I took a walk yesterday to the former site of the gladiolus farm where I worked for two summers at the start of high school. The work had been strenuous, the pay minimal. Frank Gruber, the retired farmer who managed the day to day operations, maintained a pay scale for farm labor that had been frozen at 60 cents per hour since the 1950s.
My schoolmates the Wagner brothers and I would weed the acres of gladiolus plants by hand. Frank forbad us from wearing gloves for fear that we would yank up the sword-shaped gladiolus leaves along with the weeds. It took a week of blisters until our hands toughened up. Sometimes we would also be allowed to harvest the flowers. Frank would give us a water bucket to serve as a vase, knives, and a special knife sanitizing solution to avoid the spread of "white break", which was some kind of flower leprosy.
Frank's son Albert was the actual boss of the operation. Albert, a husky tool-and-die man with a statuesque knockout of a wife, might have seemed an unlikely flower grower. The story was that a schoolteacher had berated Albert in class for being ignorant of the gladiolus flower. This public humiliation spurred Albert to learn all that mankind has ever discovered about gladioli, to start his own gladiolus business supplying local florists, and to ultimately show championship glads at the State Fair. His floral career was an inspiring example of constructive overcompensation.
The Gruber family had diverse personalities. Albert was a serious man but would patiently answer any question you might have about the gladiolus flower. Frank was a talkative old German, always ready to tell stories about the working man's life in the Depression. "You young punks have it easy," he would often declare. Frank's wife was a quiet, busy woman. She was nice enough but didn't believe in socializing with the hired hands.
In general, the old Germans of this era were not great encouragers. I probably received five "young punk" reprimands from Frank for every word of encouragement. Frank's highest praise, reserved for exemplary performance, was the shout of "Now you're steamboating!" One of the Wagner brothers and I received it once.
Frank and his wife passed away long ago. The farm was sold to the Eagle supermarket chain, who built a store that failed to prosper. Nothing is left now but a half empty strip mall. The gladiolus fields have been replaced by a small park and a housing subdivision. I walked around the area yesterday and felt a bit blue.
I can still picture the gladiolus farm in my mind. I know how far I walked from the street to get to the farmhouse door. I can picture Frank's pop machine on the porch, about ten feet to the right of the front door. He sold Nesbitt's sodas: orange, grape, and fruit punch. I know how far to walk around the farmhouse to reach the sheltered garden where Albert raised his show-quality glads with their long spikes of gorgeous water-color blossoms. And beyond lay the long hillside of the gladiolus field.
I have vivid memories of the physical layout of a farm that no longer exists. This is a bit like having the phantom pain of a missing limb.
