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Smudgepots, Fillmore CA 1971

"No voy ahora!" my dad called out, picking up his waterjug and lunch pail, heading into the morning dark to jump on the honking truck that took the crew out to pick someone's grove.

Cold winters, with temperature in the teens, he'd tend smudge pots. Open the door of the Model 'A' to a smudgepot, sleep until time to fill the pots again. We'd wake to black mocos and a daylong smell of burned diesel oil.