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... and experienced some rather amusing and crazy things during my eighteen-year-tenure at Atlantic Blueberry Company. One July morning in the mid- 1970 s a black man and woman pulled up to Field 29 on Weymouth Road where a Mexican crew was picking. The gentleman asked me if any black crews were on the farm. No! I politely answered.
The only black crew belongs to Frances Dantzler over at the May Landing Division Farm. Her pickers call her Miss Frances. Whats your name? the man requested.
John! I stated. Im the field manager in charge of crewleader's here! I proudly added. Well John, could you give me directions to the other farm you mentioned? the concerned fellow asked.
This woman wants to work. I provided accurate directions to the Black Horse Pike Farm and later that afternoon when I arrived there to pick up the yellow pay slips Miss Frances, a Bible toting chapter and verse quoter and a notorious stern disciplinarian accosted me at the guards gate situated between the parking lot and the plantation. John, whats the big idea of you sending that woman over here to my field this mornin? Miss Frances demanded. The man she was with asked me if I knew of any black crews working and yours was the only one, I innocently and defensively replied, so naturally I explained to the guy how to get to the Mays Landing Farm. Well John, for your information that black man was a lousy pimp and the lady that wanted work was a prostitute!
Miss Frances chastised. The next time someone wants to work for me please call Lopez on the radio so that I can meet them at the parking lot gate. Im a faithful churchwoman John! Im sure you know that! I dont tolerate no guff, drinking, drugs or sex in my field from anyone!
Ya hear what Im sayin! Yes Miss Frances! I answered with embarrassment and regret showing all over my crimson face. Once I was driving a New Jersey State Inspector around the enormous Weymouth Farm to show him that portable bathrooms had been placed next to all fields being picked that day.
No sooner did I finish boasting to the examiner how organized and efficient the farm was having six portable toilets on six different wagons that Modesto Flores would move around the mammoth farm to new fields. Soon the state inspector and I observed something that rendered itself as being rather humiliating to me. An old Mexican was washing his arms and face splashing murky water onto himself from an irrigation canal while a companion was urinating into the same canal only three feet from the first farm laborer. Thats a serious violation!
the Inspector yelled as he began jotting down notes describing the incident. But both men are only ten feet away from the portable toilets! I angrily hollered back in defense of Atlantic Blueberry's integrity. Its not our fault if these uneducated workers dont have or use common sense! Regardless John!
the Inspector maintained in an austere tone of voice. All your workers must be advised of the law and how it applies to them. Thats why we require sanitary facilities with sinks and toilets in the fields. And no worker can be more than a quarter of a mile away from the portable toilets! Those two men were only ten feet away from the portable bathroom! I vigorously argued.
How can the farm be responsible for individual irresponsible behavior? Thats for you, Modesto and the Galletta family to figure out! the incensed Inspector shot back. I wont give the farm a citation this time but I assure you next time I will! Another time I got into a heated argument with a young State Inspector in a field at the Mays Landing Farm. The over-aggressive inspector had found fault with a Cambodian kids working papers and brought the matter to my attention.
The school principal did not sign on the line at the bottom! the inspector insisted. The kid has an invalid working paper. Look!
I snapped back showing a degree of anger. There are two kinds of working papers. The first kind is for kids from twelve to sixteen that pick berries out in the field. The second kind like the one you have in your hand is for kids sixteen to eighteen that work near machinery, like any kid working up in the packing house. Obviously the school made a mistake by issuing the wrong working paper to this boy. He needed to be given the field working paper that does not require the principals signature and not the packinghouse working paper that does.
The young inspector became quite perturbed that I knew something about his job that he didnt. He pointed to his New Jersey Department of Labor badge hanging around his neck, which looked exactly like a regular policeman's shield. Im the authority out in this field! he boisterously and sanctimoniously hollered in my face. And I know exactly what Im doing! This guy is trying to badger me!
I sarcastically concluded. As the callow inspector was busily writing out the (crewleader's) citation for having a kid with an incomplete working paper a nasty fistfight broke out around fifty feet away. Two Cambodian roughnecks began brawling and then thrashing around in the bushes. Arent you going to break up the fight? I yelled at the already rattled inspector. Now's the time to use your badge and exercise your authority!
Thats your job and not mine! he volleyed back. Youre supposed to be the field boss here! I shook my head in disgust and called over the radio for emergency backup. Lopez showed up with six huge Puerto Rican associates and thanks to farm security order finally was restored and prevailed. On another occasion I was driving past the Aqueduct (also called the Artesian Well) that fed water into the Weymouth Farms main grand canal.
Laotian young men had killed a twenty-foot-long black snake and were standing on opposite sides of a smaller irrigation ditch using the dead serpent as a rope in a weird game of tug-of-war. Suddenly four vernal Laotians on the losing side of the deceased snake lost their equilibrium and then plunged into the shallow-water irrigation ditch below. Another time I had come across a group of Cambodians that were roasting a small animal on a makeshift rotisserie. I decided to stop my truck and chat with them for a moment. Whats that youre cooking?
I asked. Looks pretty delicious! Raccoon! a young fellow answered. Want some? Not really!
I laughed in total disbelief. Where did you get it? Up on the highway! a second kid replied while pointing out to Weymouth Road. Probably run over by a truck! That animal might have rabies, I warned.
Whats that? the first Cambodian kid asked. Its a bad disease! I cautioned. Make sure you roast that animal really good before you decide to eat it! Then one day in July of 2000 I received a call on my radio from Modesto Flores to drive out to Field 39 (Blue Crop variety) and transport a Cambodian to the dirt parking lot.
Is he sick? I inquired over the radio. No, Modesto said. Willie just called me over the radio and said that the guy ya gotta take to the gate is the owner of a car that just turned over in the parking lot. How did it turn over?
I inquired. According to Willie the driver had borrowed the car from the guy youre taking from Field 39, Modesto explained. The guy was drunk and my son Willie wouldnt let him drive the car into the fields, which isnt allowed anyway! And then to harass Willie, the crazy guy started drivin the car in circles real fast and then hit some soft sand and turned over! Serves him right! Does the guy Im gonna take to the parking lot know any English?
I asked. No! Modesto yelled into his receiver. And dont try tellin him anything either! Were gonna kick them both off the farm as soon as I get down to the parking lot myself! I picked up the puzzled owner of the car along with a friend and taxied them one mile down main elevated gravel roads to the dirt parking lot.
During the lengthy ride the two Cambodians were conversing with each other in their native tongue and I could tell by their expressions and by their gestures that they were wondering what the present in-progress excursion was all about. A funny thing happened on the way to the parking lot (sic, forum). When we finally reached our destination the owner of the white Toyota automobile noticed his vehicle resting upside down in the white sand and much to my astonishment the owner loudly yelled at the top of his lungs, What the hell! Oh shit!
At least he knows five words of English! I thought with a smile decorating my facial features. When I first began working at Atlantic Blueberry in 1986 I was basically unfamiliar with the various fields and their immediate environments. High reeds, weeds and grass would grow between certain fields and several times I assumed that roads continued from one field to another and then suddenly on at least six occasions I found my truck plummeting into small canals or into irrigation ditches. Then I would call Modesto on Farm # 1 or Lopez (Lopez) on Farm # 2 over the radio to come by and drag me out of my entrapment using sturdy chains as towlines.
But one time in the early eighties I had a really close call. I confidently and nonchalantly drove my empty bus # 54 up Puerto Rican Avenue (local farm reference) on Farm # 1 to the Columbian Highway (another local farm jargon term) that wended through a woods. The dirt and gravel trail led to seven distant and remote blueberry fields (located above Creek Road) that bordered on the Atlantic City Expressway. I was directed to help Mike Estrada bring the Home Gang to Field Number 14 (The Funny Field). Two buses doing the job could make the transportation of two hundred men a lot easier with fewer trips back and forth for the Home Gang foreman. At the end of the Columbian Highway was a wicked right angle curve that only a very skilled bus driver could negotiate.
I cautiously and slowly approached Deadmans Curve in my white # 54 bus and after getting half way around I feared that I had not sufficiently cut the angle. I panicked and then gingerly backed up, not realizing that my right front wheel was passing over soft sand. The bus began sliding to the left and I feared that my vehicle was going to topple over into a large canal. Luckily the bus stopped its slide down the rugged treacherous slope but then the front door couldnt be opened because it had become embedded in sand.
Furthermore the buss hood and engine had tilted sideways and motor oil had leaked out and gotten onto the hot engine causing fire and smoke to escape. Im trapped inside! I distress fully yelled to Mike and George Estrada over the radio. I attempted squeezing out one of the side windows of the old refurbished school bus but my body was too big and bulky. I tried escaping out the back door but it was rusty and would not open. Meanwhile smoke billowed and fire raged out from the buss very hot motor.
Then I remembered that there was an axe under the drivers seat and I was about to smash my way out of the back door when an alert Mexican managed to open the hood and throw handfuls of sand inside, thus effectively smothering the fire. A farm front-end-loader was summoned and it dragged the bus out of its precarious entrapment. Once back on level ground I finally was able to open the door and thank my rescuers. Thank heaven that the bus wasnt jammed with fifty screaming hysterical Mexicans! I solemnly thought. In the summer of 99 a tremendous-sized septic truck came rumbling onto Farm # 1 to empty and service the several dozen portable toilets strategically stationed between various fields being picked.
Apparently the in-a-hurry driver was behind schedule and he was speeding in the monster vehicle down the parking lot entrance road, which was elevated eight feet or so above parallel canals that existed alongside the hard gravel road. All of a sudden the immense trucks right front wheel hit a soft spot and before the speeding driver could steer the out-of-control Honey Wagon in the opposite direction the vehicles great weight made it skid and then wildly flip sideways down into the right-ride canal. I was the first responder on the scene and I stopped my vehicle on the gravel road, fearing that the septic truck driver had been killed, seriously injured or was unconscious. Hey, are you okay? I yelled down into the canal. Please answer me!
No response was forthcoming so I figured I should radio for help. After a third holler I noticed a hand and then a body slowing emerging from the drivers side of the cab, which was partially submerged in water so to me the fellow appeared exiting from a submarine hatch. The disoriented but unscathed driver climbed sideways out of the vehicles open window and a half hour later two large farm bulldozer operators collaborated to extricate the massive septic truck from the brackish-water canal. Luckily for the trucks navigator on that particular morning the ditch was not filled to its seven-foot-deep capacity.
On the Fourth of July in 2002 Modesto Flores summoned me over the radio to come to Field Number 23 (Duke Variety) in a hurry and to bring several large sheets of cardboard and a blanket from the office on the double. I immediately sped my truck towards the packinghouse. Whats wrong? I nervously asked into my radio. Whats going on Mo? A Mexican lady is having a baby and you and me are gonna be the doctors until an ambulance arrives!
Modesto screamed in a panic-oriented voice. I rushed to the office, obtained the aforementioned blanket, threw two sheets of cardboard in the back of my company truck and raced out to Field Number 23. Dr. Modesto was in the process of delivering the baby and its head was already sticking out of the womans womb.
I laid the cardboard down and handed Modesto the blue blanket. Quick John! Modesto ordered as I gazed in amazement at the spectacle before me. Go out on Weymouth Road in front of the packinghouse and wave down the ambulance thats been called.
Have them follow you to this field! I did as instructed and when the Hamilton Township emergency paramedics arrived I led them to the scene of confusion. When the rescue squad units vehicle came to a halt I noticed that the baby had already been delivered by Dr. Modesto and that the infant was being cuddled in its mothers arms with the umbilical cord still attached.
The woman and her newborn were immediately conducted to a nearby hospital to receive professional care. Thank God theyre werent any complications! I thought. Modesto has performed a minor miracle My daily routines with Atlantic Blueberry Company were conducted from mid-June to August 1, the length of the main blueberry harvest. The company raised over twenty varieties of berries with Dukes, Bluettas and Blue Crop being the most popular and abundant varieties. Many of the varieties were developed on Farm # 1 under the supervision of the Agricultural Department of Rutgers University, New Brunswick.
In fact the Duke name originated from Arthur Duke Galletta, one of Atlantic Blueberry's founders. The large and hearty Dukes had replaced the early-season Weymouth and Collins varieties that were popular and prevalent in the 1950 s, 60 s and early 70 s. The last variety of the season were the Elliott's, a tart berry used mostly for making pies and jellies. The Elliott's were handpicked a second time around August 10 th and then machine picked a final time thereafter. My workday started at around 5: 30 a. m.
and lasted until 5: 30 p. m. seven days a week for eight action-packed consecutive weeks. I only had off when it rained since the pickers couldnt work in the field, which in total amounted to around six days each summer. And I drove my company truck between the two farms and through dirt fields with dusty roads putting on an average of eighty miles on the odometer each and every day. The crews of various nationalities had to be kept in separate fields far apart from each other in order to avoid conflicts.
The Laotians didnt mix too well with the Vietnamese, who also had problems with the Cambodians. And the Mexicans didnt get along too well with the Guatemalans, and several times while driving around troubleshooting I had to send out a Mayday for help to break up altercations that would instantly flare up. In a matter of five minutes twenty farm trucks would converge on the scene of alarm to calm matters down. Two crewleader's that hated each other were Laotians Inxay Pathotagong and Khammy Pathong, who both claimed to speak ten languages including Chinese, English and Cambodian. Inxay (pronounced In-sigh) claimed to be a tank gunner in Laos during the time of the Vietnam War and Khammy (pronounced Ka-my) claimed that Inxay was nothing more than a flunky foot soldier and jeep driver working for him when Pathong was a Captain in the Laotian Army. I tended to believe Khammy's version of their Southeast Asia relationship because I knew that Inxay started out at Atlantic Blueberry as a field driver and loader for Khammy and then after gaining experience demonstrated his propensity for free enterprise and started his own crew and became a gang leader on his own initiative.
That for all intent and purpose explains the tremendous rift and fundamental animosity between the two strong-minded individuals. Both Khammy and Inxay always wore paramilitary clothing and heavy combat boots and had gold-framed front teeth showing in their mouths. The two carried knives concealed inside pocket sheaths that dangled from their waist belts. And with the strange farm environments having plenty of canals, ditches, high reeds, thousands of blueberry bushes and military jets from the nearby Pomona National Guard Air Base (located right next to Atlantic City Airport) practicing flight maneuvers above Atlantic Blueberry (with all of the Oriental and Mexican pickers peering up at the A- 10 Warthog jets) the place actually at times seemed like a foreign country to me.
The Galletta family made sure that they assigned Inxay to Farm # 1 and Khammy to the Route 322 Mays Landing Division to keep the two dedicated enemies eight miles apart from one another. Inxay would often hop up on the back of a pickup truck in Farm # 1 s dirt parking lot and violently yell out instructions to his scared workers in his native language as if he were Pol Pot or a formidable military general laying out battle plans to his hundred intimidated troops grouped below and around him. But Khammy once told me that he had worked closely with the CIA in Laos during the Vietnam War and that Inxay had never had the opportunity or the courage to shoot or kill anyone. Did you ever kill anyone?
I respectfully and warily asked Khammy. Yes, I kill many, many people! Khammy tersely answered. Did you shoot them with a rifle or pistol? I sincerely inquired. No!
Khammy curtly replied. I kill at least a hundred people with my knife! the maniac indicated as he removed his sharp weapon from his belt sheath and exhibited it to me. I cut their throat like this! he exclaimed as he gestured menacingly while wielding his knife. Okay Khammy, I believe you!
I remarked with great apprehension and feigned admiration. Now youre living in America so please put your knife away. Khammy had at least twenty-five red-bandanna Bloods working in his crew, which consisted mostly of a South Philly Oriental street gang whose tattooed members looked both fearsome and gruesome. One day at around 5 p. m. a New Jersey State Trooper followed a gang member off of Route 322 into Farm # 2 s parking lot with his patrol cars overhead red lights flashing.
No sooner did the trooper come to a halt when twenty or so Blood Cambodians surrounded his patrol vehicle and the thugs began throwing cherry bombs and firecrackers onto and underneath the cops car. The young trooper panicked and called for backup and in a matter of three minutes at least twenty State Trooper and Hamilton Township Police cars converged on the parking lot to successfully quell the disturbance. One day vindictive Khammy surprisingly showed up on Farm # 1 and drove out to Inxay's field, took out a rifle and hostilely began shooting at his prime foe. Inxay fled for cover inside a field of tall blueberry bushes.
The State Labor Inspectors had heard about the incident and issued five citations to Khammy citing the rifle confrontation along with other more minor outstanding labor-related violations the wily crew leader had accumulated. Look Frank, I told the Chief Inspector before Khammy's hearing inside his partitioned office in the State of New Jersey Hammonton Labor Building, this crazy guy Khammy is not wrapped too tight. Dont trigger him off or else he might have a flashback to Laos during the Vietnam War and then become volatile and uncontrollable! In fact, I elaborated, Khammy confided to me that he had personally slit at least a hundred peoples throats back in Laos and had mercilessly killed them without showing any conscience or remorse!
Look John, the Chief Inspector calmly answered, hes in the United States now and the rule of law prevails here. And besides, the Chief Inspector bragged, I myself was in the U. S. Army and I know how to defend myself if it is necessary!
The scheduled hearing commenced in a placid manner for the first ten minutes but when Khammy learned that the State of New Jersey was going to fine him five hundred dollars and revoke his Crewleader's license, the dysfunctional Laotian felt threatened and was provoked to take action. Khammy stood up and much to the Chief Inspectors astonishment and consternation removed his sharp knife from his belt sheath and then almost instantaneously lunged at the Chief Inspector, who spontaneously fled the room as if he were a rattled rabbit while I stupidly and foolishly wrapped my arms around Khammy's shoulders to prevent him from pursuing after his newly-declared adversary. But I must confess that Khammy had excellent discipline over his crew of Bloods, who all feared him worse than they feared either a hundred Los Angeles or South Philly blue bandanna Crips. His pickers always sent quality berries to the loading dock and his pay slips were always done correctly with hardly ever an error to be found. Khammy was organized and conducted his field as if it was a sophisticated military staging area, but the State of New Jersey and its Labor Department Inspectors viewed the dangerous and unpredictable cold-eyed surreptitious Pathong as if he were an FBI Most Wanted Criminal. In the winter of 2001 Khammy and three henchmen slipped into a Philadelphia factory where Inxay was managing a work crew and maliciously jumped his avowed rival, wantonly beating Pathatogong up badly.
Police warrants were issued for Khammy's arrest and the last I have heard of him the itinerant maverick is reported to be a fugitive from justice hiding out in either Alabama or Mississippi operating a fish store. The following summer Inxay (with his characteristic mercurial temper) had a disagreement with one of the owners of Atlantic Blueberry Company and the temperamental crew leader was promptly dismissed from the farm. Rumor has it that the Laotian now is the proprietor of an Oriental food store in West Philadelphia and his somewhat reputable new business caters to former Laotian, Thai, Vietnamese and Cambodian Jersey blueberry pickers. I presume with a degree of certainty that Khammy Pathong is not one of Inxay Pathatogongs current steady customers.
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