Finishing up The Grapes of Wrath today, and was struck, profoundly so, by these certain passages in Chapter Twenty-Five.

Although there is still much food waste to be concerned about in our country today, I am thankful that we can at least go to the grocery store and come away with reasonably-priced goods that will feed our families and ourselves.  We now spend around 10 percent of our disposable income on what we eat; in the 1930s, Americans spent almost one quarter or more of their take-home pay on food.  Of course there are many complicated reasons as to why we can spend so much less these days--and yet eat so much more--but that's another discussion for another time. The American food system is a strange and wondrous thing.

On a very basic level, I am just grateful I've never had to wake up and stand in a bread line.  Never had to wonder if my future children will grow up malnourished.  Never had to see a friend starve, and never had to sleep on an empty stomach.  I fully recognize that we take these things for granted now, and that even mentioning them feels silly or redundant or gluttonous in this time of plenty that we were born into and consider normal.  But I'm thankful anyhow.

     "The spring is beautiful in California...
     ...And first the cherries ripen.  Cent and a half a pound.  Hell, we can't pick 'em for that.  Black cherries and red cherries, full and sweet, and the birds eat half of each cherry and the yellowjackets buzz into the holes the birds made.  And on the ground the seeds drop and dry with black shreds hanging from them.
      The purple prunes soften and sweeten.  My God, we can't pick them and dry and sulphur them.  We can't pay wages, no matter what wages.  And the purple prunes carpet the ground.  And first the skins wrinkle a little and swarms of flies come to feast, and the valley is filled with the odor of sweet decay.  The meat turns dark and the crop shrivels on the ground.

     And the pears grow yellow and soft.  Five dollars a ton.  Five dollars for forty fifty-pound boxes; trees pruned and sprayed, orchards cultivated--pick the fruit, put it in boxes, load the trucks, deliver the fruit to the cannery--forty boxes for five dollars.  We can't do it.  And the yellow fruit falls heavily to the ground and splashes on the ground.  The yellowjackets dig into the soft meat, and there is a smell of ferment and rot.
     Then the grapes--we can't make good wine.  People can't buy good wine.  Rip the grapes from the vines, good grapes, rotten grapes, wasp-stung grapes.  Press stem, press dirt and rot...

     ...The little farmers watched debt creep up on them like the tide.  They sprayed the trees and sold no crop, they pruned and grafted and could not pick the crop...
     ...This little orchard will be part of a great holding next year, for the debt will have choked the owner.  This vineyard will belong to the bank.  Only the great owners can survive, for they own the canneries too.  And four pears peeled and cut in half, cooked and canned, still cost fifteen cents.  And the canned pears do not spoil.  They will last for years.  
      The decay spreads over the State, and the sweet smell is a great sorrow on the land.  Men who can graft the trees and make the seed fertile and big can find no way to let the hungry people eat their produce.  Men who have created new fruits in the world cannot create a system whereby their fruits may be eaten...

     ...The works of the roots of the vines, of the trees, must be destroyed to keep up the price, and this is the saddest, bitterest thing of all.  Carloads of oranges dumped on the ground.  The people came for miles to take the fruit, but this could not be.  How would they buy oranges at twenty cents a dozen if they could drive out and pick them up?  And men with hoses squirt kerosene on the oranges, and they are angry at the crime, angry at the people who have come to take the fruit.  A million people hungry, needing the fruit--and kerosene sprayed over the golden mountains.
     And the smell of rot fills the country.
     Burn coffee for fuel in the ships.  Burn corn to keep warm, it makes a hot fire.  Dump potatoes in the rivers and place guards along the banks to keep the hungry people from fishing them out.  Slaughter the pigs and bury them, and let the putrescence drip down into the earth.

     There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation.  There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize.  There is a failure here that topples all our success.  The fertile earth, the straight tree rows, the sturdy trunks, and the ripe fruit.  And children dying of pellagra must die because a profit cannot be taken from an orange.  And coroners must fill in the certificates--died of malnutrition--because the food must rot, must be forced to rot.
     The people come with nets to fish for potatoes in the river, and the guards hold them back; they come in rattling cars to get the dumped oranges, but the kerosene is sprayed.  And they stand still and watch the potatoes float by, listen to the screaming pigs being killed in a ditch and covered with quicklime, watch the mountains of oranges slop down to a putrefying ooze; and in the eyes of the people there is the failure; and in the eyes of the hungry there is a growing wrath.  In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage."

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