by Donna Swagerty Shreve
My first experience with hand picked stolen food was at my grandmother’s farm. My brother and I spent many a hot summer day escaping to the vast dairy farm in Escalon. A visit with our Grandma became our own magical playground.
Grandma was quite a cook and there were times when she needed our help picking berries so she could make a fresh blackberry pie. That delicious pie stands out as a mixture of chore and treat.
Grandma’s berry patch grew a bit behind her house. There were poles and strings which helped the berry vines climb up almost beyond our reach in several rows. The wasps had other ideas about who had rights to the berries. Somehow we were able to fill the colander without a sting but it sometimes became a pitched battle.
Stealing from wasps doesn’t really count but how about stealing food from the State of California? My best friend had a home on Pershing Avenue in Swain Oaks. Pershing Avenue stopped at the, then State Farm. The theory in the 1950s was to put mentally ill men back on a farm to help heal them.
My friend and I were nine years old and full of adventure, so we climbed over the fence that separated her property from the forbidden farm. The furloughs seemed huge and on top of many rows were the carrots. We helped ourselves to several carrots and then decided to venture further into the fields toward a tool shed located much farther from her home. Her mother had given very explicit instructions not to wander into the state farm property.
High with the adventure of our naughty exploits, my friend dared me to go inside the shed. Being known as a dare devil, I took the challenge. I remember it being rather dark but I as ventured further into the shed, I quickly saw movement from one of the corners. An inmate had been taking a nap and suddenly awakened to find a young girl with a carrot in each hand staring at him.
I screamed and dashed out of the shed and the two of us set a new track record in the high hurdles as we scampered back to her house. The older guy seemed quite spry and he chased us almost all the way back. After we scurried over the fence and quickly retreated into her house, he turned and went back to the shed.
We had dropped our carrots in our flight but we did have to confess our sin to my friend’s mother as we entered the back door to the house panting like crazy and with eyes as wide as we could stretch them. We now knew why she was so adamant about us not venturing into the farm.
Swagerty-Aldrich Family Web Site 