I think I just might be the best peach picker in Virginia. Well, in Rockingham County at least. And that isn't just me boasting. That's what Brother Jeb said all the time I was picking peaches for him. And Mr. Howell said that to me too. More than once he said that. I've heard both men say that, in the peach business, it's getting the first fruit of the season to market before anyone else does that can mean the difference between a good season and a break-even or bad season.
I've been picking peaches—the last couple of years for the Mennonite, Brother Jebodiah, down near Singers Glen—for a good seven years now. Brother Jeb's good people. Some Baptists here won't work for the Mennonites, thinking they are too peculiar and dress all old fashioned and stuff and just might not even be Christian, but I found them to be honest, fair, and themselves hard workers. Brother Jeb doesn't just send men out into his orchards in the heat of July to pick the first fruit to race to market with. He's right out there with them, working his butt off too. Of course in those dark clothes and that hat he has to wear, he has to take more breaks than most.
He goes over and leans on the fence next to the road, under the oak trees he's got his orchards bordered in. Standing there, he'll jaw with anyone who wants to stop and talk. This summer it's been mostly that Mr. Howell stopping in his big, new red Ford F-450 double cab. He's got his own orchards over near Timberville. I've heard tell about him being competitive and all, and some say he's a little underhanded. Not to his face, of course. He's one big, muscled-up sonofabitch.
My uncle, Rick, worked in his orchards for awhile, and he told me more than once, "It's good you want to work the orchards to save up for school, Johnny. But there's some orchards you'll want to give a pass on even if they offer good money. There's the Mennonites. They're strange folks and just don't mix well with good Baptists. It's never good to get in with the heathens. And then there's that Clarence Howell over in Timberville. He pays top dollar, but I'd stay out of the way of working under him, if I was you. He has more demands than a soul wants to talk about."
He'd give me a meaningful look, just itching to talk about it and daring me to ask why. But I never did. And I did want to earn up money for my electricians school as soon as I got out of high school, so after working for good Baptists for a couple of summers, and finding my paychecks shorted more times than I could count, I went against what Uncle Rick said and hired up with a Mennonite. And I haven't had any complaints with Brother Jeb for two picking seasons.
The first week of the picking after finishing high school, I was out there, working just as fast as I could on Brother Jeb's peach trees. Brother Jeb had bragged on me at the end of the last season, saying I was his best and fastest picker. That meant something in Rockingham, and I'd gotten some good offers from other growers here and about, but Brother Jeb had been fair with me, so I was fair with him and came back to him.
Speed meant something this year if we were going to be early to market. For some reason not that many Mexicans were coming up for the picking as usually did. I don't know if they were having trouble getting here or if conditions were better in Mexico than they were here this season. But, whatever, there were fewer of us picking. It was hitting everyone, and for the first time, I felt the pressure to be working for someone else who could put more pickers into the field.
It was hot as hell out in the orchard on a Tuesday afternoon. I was down to my soggy and sagging gym shorts and working just as fast as I could, trying to help get enough bushels down off the trees from Brother Jeb to take a truck load down to the stores in Harrisonburg. Brother Jeb had already had to take two breaks, but I didn't resent that. The heat was really just too much for those black clothes he couldn't take off. The few others there, a couple of local boys, and a few Hispanics who either already managed to live here or who were so loyal to Brother Jeb that they managed to some back to him, were all as tongue hanging out as I was in the heat. Summer here in Shenandoah valley was always a scorcher, and we were hitting heat records day after day this season. The white boys had been slogging along like zombies for some time, and now even the Hispanics and blacks, who could take heat better than most, were slowing down. Heeding the reputation I'd gotten and Brother Jeb's need to get a truckload of peaches to Harrisonburg before others did—and thus be able to pay me that time and a half he'd promised—I was working all the faster.
When I had to stop for a breath and a swig of water from my water bottle, the flashy red color of that big, new F-450 truck made me look over toward the fence under the shade of the oak tree. Brother Jeb was there, standing and leaning on the fence. And on the other side, one foot up on the fence's lower rail and looking pretty intently out at the orchard—at me specifically, so it seemed—was that Mr. Howell from over Timberville way. They talked for a while and then Brother Jeb came back to the orchard to take another crack at the picking. Mr. Howell went back over to his truck, but he turned and watched us for a couple of more minutes before he got in his truck and drove off.
I was exhausted at the end of the day. All the rest, including Brother Jeb, had gone after we loaded up the truck. Brother Jeb was pleased because we'd managed to get a truck filled. He said he'd go ahead and drive those peaches down to Harrisonburg this evening to get a steal on anyone else racing for first fruit honors.
The Hispanics had all gone off in their ancient trucks, loading them to the gills with pickers, all laughing and having a jolly time.
I'd overworked myself, keeping to my goal of being the best and fastest. I hadn't paced myself like they had. So, I just plopped down on my back under that oak tree Brother Jeb usually stood under and moaned and luxuriated in the shade. My bicycle was propped up against the tree beside me, waiting for me to get up the energy to ride the five miles east over toward Eddom, where I lived with my mother in a little country house. In the fall I'd be going down to Harrisonburg for technical school—if I had saved enough money—but I'd still be driving back to Eddom in Mom's old Cavalier every night. I'd have to work a couple of years as an electrician before I could afford a place or even a car of my own. And even then, I'm not sure my mom would want me to leave her all alone in Eddom.
I was dozing off when I heard the rumble of a truck. I expected it to pass on down the road, but it didn't. It stopped. I opened my eyes, and all I saw was a big blotch of cherry red on the other side of the fence.
"You look all spent out."
It was the Mr. Howell, and he was standing by his truck and looking down at me over the fence. I groaned and sat up. I pulled up my T-shirt from under my back and folded it over my belly, suddenly feeling naked.
"It's been a rough day," I said. "But we managed to get a truckload picked."
"So soon?" Mr. Howell asked. "Taking it to market tomorrow, is he, is Jebodiah?"
"He's already driving to market with it," I answered.
I instinctively knew I had to speak polite and straight with Mr. Howell. He was one of the biggest growers around here. And a bull of a man in his own right. He was tall and thick necked and across the chest too. Maybe in his forties. He was one of those men who looked like he didn't dirty his hands but somehow had managed to work his body to high muscle tone. He was bald as a billiard cue, but he had a thick beard and mustache and a big patch of black hair pushing out the top of his buttoned shirt, which wasn't fastened down the top three buttons. It was like his chest was just aching to burst out of that shirt. He probably was fighting the heat as much as anyone, but he looked cool as a cumber now.
"Which market?"
"Harrisonburg," I answered. Not much that any of the other peach growers could do about that now, I knew, so there was no reason I could think of not just saying it. I was pretty proud of what we had accomplished for Brother Jeb today—not the least because Brother Jeb was right in there working with us as best he could and because he then knew which of his workers was giving him their best. It made me feel as much ownership of getting that first fruit to market as Brother Jeb did.
"Thanks for the tip. I'll send mine to New Market tomorrow then. A good tip is worth a ride home, if you're interested. You probably don't want to have to bike all the way to Eddom after a work day like you've had. I've had my eye on you. Everyone says you're the best and fastest picker in the county."
"Thanks. I like to give good work when I can. You know where I live?" I asked.
"Yep. Been checking up on you. Like what I see. So, do you want a ride home?"
"In that new truck?" I asked. "I'm not clean enough to be riding in that truck."
"If it doesn't bother me, I don't know why it should bother you. Here hoist that bicycle over the fence, and I'll put it in the back. If it makes you feel better, I've got towels I can lay down in the passenger seat."
It was not long after he started the truck up that he came out with the proposition. "I hear you're saving up to go to electricians school down in Harrisonburg now that you graduated from high school."
"Yep, that's right," I answered.
"Pretty pricey school that is. Almost as much as going to a community college. Your grades not good enough for college?"
"I made good grades. The wages of an electrician are good and it's honest work that there's always a need for," I answered. "It's the fastest way of making money. College would be even more expensive and I don't have the time to put off making money."
