Flower Farming in Southern Oregon.

January 20, 1987 Friday. Just drove up to a flower farm to enquire about picking as employment. They've been advertising in the local paper but I never could get an answer ofver the phone, so I went to see them. Where I thought they were. The other day I picked up a hitchhiker wwwho was looking to go there. He said to take the road north on this western edge of Myrtle Point "about three or four miles". and there'd be flower beds along the road. Today I went up it, three miles, 4, 5 , 10... I was about to give up. I pulled up to a farmhouse along the road and knocked. The farmer and his plump dalmation greeted me. I told him what I was looking for. He said I was going the right way; don't give up!

Beautiful countryside: tall hills, some wooded, some pasture, occasional big fields in the valley bottoms. A quaint church ruin, which I plan to photograph and paint some day. Log trucks passed by from time to time, loaded with old growth and younger logs. I cruised on, following the winding road for another few miles. Saw a small field of trimmed flowers on the right, then a young man was thumbing. I stopped to pick him up or get directions. I'd just passed the place. I found it, drove along the gravel road to a collection of big sheds.

There were a couple hundred acres of flat tilled fields, each pair of furrows embracing a raised line of plants. The fellow there let me fill out an application, said he'd call me Monday or Tuesday with work time. Could make a decent amount of money.

Monday January 23, 1987. A day at the flower field.

I get up at 7:30 am and got dressed, checked my assembled flower-picking gear, had tea, and tried to eat some cold-soaked oats but couldn't finish them Had a good lunch packed, though.

The neighborhood semi-delinquents assembled on the steps of my apartment building. puffing cigarettes and snickering about other teens. Out of a desire not to become known to the local punks, as well as a slight fear of embarassment if my car did its usual 1,2,3 conk outs before starting in front of their scornful eyes, I anxiously watched my clock, wound it and waited for the little swine to evacuate the premises.

Finally at 8:30 they drifted away to the neighboring highschool and I was able to start my car in peace and solitude.

Off I went, the same 17 miles as before, though this time, logging trucks came down past me several times on the road. Then I was there, pulling into the graveled, high-centered road into Sun Valley Farm. Pulled by a workshed and into the parking lot, left most of my gear in the car and went into the employees room where Pat greeted me by having me copy my application form over in pen. (I'd written it originally in pencil). Done.

He gave me tips on keeping the paperwork straight and then gave us our arms: a cord belt with the tools of the craft hung on it, a leather sack with a bunch of plastic tags. These were large rectangular pieces the length of a cigarette, describing the plant followed by a brief note "from the plant", a daffodil, in which the plant says that Iit might be open or closed, but either way just nip away the bottom inch of the stalk and it would live a long life.) There was also a wooden block hooked to the belt which kept the rubber bands to be twisted around the flower bunches.

A small knife completed our gear. It had curved sides, rather like a wide dull potato peeler, only sharp at the end. This was to be dangled from my wrist by a knotted chain of rubber bands

It wasn't raining, so we walked with Pat (we meaning me and Ken, a webfoot Oregonian who also started work that day. I was carrying my raincoat and wearing a pullover wool jacket with a shirt under it. We squelched our way through the muddy road to the picking zone, where about fifteen others, all in rain gear, were stooping and rising, stooping and rising as they picked daffodils. I and Ken were introduced anto the field supervisor, a crinkly friendly woman who had us fill out our forrms and showed us the technique.

One walks alongside the raised bed, discerns an apprpriately developed bud, grasps the stalk an inch below the bud and pulls it over and down, baring the base of the stalk where the bud stem intersects the base of the leaves, and then neatly guillotines it with a gentle stab, the blade of the knife travelling along the inner curved surface of one fothe leaves and through the exposed flower stalk base.

When partially through the stalk, the stalk snaps because of the pressure which one is exerting at the top of the stalk.

One then adds the decapitated bud stalk to the other ones resting in one's left hand. When ten have been cut, the plastic tag is placed on the surface o f the cluster of stems, and a rubber bande is snapped wtice around it. The bundle is then unceremoniously dropped on the muddy face of the raised bed and the picked begins again.

Over and over I did this. Tug, stab, bundle, for a final daily total of 145 bundles. Not all that many perhaps, but a very good showing for a beginner, said Pat, when I checked out at 4:30, muddy and tired.

Thursday. A day off from picking. I spent all of yesterday plucking daffodils in rain and shine, boots squshing in the mud between the raised beds. Reminded me of World War One trench warfare. Squish, squelch, squish. Bend, tug, stab, bundle, drop, bend, tug, stab, bundle, drop, again and again for 8 hours. A beautiful valley though, tall second growth forest and luxuriant brush.

Funny...Not a single weed or insect along the rows and rows of flowers, despite the rich soil. I should presume that I'm in the midst of a pesticide zone. Herbicide, too; probably poisoning myself Oh well.

Ran out of my vitamins. Went and got more at the drug store. I was concerned as my intensity level appeared to be slowly lowering. Glad I got more...

After work. The pain in the lower back somes slowly gradually, a slight throb below the kidneys that never really builds into a sharp CRACK! of plain, just spreads across the sacrolumbar area, until a rich symphony of dull aches, a kind of fugue really, that progresses as one stoops, pauses, scanning the daffodil leaves, then rises in intensity as one swoops down to grab the flower stalk, slides blade down it, stretch nearly horizontal with a twist of hand and spine, then the crescendo builds and appears as with a lightning thrust, one jabs the exposed xylem in half and rises to the standing position.

Not crippling pain, certainly. Still not a smart career move. I'll work there until...?

Sunday morning. I was supposed to call up at the bulb farm. Samizu and Jeannie, her boss, had gotten calls asking me to call Pat To tell the truth, I was kinda hoping I'd been fired. My back isn't the strongest (nor the weakest) but there's no point in stressing it out too much just for minimum wage. No sirree.

Well, heck. I called the farm and Pat glumly announced my release from employment. I was secretly delighted.

End.

Ron Huber transcription from paper diary.