Epitaph for a Peach by David M. Masumoto Page B

at dinner. Her excuse was that she needed to determine how much rice to wash; I believe it was really her strategy for gathering the family for a meal.
    Sometimes she’d walk out into the fields and flail her arms, waving to get my attention. When I’d see her, panic would run through my thoughts. “What happened? Was there an accident at home?”
    But she would simply ask, “Gohan?”
    I would nod and commit to stay at home for family dinner. She would trot home, her mission completed: a teenage grandson taken care of for another evening.
    I most vividly remember Baachan carrying buckets of vegetables or fruit from the fields into the kitchen for meal preparation. She’d balance two buckets, one in each hand, both filled so full that the top layers had to be individually stacked in a pyramid design, each fruit strategically placed to hold the one above it. As she trudged along the dirt path, I could see her dust shadow trailing behind her. She would drag her feet slightly in order to glide across the uneven terrain. The buckets pulled her arms, whose blood vessels protruded from the weight; the wire handle must have felt like a knife cutting into her palms. I could see her knuckles turn white. Yet she journeyed on, intent on delivering her contribution.
    During meals, Baachan would remain quiet, sitting in a corner rather than at the head of the table. As soon as we were done, she’d pounce on the dirty dishes and start putting away leftovers. Wasting food was not tolerated. She didn’t say much about a wasted plateful of food, but by piling it on a single tray for our dogs and letting it sit for all to see, she communicated clearly.
    Despite being born and raised on opposite sides of the earth, both grandmothers share a common history of poverty that made simply getting food on the table a challenge. They must shake their heads at today’s change in attitudes—being wasteful, especially with food, remains a sin for them. Not only is food part of their livelihood, it carries a special significance: a communion with family.
    I wonder if my peaches belong to a past generation, those who savor produce and value the taste of natural foods. Sun Crests are not to be consumed like fast food. I agree with my grandmothers when they call my peaches “family food.”
    Knowing Your Father’s Work
    I return to my daily field walks and watch the peaches and grapes grow fat. Perhaps only a farmer would find it exciting to begin talking to himself in conversations filled with farmer jargon. “The fruit needs to put on size.” “They’re just beginnin’ to break color.” “I can see the first blush with just a hint of jet green.”
    The cover crops and weeds mingle in the fields. In some places the clover dominates and grows like a green carpet, in others the weeds have taken over and choke the earth with their thick stalks. I wonder how much they compete for water, nutrients, and root space.
    Sometimes the family takes an evening walk or bike ride with me, but I make a poor companion unless the topic centers on the farm, on peaches or water or weather. I can’t help but stop and pull a weed as we walk, making a mental note about a broken vineyard wire or noticing a sagging tree limb I will need to prop. Sometimes I jam a stick in the dirt along our path as a reminder, flagging the spot for work tomorrow.
    Even if I try to concentrate on a conversation about Marcy’s work or Nikiko’s school or two-year-old Korio’s entry into a new childhood phase, my metaphors revolve around the farm. I try to compare Marcy’s work with farming, but vines and trees do not behave like her staff or hospital management team members, although sometimes my pest control strategies would seem more appropriate for her challenges. Niki’s daily school lessons are more like mine. We both share a hunger for discovery and new knowledge, but also wish to have our