The Music of Bees Eileen Garvin (best autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

successful. It was popular with Mexican and white families alike—a rare common space for the two communities in Hood River. It wasn’t just Evangelina this attack would hurt either, Alice knew. Her longtime employees counted on sending money to their families back home in Mexico.

Ron swore and rubbed his hand over his face.

“Rich said he was going to leave a message on the ICE tip line—as a way to get back at me through you guys, of course. I thought about calling Evie myself, but my Spanish is terrible, and I wanted to make sure she understood. I’m really sorry, Ron,” Alice said.

Ron sighed. “It’s not your fault, Alice. Rich Carlson is such a little weasel. And you should know none of that is true. Evie runs a tight ship, especially these days. She’s practically running a free legal aid firm, helping people renew their work permits and apply for permanent residency and citizenship. You’re not the first person to tell me this, by the way. Carlson. The little shit. No surprise he is helping spread that around. Thanks for letting me know.”

Alice felt her shoulders relax. So many people thought immigration was a black-and-white issue—legal or illegal. It was so much more complicated than that. Here in the valley they all lived with the gray. More than 25 percent of the year-round residents of the county were Mexican-American. Many orchard workers were Mexicans who worked seasonally in Oregon and went home in the winter. Status was a tricky question. Her father had taught her that it simply wasn’t anyone’s business.

“These blowhards want to deport every last person who doesn’t have a green card,” Al would fume. “These families have been here for generations. They pay taxes. They have the right to be here, and we should make it easier for them to stay.”

Ron shifted on the bench. His face broke into a smile.

“So, you told old Rich Carlson to take a long walk off a short pier. Good for you, Alice,” he said. “What are you going to do now?”

She said she didn’t know. She said first she had to see this thing through with the Watershed Alliance lawsuit and the plan to protest the spray Friday after next. She unfolded the map and showed Ron the orchards on the route. She told him about Doug Ransom’s list and pulled it out of her pocket, smoothing it with her hand. Seeing Doug’s graceful handwriting made her think of her father again, and she felt a surge of optimism.

Ron held out his hand. “Let me see that list,” he said. “I want to help.”

25 Robbing

Bees are so prone to rob each other, that, unless great precautions are used, the Apiarian will often lose some of his most promising stocks.

—L. L. LANGSTROTH

The day of the protest dawned cold, as if spring were unwilling to let go of the valley even as the blossoming orchards and farms leaned toward summer. The wind, which had blown all night, had diminished to a fluting breeze that found its way into all corners of Alice’s farm. The hives were quiet as the bees waited for the sun’s warming to call them forth.

Alice sat on the edge of the bed and surveyed the photographs on her dresser—pictures of her parents, her nephews, and Buddy. The most recent photo of Buddy had been taken just a week or so before he died. He was standing next to the cab of the big long-haul truck he’d been leasing for months, grinning like a teenager.

“I feel like such a man behind the wheel of this thing,” he told Alice that day, laughing.

He stood with his hands on his hips and stuck his chest out. “Go ahead. Ask to see my man card.”

“You are an overgrown boy, Bud Ryan,” she said. “You watch yourself, or you’re going to have every man-child in this valley down here wanting to drive your new toy.”

Bud had taken her for a ride through town before he left for his first job, which took him to Salt Lake City and back as a contract hauler for Home Depot. Alice had to admit that the view from the high seat was fine, and she knew Bud, who loved to drive, would have a good time on the open road. When he returned from that first trip, his contagious enthusiasm made her promise to go with him on his next trip down to the Southwest. She’d take a vacation for once, she said. But she hadn’t gotten around to it. She was busy; he kept driving. And then Bud took that final trip to Las Vegas, and that had been that.

Alice still couldn’t remember the last thing he had said to her or she to him. Surely it was something routine, some kind word. They never fought. She didn’t remember kissing him goodbye, though she must have, or what he’d been wearing. During the first weeks after his death, the compulsion to remember such details kept her awake. She wandered her house at all hours trying to remember. But now she understood that none of that mattered. Bud was gone, and nothing would change that, nor the fact that they had loved each other.

Alice ran a brush through her hair. Bud would approve of what she was doing. The thought braced her. The events of the past two weeks were a blur—meetings with Stan and his partners, visits to orchardists around the valley, and texts back and forth with Ron, who, true to his word, had pitched in and called on some of the valley farmers in person. Alice had recruited Chuck Sauer and the bee group to the effort too. Jake’s young friend Celia had connected them with the Mexican-American Workers Union. The Riverkeeper people were bringing college students out from Portland. Alice tightened her belt. She felt as if she were marching into battle.

With Cheney