Another year of strawberry festivities has come to a close. If you are a Florida native, or snowbird, you are familiar with the famous Strawberry Festival celebrated in Plant City, Florida. To our family, it holds a closer more significant meaning.
My father spent much of his entire life as a farm worker. From his upbringing in Mexico, to his days as a mojado and beyond. When Toledo Steel Tubing closed its doors in the early 80’s and with no formal education, our family resorted to becoming full-time migrant workers. On the advice of a friend my dad had in Ohio, he suggested we head south to Florida. Plant City to be exact. There is plenty of work there. Enough to provide for our family. Thus began the decades we spent living two lives, in two worlds.
Year over year we’d travel from Ohio to Florida. Packing up our lives each May to arrive in Ohio for tomato and cucumber summers, spending a few short weeks in school before the school year ended. Then in November, we’d pack back up and head down to Florida for strawberry, orange and grapefruit picking seasons. Then again, in May, the cycle started over again.
It was in 1988, when my parents drove to Plant City High School to enroll my sisters in school, our lives took a dramatic turn. My dad stayed behind in the car to wait for my mom. Much time had passed, my dad grew anxious, and went in to investigate what was taking so long. My mom, with enthusiasm told my dad she was inquiring about getting a job at the school. My dad dismissed her comments. “You don’t speak good English.” he stated. “You don’t need to speak good English to do this.” she stated as she made the motion of wiping a table. Tired of the years of migrating to and from Ohio. My mom saw the job as a custodian as a way out of the fields. She would have a job year round, with benefits, and the stability we needed to no longer be taken out of school twice a year.
I admire my parents for their bravery. My mom’s desire to excel, always serving as a role model to her kids to strive to achieve more. It’s quite interesting how a simple fate of being a migrant family, exposed us to a community of educators both in Ohio and Florida which helped my parents learn how they could set us up for success. All we needed was the work ethic of our Pa and the desire for more like our mom.
My memories of the years we spent in the strawberry fields is vague. I recall weekends in the old brown panel station wagon waiting for what felt like an eternity for my parents to finish work for the day. To occupy our time, my brother and I would play in and around the car. Mom would come check on us periodically. If we got bored of playing, we’d accompany our parents in the field. They’d hand us a pint and tell us to run ahead, and grab the biggest berries we could find. Those would become the toppers of each flat. I recall the wire cart my parents would push down each isle, as they worked on their knees or bent over, sun up to sun down. All to provide for us.
Fast forward decades, strawberries and the festival play a significant role in our family’s history. Our church, St. Clemente Catholic Church, hosts the Build Your Own Shortcake booth. My parents volunteer every year, my mom at the venue and my dad at the church hall uncapping the berries. For 11 days, they work tirelessly to enjoy the annual appreciation dinner, which is probably in my dad’s top ten events each year. Food, beer, dancing and celebration; a reward for his hard work. And this year, after decades of volunteer work, my parents were recognized in the volunteer hall of fame. I’m so incredibly blessed we were there to witness their recognition. To spend every single year volunteering and celebrating with them. The road was long and tough, but life’s been berry sweet to us!
Gazing North 