Epitaph for a Peach by David M. Masumoto

to spend with my family, and when we hug they’ll smell my flesh.
    But I hope no one drops by and sees the bags of fungicides. I imagine a skeptical neighbor stopping in, grinning as I dump the toxic powder into my sprayer, nodding his head in an I-told-you-so fashion. Later he may call me a hypocrite or remark that I’ve regained my senses. I guiltily imagine a stranger judging my work, ignoring my green cover crops with their ladybugs and lacewings, never acknowledging that I’ve changed my farming practices to safer, less destructive pest controls. All the stranger will see and remember is my last decision: I’m the farmer who uses a poison on his grapes.
    I am reminded that in some valley wells they have found traces of a chemical called DBCP (dibromochloropropane) in ground water aquifers. DBCP was linked to sterility in males and is now banned in the United States. My dad used some DBCP years ago. It was supposed to kill nematodes, microscopic pests that chewed up roots. No one knew it would contaminate drinking water. Neighboring city folks are angry with farmers for damaging their water supply. “How could you farmers poison the water?” they ask.
    My dad didn’t choose to pollute the water table. He did nothing illegal. He simply trusted the chemical company and the governmental regulatory agencies. He made a decision based on a recommendation from a pest control consultant, advice that turned out to be bad. Dad acknowledges his mistake and asks, “What do you want me to do now?”
    Yet I still hear angry people who blame the farmers. “Those farmers used the poison, didn’t they? It was their choice, wasn’t it?” Newspapers write headlines: FARMERS CONTAMINATE THE ENVIRONMENT . Farmers are portrayed as polluters. People remember your last decision as your only decision. My dad grows embittered. Suddenly I feel even more torn about my decision to spray.

chapter seven
a family farm
    Family Dinner Tables
    I work a family farm. My parents, wife, and children spend time in the fields. They help with chores and give advice and suggestions. Their presence inspires and motivates. My extended family also influences the way I farm, either through conversations, comments, and occasional criticism or through my memories of growing up with uncles, aunts, and cousins on the farm. They are part of the historical landscape that defines my family farm. Even Marcy’s family plays a role.
    Marcy’s extended family has been farming for generations in the rich Wisconsin dairy land region. I’ve discovered an odd affinity with her family and their farm communities. They’re German Catholic and Lutherans instead of Japanese American Christians and Buddhists. They have dairies and cows and grow corn, while we in California have peaches and grapes and make raisins. But we both share a strong sense of family, something that is keenly displayed at the dinner table.
    Marcy’s Grandma Rose reminds me of my baachan. Both surviving farm matriarchs have outlived their spouses by decades, continue to value hard work, and remain deeply spiritual and physically strong. They consider family meals a centerpiece to farm life, though their approaches differ greatly.
    Grandma Rose comes to life in the planning and serving of family dinners. She considers homegrown produce superior to anything store-bought. A neighbor’s gift of garden peas is welcomed at meals, and bartered goods—beans for a granddaughter’s baby sitting services—achieve special homegrown status. She values knowing where foods come from and who is responsible for them; she honors them by attaching names to dishes. Around the dinner table I can hear, “Please pass Glady’s squash” or “Little John’s first deer venison sausage.” Even my California raisins have a place at the table; after Marcy and I were married, she called them “Mas’s raisins.”
    Food often