Motherland Isabelle Shifrin (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution Photo by Stephen Childs [End Page 82] June of that year was particularly hot, even for the high desert of southern Idaho. The sun glared down fiercely, and the cheatgrass on the hills below the basalt rimrocks all turned yellow earlier than usual, barbed heads nodding in the hot wind. The men who visited from the toothpaste branch of Galaxate Home Products said the mint crop should be good, but my father only said maybe. If you got your weeds, fertilizers, and bugs managed by the Fourth of July, then maybe. [End Page 83] Before that year, all my father’s pipe movers had stayed in institutional- looking green cinder-block housing near some fields we rented on top of a rimrock that overlooked our valley. We always called the ground on top of that rimrock “up on top.” There was beginning to be not enough room in the cinder-block housing up on top to accommodate all the pipe movers, so my father had Beltrán come down and live in a travel trailer at the mouth of the canyon, about a half-mile from our house. Beltrán was the natural choice to move into the valley. For various reasons he was deeply unpopular with the other workers who lived up on top. He had been with us the longest, ever since I was about seven. Maybe it was because of this that he refused to take direction from anyone but my father. He would not even take direction from Inocenzio, our foreman. After Beltrán came down to the valley to live in the travel trailer, my father realized that because he intended to expand the farm, the issue of living space for the workers up on top would likely get worse over time. He hired a contractor from town to build a small two-room house near Beltrán’s travel trailer. The man from town didn’t have time to finish painting the little house’s trim before he had to take another job, so in mid-June, my father told me and my older sister, Cassidy, he’d pay us to finish it. It was a good job. We’d be able to rack up a lot of hours. It was never too soon to start saving for back-to-school. Since Cassidy would be attending high school for the first time, she wanted an extra-cool wardrobe. We thought we’d be able to finish the job in just a few days. My mother agreed that we could do it as long as we got our housework done first. This was chiefly washing dishes and folding laundry, and it usually didn’t take too long. The first day on the job, we took Cassidy’s radio down to the little house. We plugged it into an extension cord and let it blare pop hits while we worked. Even by then, the mid-’90s, reception wasn’t great back there in the canyon. If you angled the wire clothes hanger we’d attached to the radio just right, though, you could hear Prince and Mariah Carey, Boyz 2 Men and Pearl Jam, intermittently coming through the static. It was especially blistering that day, so we started on the house’s shady side. I could smell the cheatgrass around the house baking, emitting a grain-like scent. The sun glared off the steel curve of Beltrán’s tiny trailer nearby, so we avoided looking at it. He wasn’t there at the moment. He was out in the fields working. Still, while I worked, I was dimly aware of [End Page 84] how swelteringly hot it must be inside the trailer. It didn’t have air conditioning or even proper insulation. We all knew Beltrán didn’t like living in the trailer. But it wasn’t because of the heat. He’d found ways of getting around that. During the hottest hours of the day, after he’d finished moving his morning pipas, which amounted to slogging through several miles of wet alfalfa carrying forty-foot irrigation pipes, he napped in...