Strawberry Stingray We arrived just as the sun was coming up over the mountain, a heavy dew giving rise to humid mist as the earth warmed. Mom reprimanded us one last time to behave ourselves or we were 'gonna get it' when we got home. I had no intention of acting up, I was here on business, as much business as an eleven year old could muster. She pushed us over to the work shed, and selected four hand-made carriers, each able to hold eight paper-thin wooden quarts. She handed me a stack of these quarts, about fifty of them, and I followed her and the brothers, unable to see over the stack and having to peer around my burden to see where I was going. She walked up to a tall thin man in Big Smith faded cotton overalls. He had this real authoritative air about him, almost leering out from under a sweat-stained straw cowboy hat, his eyes hidden in the shade of the brim, "No eyes", I thought to myself. No Eyes led us to a 100 acre field of rocks, with row upon perfectly straight row of strawberries. He looked down at us boys and said something to Mom, "They'll be no trouble" she said to him. I decided I did not like No Eyes, but that it would be wise to stay on his good side. No Eyes was tall and thin, his overalls giving him this look of a scarecrow, and he carried a large bodark pole, real straight and knobby, just like him. He pointed the pole at the row and Mom shooed us up the narrow path between the berry plants, Little Brother first, then Middle Brother, and then me, and then her. She scattered us out about forty feet apart and with one last caution to behave ourselves, we went to work. I was a little upset about not being in the front ahead of the brothers, "They'll get all the berries", I complained to Mom. "No they won't", she said, "now go on". She knew the other two would miss a lot of the ripened berries, enough for both her and I to salvage. Picking berries is hard work. It's all squatted down, or sitting on your rump and scooting along, some folks would bend over and pick, but they didn't last long before their back gave out. In an hour, I had the eight quarts full of ripe, red, Atlas variety strawberries. Mom had already made three trips to the shed with her carrier, she picked 24 quarts to my 8 in that time. Little brothers were simply moseying along. I proudly carried my load to Mom, stopping to let her inspect my work, yep, full to the brim, and I didn't 'stem' the berries, no rotten ones or 'green' ones. She nodded her assent and I lugged the carrier down the row, being careful not to spill any on the way. Which was somewhat difficult in bare feet on flint rocks. I arrived at the shed and stood in line. When I reached the board that served as a counter, an old man looked at me suspiciously and investigated each quart. He was finally happy and opened up a cigar box, and handed me a dollar. I shoved the dollar in my britches pocket, Oh boy, they were paying 25 cents for two quarts, much better than the 10 cents a quart I got last year. I almost ran back to the row, slowing down as I passed No Eyes standing there with his big knobby stick. His hat turned in my direction and then he nodded back over towards my row. I was a little scared of No Eyes. Mom had moved up about twenty feet by the time I got back, much to my dismay, boy she was fast. She had rolled up the sleeves on her shirt by now as the sun had evaporated all the mist and was now beating down on all the pickers. She mopped her brow with the back of her hand, her hand-tied kerchief around her head. I stopped and showed her the dollar. "Oh, they're paying 12 1/2 cents today?" She dove back into her work. Mrs. Fourkiller was on the row to our left. She was nearly seventy years old but she was just as fast as Mom. Her small delicate hands moving swiftly among the leaves and snatching seven, eight berries at a time before she placed them in the quart. She and mom engaged in gossip as they scooted along the row. The row to the right was where our neighbors, the Nakedheads, were picking. The youngest daughter, Vickie, smiled at me from where she was scooting along the rocks, her wide smile briliantly white against her dark skin. "Go on, Sonnie", I heard Mom say. Vickie giggles. Her mom and mine muffle giggles of their own. I had made three trips to the shed by eleven oclock, three dollars in my pocket. The brothers were complaining of their fatigue and mom sent them off to the flatbed truck at the end of the row. She gave them fifty cents. The flatbed truck had metal washtubs with iced-down soft drinks in bottles, 10 cents each. "Bring me a Dr. Pepper!" I requested. It seemed forever before those two shuffled back to where I was, I now felt parched just thinking about that Dr. Pepper. Ooh, how that first gulp burned the throat, the ice melting down the side of the bottle. I guzzled it down. Suddenly, about four rows over, a woman jumped up, yelling in Cherokee, "I'nad', I'nad!" Mom's head snapped up. Mrs. Nakedhead actually stood up. All of a sudden, there was No Eyes, talking with the woman. He bent down and poked at the plants, and then, with a mighty swing of his stick, he smacked a copperhead hard enough to render it dazed. He picked the snake up with his stick, it's head and tail hanging over either side. When it started moving again, he threw it down and mashed it's head with his boot. Everyone sat and watched. He peeked around under his hat, the shadow still over his eyes, and scannned the field at the pickers. They all went back to work. His look told them to be on the lookout for copperheads, when you see one copperhead, there's always about twenty more where that one came from. Mom looked over towards the truck, with worry on her face, at the brothers playing in the shade of a large elm tree. I figured she was gonna tell me to go check on them, but she didn't. At nearly one oclock, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Mom cocked her head towards the truck, her way of saying 'Let's take a break'. I had five dollars in my pocket. I looked up the row, we were well over half way. She went to the truck and got out a quilt, all patchworked, and torn, spread it on the ground in the shade of the large elm and then walked back up to the flatbed truck. She came back with four bologna sandwiches and four more Dr. Peppers. We devoured them. She cautioned the brothers against the threat of the copperheads. "You two stay out of those brushpiles on the edge of this field or you'll get snakebit." After lunch, she told the brothers to lay down and take a nap. "And mind you, I'll be watching!" she warned. I had run out of gas by this time, and the row looked longer than when I had left it. Mom caught up with me and said, "Whatsa matter, boy? You getting tired?" She grinned her smile at me, the one that she used when she was chiding me. I set my jaw in determination and went back to work. We finally quit about 3 oclock, about forty feet from the end of the row. Mrs. Fourkiller had long since finished. Mrs. Nakedhead put two of her kids over on our row to finish it out, grateful for the extra work. Vickie was still plugging along, her white blouse stained with red berry juice and wet-with-sweat locks of hair falling down across her forehead. "See you tomorrow" I said in utter bashfulness. She smiled up at me and nodded. Mrs. Nakedhead said something to mom in Cherokee, and they both giggled. I had nine dollars in my pocket. "See you tomorrow, Mr. Auffet," she said to the row boss. "See you tomorrow, Mrs. Walkingstick', he replied, and then looked down at me, "You got a real worker there, don't you, Ma'am?" Mom puts her hand on my shoulder. I can feel her warmth through my shirt. Granny was standing at the truck with Little Brother tugging at her arm for a quarter. Middle Brother was running along the fallen timber of the brushpile. "That boy!" Mom said, and then found herself a switch to properly correct this indiscretion. When Middle Brother saw her coming, he flew off of the brushpile towards Granny. "Don't whip'm" Granny asked, "I was watching him the whole time". Brother got off easy, Granny was always a real lifesaver at times like this. Mom had seventeen dollars tied up in her kerchief. We picked for another two weeks before the fields played out. Some of the fields were not as prolific at this first one, but I still had thirty-two dollars for my work. These days, regular folk won't pick like they used to. They have to hire migrant workers most of the time. Most folks won't work that hard. I took my thirty-two dollars down to the Oklahoma Tire and Supply Company, later to be known simply as "Otasco". There was a red stingray bicycle with a white banana seat in the window I had been coveting. I walked in, "How much for the red stingray?" Mr. Smay said, "Forty-four dollars". I shuffled out the store and there stood Granny. I sniffed back muffled tears and then, "Here", she said. She handed me twelve dollars. She was watching me the whole time. |
| "We see the plant we pick. We've discovered it ourselves. We see its colour, its size, the shape of its stem; we feel the leaves, we see the structure and we smell the aroma of its flowers. We know its name. We know where it grew — next to a field, forest or bush — and where it apparently feels at home (otherwise it wouldn't grow there). And when we eat this gift of nature, it is no exaggeration to say we have a very basic, fundamental and intimate connection with it. Eating wild plants connects us to nature. It makes us a part of it." — ghi-ga-u a/k/a Donna — 6/12/07 |
"Strawberry Stingray" © Wauhilau as posted in
alt.discuss.clubs.public.culture.native-american.benable
on Sun, Jun 10, 2007, 9:40pm (EDT-3)
"Strawberry Fields Forever" by The Beatles
bead bar courtesy of Greasy Grass