Helping My Father

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
had to publish this somewhere for school and it's not very good.

Submitted: May 15, 2017

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Submitted: May 15, 2017

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Helping My Father

I think I started helping my father when I was nine years old. We were living in Colorado Springs and he worked in stucco. He would take me to pick up all of the trash and bring materials to him when he needed them. I loved being high up and climbing the scaffold but my dad would scold me for doing that. I was a kid so I wasn’t even allowed to be on the lower levels.

When we moved to Mexico, my family had to pick coffee on my father’s plantation. But picking coffee wasn’t the only job on the plantation. My dad would bring all the men in the family to clean the land of weeds growing around the coffee plants. This was my favorite job because I got to swing a machete around. It was hard work because there wasn’t just dirt so we had to be careful not to hit rocks and chip our machetes. It felt really bad to hit a rock, or to hear someone else hit one, because the chipping ruins the machete. There was also many dangers like snakes, scorpions, or other wild animals in the area. Despite these risks I never really felt like I was in danger. I can remember one time that I hit a vine that had a wasps nest on it and I was stung right above my eye. My whole face was swollen and itchy for maybe about a week.

My father and his brothers also had a corn field. Sometimes we would hire a tractor to plant the corn but when we couldn’t we would have to do it ourselves. We had to be bent over all day and the rows of raised soil seemed to go on for miles. After the corn sprouted we also had to fertilize everything by hand. It was the same exhausting process of being bent over but this time throwing nitrogen near the stem of the corn. Then we would have to spray the entire area with pesticides. We had to carry 15 to 20 liter pumps on our backs and walk back and forth spraying the crops. The first time I did it I couldn’t even get past half of the field before my right hand went numb and I wasn’t able to use the pump. The corn that was produced on that field wasn’t even harvested, all of it was chopped, rounded into huge bunches and left to dry. Once it was dried, all the piles were ground up and put into many different sacks. This would be the pasture to feed the cows my dad and his brothers had. Taking care of the cattle was another job my father’s family had. We would sometimes have to herd the cattle on horses to different lands so that they could graze there. My dad and his brothers would also have to vaccinate some of the cows.

The jobs I’ve hated the most were in Sinaloa during the short period we lived there. The sun was unbearable and the wind would blow dirt all over the place. I sometimes picked tomatoes, green peppers, jalapenos, or serrano peppers. I was always slow at picking anything which made me hate Sinaloa more.

The only bloody injury I’ve gotten in all my years of helping my father was when my brother accidentally cut my wrist with his machete. We were arguing about something and then I pushed him down. As he fell back he did a swinging motion with the machete and the sharp point hit my left wrist. It started bleeding a lot and I tried to show my brother the cut but he didn’t want to look at it because he was afraid of blood. The part of my hand that was hit was numb so I just wrapped my sleeve around it to stop the bleeding and I kept on working. When we were back at the ranch, I don’t know why but I put a drop of lemon onto the cut and it was a very sharp pain. A lady cleaned the cut and I had a bulge of swollen skin on my wrist. I thought the cut wasn’t going to heal very well but now all that’s left is a small scar.


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