by Frank Perdue
That was three years ago. Tomas only spent about six months milking, and in general maintenance on the farm, then he was promoted to driver. He had little money, for much of his earnings were sent to his beloved Esperanza, whom he sorely missed. He received letters from home regularly. Miguel was doing fine, but his wife was very lonely for him. He assured her that he would be able to send for her soon. He still lived on the farm in the bunkhouse. It was all he could afford. He had decided that this new year of nineteen seventy would be the one in which he would be reunited with this family.
It was almost noon when the large white truck with “Gallardo Dairy Farm”
written on it’s side in black lettering headed back toward Sacramento empty. Traffic was nearly at a crawl in the dense fog.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sophie Green had to make a choice. She was thirteen years old, and already beginning to bulge out in strange places. She loved to eat. Dessert was her undoing. She never met a pie she didn’t like, so to speak. And chocolate. Forget it. Any form of chocolate was too tempting not to devour.
She knew that the boys were all starting to look the other way, and she did like the opposite sex. The choice was clear, but not easy. She chose boys, and immediately went on a diet.
She was miserable. On the way home from school she passed a cafe that always had home-made pies in the window. The aroma devastated her. The fluffy crust on the apple and peach pies looked mouth-watering. Right there in the front of the display was a cream pie piled with a light chocolate filling at least five inches high. Sophie was darker than the chocolate.
For awhile she crossed the street before coming to the cafe, but it was a lost cause because she had to walk by a Mom and Pop grocery store on the other side. Their candy display was near the door. It was torture! Food was always on her mind.
Sophie’s resolve did not last even through the school year. She had wanted to be down to a size thirteen by Summer. Instead she had ballooned into an eighteen, and bathing suits were out of the question.
Still, she went to the beach. She just had to wear loose-fitting pants, and light blouses that didn’t tuck in. The funny thing was, she was very popular with the boys. She was not pretty, though she could have been, given the benefits of a beauty salon. Her hair was thick and unmanageable, with an oily-like sheen. She usually pulled it back into a ponytail. She had high cheekbones like a model, but the extra weight she carried in her face hid them. Her personality saved her. She was funny. Her self-deprecating jokes about her weight had boys and girls alike rolling with laughter. For her, the secret to being popular was poking fun at herself.
In Sacramento, “beach” meant the river, or a trip to Lake Tahoe. Once in awhile a group of friends would go the other way to San Francisco, but most of the time they would just hang out at the river.
In the poor “colored” community of South Sacramento, the kids were usually not supervised closely. It wasn’t that a mother and father didn’t care about their children. It was just, for the most part, they were so involved with the hard work of surviving, that their offspring sometimes got lost. And often-times, as was the case with Sophie’s parents, the unwed birth father would disappear, not wanting the responsibility of a wife and child, when it was hard for him to get by even by himself.
In the structured “white” communities, growing up and succeeding in life was so much easier. A white boy often had a career mapped out for him, either by following his father into his own business or trade, or by taking advantage of his family’s affluence, and attending a college or university. Even if neither of those avenues were available, the privileged white boy had connections and breeding going for him. Something always turned up.
Contrast that with the “Colored” jobs of Porter, Janitor, Cook, Busboy, Doorman, and Shoeshine Man, and the difference becomes painfully obvious. Of course the white man didn’t see it that way. He rationalized that the only reason the “colored boys” didn’t have their opportunities was a lack of intelligence.
It was even worse in the case of girls. White women were also suppressed by white men, who controlled industry and politics. So it was a natural progression that colored women had no chance at all to be more than Nannies and Housemaids.
At times throughout history, the downtrodden of the Earth have risen up against their oppressors, usually to be trounced. If they managed to survive, they were made to feel that it was their lot to be impoverished.
In the Sixties, several challengers to white dominance and oppression rose to some degree of power. Most were militant and had very little success. One, however, took a different tack, and attracted a groundswell of support, some of it even from the governing whites. His name was Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. He was a little known preacher from a small community in the deep South. He preached non-violence. He also espoused equality.
Gradually things began to change for the better for all Black people. They became God’s chosen. They were never “colored” again. The details of their forced immigration to the United States no longer made them inferior in their own minds. They were also making inroads into educational bastions that once were closed to them. Now that there was an effective Black lobby, the Federal Government opened the door both physically and monetarily to previously “unworthy” college and trade-school applicants.
It was in this enlightened environment that Sophie Green found herself as she entered her teen years. She felt good about her skin color. She had found a way to overcome the psychological depression that her physical appearance might have caused. She was a good person, and she knew it.
Sophie had always been an exceptionally gifted student at school. Now the difference was that there might be a reward for her hard work. She had always done well because she enjoyed it. Now, thanks to Dr. King, she might be able to realize her dream of becoming an English Teacher.
Sex was only a means of being wanted to Sophie. She gained little pleasure from it. But to the boys who were her partners, it seemed to be their ultimate reason for living. Her first encounter was while she was still thirteen. The boy tried to mount her while she was on her back on the ground, but her ample girth prevented connection. Her male partner, who was also thirteen, finally gave up, unrequited. The second try was with a high school boy. He knew enough to position Sophie on her side. It hurt at first, but soon it was not unpleasant.
Sophie’s love partners were always Black. Though once she wasn’t sure. The boy was a friend of one of her previous companions. His name was Daryl Collins. He went out with her for the obvious reason. He didn’t know that she was intelligent. All he knew was that she had put out before, so his chances of being lucky were good.
Daryl was different in a way. He wasn’t concerned about appearances. He took Sophie to a movie. Then they went to a hangout where they were seen by her friends and his. He held her hand. In public! Sophie wasn’t used to such good treatment. Her other “dates” were surreptitious. They hardly ever saw anybody.
When she and Daryl Collins were seated in the restaurant, Sophie asked innocently “How come you’re so white?”
Daryl laughed, as if it were not a serious question. “My Father is white. And I was told that, way back during the Civil War, my Great Grandfather on my mother’s side was a white man. Does that matter to you?”
“No. I was just curious. You’re the whitest brother I ever saw.” Her eyes were wide, as if to enunciate it.
“Yeah, I know. I feel a little uncomfortable with it. I wish I looked more like everyone else. I even tan in the Summer.”
Now it was Sophie’s turn to laugh. And a big woman like Sophie couldn’t chuckle softly if she tried. Everyone in the place turned to see what was so funny. Then they both roared with laughter.
Later, when they were coupled on a blanket on the ground in the woods near town, Sophie spontaneously said “I like you, Daryl.”
He answered, not just out of obligation, “I like you too, Sophie.”
It was good that they got along, t
he way things turned out. Not long after their very special date, Sophie missed a period. A doctor confirmed what she had felt almost from the beginning.
Her first thought was of abortion. Some of her friends had done the deed. In each case the boy-father had turned away from the responsibility. Sophie had no reason to believe Daryl would be any different.
She couldn’t bring a baby into her environment. She was just a child herself. How would she support herself and a baby too? But her natural maternal instinct was already in place, even though she was but fourteen years old. She wanted to find some way to have the baby, and keep it.
Somehow Daryl found out about her dilemma. He did not run away from his mutual responsibility. Instead he found her and not only did he comfort her, he asked her to marry him.
There was a special bond between them that had nothing to do with sex, or the fact that they had made a child together. They genuinely cared about one another. Perhaps it was love. Neither knew for sure. The maturity shown by her lover touched Sophie deeply. Tears came to her eyes as she accepted his proposal.
Daryl had a white friend who was a plumber’s assistant. The business was
expanding rapidly, and the owner was sympathetic to the young black boy’s predicament. He hired Daryl at a white man’s starting wage. He was not sorry. No one worked harder or studied more to succeed.
Things were working out so well that Sophie was only eight months along when she and the pale Daryl were married in front of a Justice of the Peace.
Had he lived, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. would have been proud to see that this young family was beginning to live his dream of equality. Though he might have been saddened by the responsibility forced upon them at such a young age.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In nineteen sixty-nine the Establishment realized that the Government had too many bureaucracies. It was a fact that the public already knew. So, in one case, the name of the old, established, Weather Bureau was changed to the National Weather Service. It was a stroke of genius. Get rid of a Bureau and establish a Service agency. Nothing else changed. It didn’t have to.
Weather probabilities also came along at about that time. That inspired some jokes. “Did you hear about the weather forecaster that was only right half the time, but got paid one hundred percent?”
Actually, the probabilities were, and still are, a good weather tool. The problems arose because the Weather Service did a poor job of marketing. For instance, say you want to go on a picnic. If the chance of rain according to the latest forecast is only thirty percent, you probably won’t change your plans. But if the probability is upped to sixty percent you may consider going to a movie instead. It’s not a major thing, just a convenience.
Consider the predicament of the raisin farmer in Fresno, California. To dry his or her grapes, there can’t be any rain at all. A forecast of ten percent in that fairly dry climate will bring an immediate halt to the process. The savings realized by the farmer who doesn’t lose his crop if the rain comes will eventually translate to lower prices for you at the supermarket. So probabilities can be a good thing.
Another area where the Weather Service shines (pardon the pun) is in frost forecasting. A farmer is looking for enough lead time to protect against the extreme cold. The generally accurate and timely frost forecast gives the fruit grower the few hours he needs for his preparations. Again the savings are passed on in lower consumer prices. If an orange crop in Florida is critically damaged, you can bet that the ones shipped from California and Arizona will quickly fetch a higher price.
The list of invaluable services goes on and on: Aviation forecasting, Hydrology to protect against floods, Avalanche potential. All are benefits the public takes for granted. They are necessary services paid for by a very small percentage of Federal taxes. The Weather Service also does good work in providing lead time to residents in the case of severe weather such as thunderstorms, tornadoes, and damaging winds.
It’s been said that it would take instrumentation to measure all the atmosphere constantly through the first thirty-six thousand feet above the earth’s surface to provide a forecast that is reasonably accurate at all times. Of course the public wouldn’t stand for the taxes required to do the job. Even if it could be financed, there would still be problems due to the rough surface of the earth, and the unequal heating of different areas; water, concrete, asphalt, treed forests. Well, you get the idea. It is because of all those stated reasons, and limited financial resources that the National Weather Service issues forecasts every six hours. If a major change occurs between routine publishings, a Special Weather Statement is prepared and disseminated immediately.
With that said, consider the case of Bob Brodinski. He was one of many forecasters working rotating shifts on a regular basis. It was his misfortune to be working the graveyard shift on the morning of January sixteenth nineteen seventy. It was his first mid shift of a set of two. Normally he would have tried to get a little sleep before reporting to work, but he had a date with a knockout blonde for dinner and a show. It was the only time they could get together.
He had met her on a Familiarization Flight. They were offered routinely to forecasters by the airlines, so that Meteorologists could better understand the problems faced by pilots, and vice-versa. She was a stewardess. Her home base was Seattle. It would be awhile before she might return to the bay area, so it was January fifteenth or maybe never for their encounter.
Dinner was great. The movie was so-so. He never did like subtitles, but it had been her choice. It turned out that most of her crew was there, too. Needless to say, they never made it to his place. They finished up at a downtown upscale bar. He had one too many drinks. He was drowning his sorrow at not bedding her. He went right from the cocktail lounge to work, leaving his date to get back to base with her pals.
Brodinski walked through the door chewing breath mints by the handful. He had never done that before. He was wishing that he hadn’t done it this time. He knew his head would be throbbing in an hour or two. He might have to rely on the aspirin in the medicine chest.
The first thing on the agenda was a briefing by the off-going forecaster. Being a lead man, all he was concerned with was preparing for zone and state forecasts. They had to be on the wire no later than four-thirty in the morning.
Each shift routinely faces one acute problem. It might be how much snow will fall in the Sierras, or how far the thermometer will drop in the agricultural valleys, or how much wind will blow across the Delta, or through the great valley.
On this particular night, it was a question of timing. Dense fog covered the Sacramento and San Joaquin Valleys. A very active storm system was moving onto the Oregon Coast. There was enough energy in the north winds behind the cold front to scour out the valley fog.
As the night went on, Brodinski decided that the pressure gradient down the valley would remain weak into the morning hours, so winds would not blow out the fog in the Central Valley until late afternoon. As he composed his wording, that theme was reflected in his Sacramento Valley forecast. Had he not been hung over, he would have noticed that the barometric pressure at Klamath Falls was rising rapidly. By seven AM, when he himself was relieved by Milt Yamaguchi, there was a strong, cold high pressure area centered over Oregon and a three millibar gradient between Klamath Falls and Redding, California. It was more than enough to trigger the winds.
Instead of monitoring all the parameters that would either verify or nullify his printed word, Bob Brodinski spent most of his last two shift hours in the bathroom. The aviation forecaster did pick up the discrepancy by six AM, but he was fairly new to the office, and did not want to make waves. The lead guy was nowhere in sight, anyway.
At radio station KYBA in Sacramento, Brent Beane was into the second hour of his shift. He walked to the teletype and ripped the new forecast from the ancient machine. He scanned it briefly while his commercial wound down, then he pushed the mike button.
“We’re Baaaaack.” He was the o
nly one there. But he felt better using the plural pronoun. It made people think it was a bigger station than it really was. With the weirdos out there, he felt safer making them think he was not alone. He had been around the block.
Beane was no spring chicken, as the saying goes. He’d had his shot at the big time and was on his way back down. He told his friends that he didn’t like the traveling that one had to put up with at the networks, and there just wasn’t enough action with the T.V. people. Actually he had been given a tryout with Mutual Radio. He really wanted the job, but he got aced out by a younger man. It was just as well. He heard the other guy was in Vietnam.
“We have the official weather right here at KYBA, just off the press.” The copy had been hanging from the teletype for over an hour, but it was still new to the crusty oldtimer. “If you’re tired of the gray, then this is your day.” Man he was good. “The fog will lift late this afternoon, and maybe even burn off to give you a few rays of old Sol.”
That was enough of that. Give ‘em what they want; Music. He hit the button on the turntabale, and the folk sounds of Peter, Paul, and Mary drifted out on the airwaves. Some stations were using cassettes now. KYBA was still holding back because of monetary constraints.
Beane was a little weary. His shift had started at four. He was off the air at nine, but he had to stick around until noon taping segments to be used the next weekend. It didn’t seem to matter how small the station, the work never let up. He planned to take a nap in the early afternoon. Then if the Sun did in fact come out, he might feel chipper enough to get in nine holes of golf.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“His daddy was a sharecropper.” When you hear that phrase it automatically conjures up images of rural Mississippi or Alabama. A ragged Negro is out in a hot field, toiling by hand, with his young’uns nearby, quietly going about the business of being children, while the Missus cooks over a cast iron stove in the thatched roof shack on one corner of the white farmer’s field.
