One summer evening when I was a little girl, I sat with my grandmother on her big front porch, listening to her stories about long-ago cotillions and balls. I could hear lively music coming fro the apple orchard nearby. “Is someone having that kind of party now?” I asked.

“Not exactly,” Grandmother said. She explained that the man who owned the orchard employed migrant workers to gather the apples and care for the trees. “The days are long and hard,” she said, “but the workers are enjoying some free time before they get their rest.” She believed the workers deserved more money than the orchard owner paid them, and in her opinion he didn’t feed them enough either. “Tomorrow we do something about that, at least,” she said. She organized with other neighbor ladies to bring evening meals. When it was her turn, I went with her. I was surprised to see that it wasn’t only men working in the fields, but families too. The older kids stood beneath the trees and boxed up the apples on the ground, while younger kids carried water to workers further out in the orchard.