This Big Rig comes once a week at four in the morning loaded with food and sundries for our local McDonalds.
Day shift employees shuttle boxes on dollies into the storeroom, and they are not quite even done by five a.m. when the Icon’s doors open to us senior customers.
This produce has been picked in other states and other countries in early morning hours by field hands, bent and stooped, paid by the pound or piece for their labor, talking foreign languages as they work the dirt. This food is guaranteed and the coffee comes from Colombia or Guatmala as well as the people who serve us.
When the rig is unloaded, its driver has papers signed and then pulls out of the drive up lanes, his workday done and his truck empty.
Farms these days are out of sight. Most Americans believe themselves too busy to pick oranges, run farm tractors, stoop under the sun.
What we will all do when the truck doesn’t arrive will make a dynamite news story.
Our American world has become so mechanized and digitalized, I mostly stay out of the way that which can grind me up.
I need to take a trip to a working farm myself and pick produce under a hot sun, laughing with other workers when we sip cool water from a wooden bucket with a wood ladle.
When we eat, we should know where the food came from that sustains us, and who used part of their life to get it to us.