Them Ladders

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.