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Updated: June 4, 2025
But the Reo had had to have a new gas-line and a battery, and little money was left to show for the long, sizzling months of work. It was best to stay clear of cities. The Sacramento Delta region was the strangest the Beechams had ever seen. The broad river, refreshing after months without real rivers, was higher than the fields. Beside the river ran the highway.
Sent by the churches, like the Center workers in the cranberries, in the peas and in Cissy's onions, they went out through the country to help the people who needed them. The sheriff, it seemed, had told them about the Beechams when he met them a few minutes ago. First they looked in at Grandma, still asleep with the Seth Thomas ticking beside her.
The parade of old cars limped along for two weeks, growing thicker as it drew near the part of Arizona where the pickers had been called for. The Beechams saw more and more signs on fences and poles: FIVE HUNDRED PICKERS WANTED! "They don't say how much they pay," Grandma noticed. "Ninety cents a hundred pounds is usual this year, and a fellow can make a bare living at that," said Daddy.
The Beechams had never thought of doing so, since Grandpa had his cobbling and Daddy his photograph finishing. "Well, why shouldn't we?" Daddy fired the question into the stillness. "But school?" asked Rose-Ellen, who liked school. Mrs. Albi waved a work-worn palm. "You smart, Rosie. You ketch up all right." "That's okeydoke with me!" Dick exclaimed, yanking his sister's curls.
So that's how come we're shore going back to the onions next summer." Cotton-picking was over, and the Beechams tided themselves over with odd jobs till spring came and they could move on to steadier work. This time they were going up into Colorado to work in the beets. "And high time!" said Grandma.
Afterwards Grandma said the bottoms of the pans weren't scoured, but she couldn't feel to blame Mrs. Martinez, with five young ones besides the new baby to look after. When the Beechams went home, Mrs. Martinez gave them a covered dish of enchiladas. Even Grandma ate those enchiladas without hesitation, though they were so peppery that she had to cool her mouth with frequent swallows of water.
"Why," Grandma said doubtfully, "we . . . why, if Grandpa would give up his shop just for the cranberry season. We got no place else to go." Grandpa sighed. "Looks like the shop's give me up already. We could think about it." "All together!" whooped Dick. "And not any school!" "Now, hold your horses," Grandma cautioned. "Beechams don't run off nobody knows where, without anyway sleeping over it."
"Tell me about your home," she asked. He gave a rather sketchy description of his imaginary home in Fleming County, Kentucky a none too convincing description. Then he tried to change the subject by asking her if she had always lived with the Beechams. "No not always," she answered. "Is Fleming Cou...." "And is your name Beecham?" he interrupted, anxious to avoid the subject of Fleming County.
Leaving Jimmie to mind Sally in the car, the Beechams went to picking at once. Grandma had saved their old cotton sacks, fortunately, since they cost a dollar apiece. Rose-Ellen's heart thumped as if she were running a race. Everyone was picking at top speed, for there were far too many pickers and they all tried to get more than their share. The Beechams started at noon.
Soon the procession turned off the road, the Beechams with it. The place was swarming with pickers. "How much are you paying?" Daddy asked. "Fifty cents a hundred." "Why, man alive, we'd starve on that pay," Daddy growled, the corners of his jaws white with anger. "You don't need to work if you don't want to," the manager barked at him. "Here's two thousand folks glad to work at fifty cents."
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