How we cite our quotes: (Chapter.Paragraph)
Quote #7
In the latter part of October, after the grape season was over, we left Mr. Jacobson's vineyards in Fresno and headed for Corcoran to pick cotton. As we drove down the narrow, two-lane road, we passed vineyard after vineyard. Stripped of their grapes, the vines were now draped in yellow, orange, and brown leaves. Within a couple of hours, the vineyards gave way to cotton fields. On both sides of the road we were surrounded by miles and miles of cotton plants. I knew that we were approaching Corcoran. (8.1)
Okay, we know the seasons can be scary and all that, but here the changing seasons also sound kind of pretty. This setting tells us a lot about how one season ends and another begins. Right after Francisco and his family pass all the empty grape vines, they spot cotton plants ready to be harvested—and that means lots of work. Do you think the impending hard work makes the changing seasons less pretty, or is it a good thing because his family will have work? Can the seasons be both scary and appealing?
Quote #8
On both sides of the road we passed endless fields of harvested cotton plants. From their dry branches dangled cotton fibers left during the first picking. They were frozen from the cold. In the distance ahead of us, Papá spotted a white speck and a cloud of thick black some. […]
I took my hands out of my pockets and started picking and piling the cotton in the furrow. Within seconds my toes were numb and I could hardly move my fingers. My hands were turning red and purple. (8.31, 33)
Just in case we needed a reminder of why time matters in farming, here it is: once it's too cold, not only are the plants frozen, but the workers are too. Here it's so cold that Francisco can't even get the job done, even though he tries really hard.
Quote #9
It was that time of year again. Ito, the strawberry sharecropper, did not smile. It was natural. The peak of the strawberry season was over, and in the last few days the workers, most of them, braceros, were not picking as many boxes as they had during June and July. […]
When the sun had tired and sunk behind the mountains, Ito signaled us that it was time to go home. "Ya esora," he yelled in his broken Spanish. Those were the words I waited for twelve hours a day, every day, seven days a week, week after week. And the thought of not hearing them again saddened me. […]
Yes, it was that time of year. When I opened the front door to the shack, I stopped. Everything we owned was neatly packed in cardboard boxes. Suddenly I felt even more the weight of hours, days, weeks, and months of work. I sat down on a box. The thought of having to move to Fresno and knowing what was in store for me there brought tears to my eyes. (9.1, 3, 5)
Wow—the changes here seem pretty inevitable. It's almost like Francisco has gotten really used to this way of moving through time and he's not even going to try to escape it. And since he says he want to cry, we're getting the impression that he's not too thrilled about how the seasons keep changing up his life. Is there anything to look forward to in these changes, or are the changing seasons bad news all around?