I WAS BORN in October 11, 1934 in a little town in the middle of the great San Joaquin Valley in California: Tulare. I was raised in a nearby town named Kingsburg. The founding fathers of this small town were thinking of naming it Wheatville because of the vast fields of wheat flourishing there. However, they finally named it Kingsburg for the Kings River that runs next to it. This river originates in the majestic King’s Canyon in Sequoia National Park. I remember as a young boy splashing and swimming and fishing happily in this river. The farmers tapped the Kings River for their orchards, vineyards, and fields in the rich fertile sandy loam that is ideal for growing peaches, plums, apricots, grapes, onions, strawberries, watermelons, cotton, olives, melons, etc. At times, it would overflow its banks as a result of heavy rains. Any crops next to it would be submerged under feet of water. Like the Nile in Egypt, the waters left another layer of rich soil as the waters receded. We were living smack in the middle of the most productive and richest land in the U. S., if not the world. Our cotton production rivals that of Egypt for its quantity and quality. Our wines compete with those of France. In fact, when France’s vineyards were decimated by disease, California vintners supplied the rootstock for the replanting of French vines. The valley is peppered with small towns; some just a collection of a few buildings and homes. Modesto, Merced, Selma, and Fresno are immediately to the north; Dinuba, Orange Cove, Lemon Cove, Sanger and Reedley to the East: Tulare, Visalia, Lindsay, Porterville, Three Rivers and Hanford to the south; and Lemoore, Dos Palos to the West.

MY FATHER was from Purepero, Michuacan, Mexico. He first came here as a ten year old boy with his father - whom I never knew - by walking across the border from Mexico. As a young boy, they worked in the mines in Arizona. My father claims that his father died as the result of the working conditions of the mines. I remember my father working as a sort of majordomo, or foreman, whose job was to help supply the workers that labored in the fields or orchards. He helped negotiate the wages that the workers were to receive and, would handle the payroll when the job was done. He had a circle of good friends, usually farmers and men from different backgrounds, usually field hands. He was very outgoing and friendly. Whenever I walked with him or rode in our little Ford, almost everybody waved to him.

It was very critical that the crops be harvested at a certain time as to ensure their timely delivery to market. If they were picked too soon or too late, the harvest was in danger of not being acceptable in the marketplace. When as a very young boy, I pretended to be helping my father irrigate the fields, vineyards and orchards. I loved that slice of time in my life. I still consider myself extremely lucky to have been in this place in time. My mother was born in beautiful Santa Barbara, California. Her father was from somewhere in Mexico and his father was Indian who wore his long black hair down to his shoulders. My mother labored just as hard as the rest of us.