Picking Prunes

I would like to forget it, but I can’t.
I remember it well...

It is 1959. I am thirteen years old. Our family of twelve has made the annual trek from Southern California to Northern California to join other migrant families in the prune harvest.

In my mind’s eye, I find myself standing in the middle of a prune orchard. The tree branches hang low from their load of walnut-size, oval-shaped, purple fruit. I am in a labyrinth-the trees surround me symmetrically; they appear to shrink in the distance: their trunks melting into the ground. The heat of the Colusa sun penetrates my blue, long-sleeved shirt as beads of perspiration form on the bridge of my nose. A red paisley scarf protects my long, limp, black hair and a wide-brimmed straw hat wards off the sun.

Suddenly, a tractor with a long mechanical arm appears. The driver maneuvers it up to a tree, clamps the rubber-padded steel “hand” around the trunk and begins to shake it. A loud, muffled repeated sound, “tat, tat, tat, tat, tat,” fills the air. The tree shivers with violent vibrations. It becomes a blurring mass as it surrenders its bounty. The fruit, along with some leaves and small branches, falls to the ground like violent hail. Within minutes, the driver stops, releases the mechanical device, drives the tractor to another tree, and repeats the process, tree-by-tree, row-by-row….

My father and older brother, Jose, loosen the few prunes remaining on the tree by striking repeatedly at the fruit with thin, six-foot long wooden poles. Kneeling on the ground, I join my mother and siblings (two brothers, and six sisters varying in ages from eighteen to five) in gathering the fruit. We work our way towards the tree trunk; brown hands in varied sizes grasping handfuls of fruit and tossing them into metal buckets. I try to avoid picking by the tree trunk for I know creepy bugs lurk in the deep, dark shadows of the crevices near the trunk. When our buckets fill, my father and Jose replace them with empty ones. They dump the full ones into large wooden bins, which have been placed throughout the orchard. My younger siblings are encouraged and coaxed not to give up for they can only hold one or two prunes in each hand. They use smaller plastic buckets. The youngest, Aurora, can be seen deliberately picking one prune at a time her little fingers clasping the fruit tightly lest she drop it before she transfers it deliberately to the pail and drops it in. When she fills her little pail, she pours the contents into my mother’s bucket. We “older kids” develop a process where we take both hands and scoop up handfuls at a time. Sometimes we race each other-the one who fills the most buckets is sure to gain praise from our father. When the younger ones tire, they are allowed to play close by, while the older ones have to work ‘till quitting time.

I hated picking prunes.

I hated it because my knees grew dark and callused from kneeling on the hard ground. My father could only afford kneepads for himself and my mother. I recall that scrubbing hard on the knees didn’t get rid of the dark, callused skin. I dreaded having to start school in the fall with blackened knees. School policy did not allow girls to wear pants to school, but wearing skirts that fell several inches below the knees, which was fashionable then, provided some cover. However, when I entered high school, the “dark knees” horror became a nightmare: at the end of physical education class, it was mandatory to shower. The teacher was there to make sure you did by standing watch and marking it down on her clipboard. I felt ashamed and humiliated at having my classmates see my blackened knees. I avoided their gaze as I knew everyone was looking straight at my knees. I endured the nightmare for several long, harrowing months until, eventually, my knees returned to normal. It was painful knowing everyone knew that I was a “prune picker.” But the fact remained; we had to pick prunes. It was the only way my father, who had only a fourth grade education, knew how to make enough money to buy the new clothes needed every September for his ten kids to start the school year.

There are only two “good things” I recall about picking prunes. One was working in the shade of the tree. Picking in the unshaded area meant having to work in the hot sun as it beat down on you unmercifully. Sometimes, I was unlucky and accidentally burst the skin of an over-ripened, bloated prune that had been lying in the sun for days “cooking” - the hot juice burned my fingers causing me to cry out, “Ay, ay, ay!” I quickly wiped my hand on my pant’s leg to stop the burning. I resumed work as soon as possible or risk the scolding voice of my father urging me on, “Andale, andale, pronto, pronto!”

The other part of picking prunes I enjoyed was lunchtime. I sat with my family under the shade of a prune tree, savoring delicious tacos and allowed the breeze to cool my hot skin while I escaped into my daydreaming… That was the time I got a half-hour reprieve and got to eat my mother’s scrumptious hand-made, flour tortillas filled with fried potato and egg or refried pinto beans. My mother would rise while it was still dark to light the woodstove and prepare our breakfast and lunch. Then she would wake everybody and while we dressed and ate she would pack the lunch.

In retrospect, I think the prune picking experience was a blessing in disguise and I am grateful for it. Although I can’t forget the continual, harsh work experience, it instilled in me the drive, incentive and perseverance to do well in school. I soon came to realize that education was the ticket that would deliver me, some day, from poverty and the dreaded “prune picking.”