gazette kept the coverage coming blow by blow as we worked toward a new day, despite resistance and impediments from city hall. Many people seem to think a weekly can’t cover the news as well as a daily paper, and that’s true for immediate things like memorial services and traffic accidents. But the depth of coverage of ongoing issues like the county general plan, re-routing Highway 65, maintenance of the Friant-Kern Canal and Yokohl Ranch development, plus the local activities in each of our little towns, is actually enhanced in a weekly. This is really the only paper now thoroughly covering the things that matter most to us in this thermal belt where crops still provide the foundation of our economies.
So the gingerbread woman is giving a few subscriptions during these 12 days of Christmas - in support of this paper, in support of this region, in support of us all being more connected to each other. That’s what Christmas is all about, after all: the miracle of the birth reminding us that we’re all part of each other in His eyes. Let us all reach out and support each other as the community we truly are in the coming year.
- Trudy Wischemann is a woman writer and homemaker who is not going to get any baking done this year. You can send her your gingerbread woman sightings - P.O. Box 1374, Lindsay CA 93247.
- This column is not a news article but the opinion of the writer and does not reflect the views of The Foothills Sun-Gazette newspaper.
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