From the archives: The hardest to harvest? Cabbage, without a doubt

(Editor's note: This story was originally published in The Daily News on Aug. 16, 2008. It was part of Daily News reporter Tom Rivers’ multi-part farm labor series, which on Thursday was named among two finalists for the 2009 Mike Berger Award given out by Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism.)

LYNDONVILLE — The morning of the ultimate endurance test, the day I would try to cut cabbage, I was certain the challenge would be delayed because of a hard-driving rain, thunder and lightning, and deep mud in the fields.

But I would learn there is no weather too awful to cut cabbage, especially when a farm has to have 40 tons picked that day and shipped to New York City the next morning.

On Monday I joined eight men from Jamaica in chopping cabbage and heaving it into 1-ton bins. I would last nearly 10 hours with them, going until I could no longer squeeze the knife to slash off a 20-pound head of "mega-ton" cabbage.

It was a wild day and I'm not sure I can adequately describe the misery and exhilaration I felt, standing in at least a foot of mud, plunging a knife through a head of cabbage and then flinging the vegetable into a bin. When the day ended for me, I could barely grip the steering wheel of my car. The tendons near my wrists were swollen and my pants were caked in mud.

Rare local man sighting

I show up at Lynn-ette and Sons in Kent a little after 7 in the midst of another downpour in this summer of rain. Darren Roberts, the farm's co-owner, agrees to let me try cutting cabbage. He oversees the farm's 700-acre cabbage operation, among his many tasks.

Darren, 42, seems a little bewildered by my interest in the job. He can't remember anyone from around here ever wanting to cut cabbage. The farm puts many ads in local newspapers seeking field help, and no locals have even called about a job in at least two decades, Darren says.

I tell him I want to do more than try cutting cabbage. I want to see if I can do it for eight hours. He can't contain his chuckle. He asks if I have boots. I don't have the long rubber boots that go up to the knee. But I have some that are about a foot high, about halfway up my shin. I figure they'll do the trick. I tell Darren I'm eager to get going, despite the downpour.

Darren and one of the tractor operators, Spencer Heidemann, hop into a pickup truck and I follow them in my Tercel to a field about 10 miles away on Platten Road outside Lyndonville. The rain is even more intense when we get there, with swirling dark clouds and thunder.

Big order

Darren says the farm has to have 40 tons of bravo cabbage loaded by the end of the day and in New York City by morning. There are also orders for "mega-ton" cabbage due for kraut processing plants in Geneva and Shortsville. The 8- to 10-pound heads of bravo cabbage need to be treated with care — "Handle them like eggs," Darren says because they are going for the fresh market and won't just be run through a processing plant.

I pull on my boots and we walk about 50 yards across a ridiculously muddy field. We maneuver across some deep ridges from where the tractor tires ran across the field. We pass rows of harvested cabbage. The heads are gone and only giant leaves remain lying in the mud.

I tell Darren the cabbage are "serious plants." They have somehow persevered and thrived through steamy-hot weather and tons of rain.

There's a tractor holding four 1-ton bins made of heavy-duty cardboard, with two bins at the front of the tractor and two behind it.

The Jamaicans, all wearing baggy raincoats and rubber pants, speedily slash at the cabbage and fling it into the bins. Darren tells them to go easy with the cabbage and only throw it if they are within a few feet of the bins.

He introduces me to the crew, tells them I'm a newspaper reporter trying to learn about farmwork.

A guy named Bob steps forward and shakes my hand.

"It's an honor to have you with us today," Bob says.

I find out he's 50, the oldest guy in the crew. He has six kids and has been working at American farms for almost 20 years. This is his second year with Lynn-ette and he's one of 100 Jamaicans at the farm through the federal H-2A program that allows American farms to bring in legal foreign workers on a temporary basis.

Lynn-ette lost most of its work force two years ago in immigration raids. The past two years the farm has brought in 100 H-2A workers from Jamaica, plus 60 from Mexico. The workers are paid at least $9.70 an hour and the farm must supply housing and transportation from their home countries and then back to either Mexico or Jamaica. Some workers stay six months and some like Bob will stay for 10 months.

Robin Roberts, Darren's brother and a farm co-owner, says the workers are dedicated and do a great job, helping the farm deliver top-quality produce. And he doesn't have to worry about the sudden removal of his crew.

No 'hacking'

I watch Darren chop the cabbage, a ferocious deed. He seems unfazed by the rain dripping off his hat, the thunder in the background and the loose footing. After I watch him for about 5 minutes, he hands me what looks like a big putty knife. It doesn't have a pointy tip like the knives in my kitchen. The cabbage knife's blade wraps around in a rounded tip. Darren tells me to just turn the cabbage on its side and make a quick plunge with the knife.

I lean a cabbage head over and try to slice it from the side of the knife. I don't quite separate the head from the stalk and make a few more chops.

"Don't hack at it," Darren advises. "That's how some of our guys have needed stitches."

Darren again demonstrates the tip-the-head-and-plunge method. I try again and unleash some fury, managing to make a clean cut in one motion.

I get a decent string going, of cutting off the cabbage heads, grabbing them with both hands, and tossing them in the bin.

Darren seems satisfied I'm not going to maim myself or other workers in close proximity, or destroy his vegetables. He has other things to do and leaves the work crew.

We're bunched up a bit, the nine of us, removing cabbage from six rows. I'm a little nervous about slashing the guy next to me, only a few inches away. And I'm fearful of gouging someone with the knife when I toss the cabbage. I usually throw it with my right hand, the same one I'm using to carry the knife.

Bob comes over and suggests that he will cut the cabbage if I throw it in the bin. He cuts for me and the guy next door. That eases some of the crowding near the bins. Bob and I switch after 15 minutes or so. I find I'm cutting with a vengeance when I only have to focus on that task. But several times, when I cut loose a cabbage head, muddy water is unleashed right in my face. A few chunks of mud make direct hits on my eyeballs. I try to squint it out. Despite the discomfort, I keep cutting.

Water, water everywhere

I'm distracted by all the water and mud filling my boots. At a foot high, the boots are far too short for the deep puddles and mud out in the fields. There's no chance of keeping it out of my boots.

The other guys have higher boots with rubber pants.

About every half hour I lean against the tractor and empty my boots of mud and water. My white socks have turned dark brown. I get a lot of laughs from the workers. Bob has mercy on me. He thinks I should get my pant legs to cover the boots. He even helps get my right pant leg over the boot while I wrestle the left pant leg over top. My jeans are no good as a water repellent, however. The boots quickly fill again.

It takes maybe 10 minutes to fill a 1-ton bin. There's a brief stop in the action so the flaps on the box can be taped to stand up higher. The Jamaicans stand the four flaps up on a box, and run circles of black tape around the box, maybe five or six times. One guy usually stands near the box, and catches some of the cabbage heads, setting them in the box so the vegetables don't get bruised.

It keeps raining and lightning enters into the mix. We see it strike at least three times, and once it hits about a half-mile away. No one else seems troubled by the fireworks.

"This isn't so bad," says a guy named Daniel, who is called King Kong by the other workers. "You should see it in November when it snows. That's bad."

King Kong is 33 and is working his second 10-month stint for Lynn-ette, arriving in January and leaving in November. He and about a dozen other Jamaicans will trim storage cabbage the first three months they're here. Then they will plant crops in the spring. They will be harvesting the vegetables for the next three months.

King Kong is 6 feet 3 inches and weighs 260 pounds. He seems well-liked for his cheery disposition — he frequently bursts into songs about God or about "Joshua." I'm not sure who Joshua is. I'll find out later.

King Kong seems worried about me. He tells me I'm not cutting the cabbage quite right. I need to make a quick, clean cut rather than my style, which sometimes takes two cuts or more. King Kong says my right hand won't last with my inefficient approach. He also tells me I need to get some rubber gloves on or else my skin is going to fall off.

I have puffy bathtub-skin already, and I can see two open spots emerging on my hand. King Kong offers to chop the cabbage for me if I throw it in the bins.

Time stands still

I'm beginning to feel mighty thirsty and hungry. I tell King Kong it must be close to lunch time.

"That's midday, in about two hours," he tells me.

I can't believe these guys don't eat until 2 p.m. because surely it must be about noon.

I see Spencer, one of two tractor operators, and I ask him the time.

"It's 10:16," he says, and I can't believe that's it. Two more hours until lunch?

But I don't have to wait long for a break. The workers need to get more boxes ready so we leave the cabbage and go to a spot next to the field where there's massive folded cardboard. The guys start shaping it into boxes, even using chainsaws for part of the job.

I need a drink, and immediately gulp down a quart of water. I gobble two granola bars. I yank off my boots and peel off my socks. I root around in my car and come up with a 1996 Garlic Festival T-shirt, which I shove down my boots to soak up some of the mud. Deeming my socks worthless, I decide to go barefoot in my boots for the rest of the day.

There's a crew leader-type worker there named Miguel. When he's got all the boxes ready I ask him about a pair of gloves. He finds me a pair of bright orange ones. I inquire about some longer boots, but he doesn't have any.

Swallowed by mud

We're back in the fields. Even though the rain has stopped, it seems muddier than ever. We hit some real deep spots and I can barely walk. The guys tell me to walk on the plants and stay out of the rows of mud. That's not always possible, with all the foot shifting needed to chop, grab and throw the cabbage.

I'm getting some laughs and pity because several times I have to really fight to get my feet moving in the mud. There's the added pressure of a slow-moving tractor coming toward me. One time I just can't get my legs moving in the thick mud. The tractor is closing in and I decide to just hop out of the boots. I'm barefoot in the mud. I jerk my boots with both hands and crawl through the mud out of harm's way.

A worker named Winston is driving the tractor. He toots the horn and gives me a "thumb's up" for my escape.

We keep cutting, filling the bins, and my right hand, although in much better shape with the rubber gloves, is struggling to unleash the needed fury on the cabbage stalks. I'm not sure what arthritis feels like, but my joints, tendons and everything in my right hand just aches.

We finish our 18th bin. King Kong says it's noon and time for lunch. We trudge the hundred yards through the mud to get off the field. We're all ready for a half hour of peace. But Miguel says he needs four more bins. Miguel has 18 bins loaded on a tractor trailer, but there's room for four more. He doesn't want to waste space on the truck.

King Kong leads us back. I don't sense much grumbling. I guzzle some more water and feel slightly revived, although I still haven't got used to the mud oozing between my toes or the boots chafing my shins. The long walks don't help.

Lunch, finally

We fill the four bins in about 40 minutes, and finally, I get a chance to sit down. I see Spencer, the 18-year-old tractor operator, in a van, eating his lunch. I have a few questions about the bins and farm operation. I camp next to him in the van and I'm distracted by his two Mountain Dews. I offer $10 for one, and he gives it to me for free.

Spencer graduated from Kendall last June. He grew up working on a farm owned by his father Scott Heidemann. That farm isn't big enough to support another full-time employee so Spencer has joined Lynn-ette. He says today's rain was "pretty bad."

The past few years in early August the workers have been out in 90-degree heat and the farm usually has to irrigate because it's so dry. This year Lynn-ette hasn't irrigated at all.

Spencer has some prep to do with the bins and tractors, so he leaves. I go join the Jamaicans in their bus. Winston, the tractor operator, has an international driver's license and he drives the workers back and forth from a Ransomville labor camp. It's an hour-drive each way.

'A means to an end'

King Kong is sitting in the driver's seat. He's done with lunch.

I plop down in the seat behind him. He tells me he worked in landscaping, furniture making and pool cleaning in Jamaica. But the jobs were never steady year-round. He's married with five kids, ages 2 to 16. He agreed to try farm work last year for the first time because of the steady income for 10 months. He has an international calling card and speaks with his family each day. "It's expensive but it's something I need to do," he says.

King Kong applied to be in the H-2A program for two years before he was approved by the Jamaican government. He said the job will help him send his children to good schools.

"It's hard being away from them but it's a means to an end," he tells me. "I could be there and not support them, or I can be here and get them the things they need."

King Kong, whose full name is Daniel Dinnal, says all of the workers come to give their families better opportunities at home.

He and the other guys in his crew are up at about 4 each morning, preparing their breakfast. They leave for the farm at 6 and often don't return until 8 or 9 p.m. They get Sundays off.

"I came here with an open mind," King Kong says. "I had no expectations because I had never done this type of work before."

He says he's grateful for the chance to work for Lynn-ette.

"I have to be mindful of who I'm doing it for," he says, calling his children his inspiration.

Heavy, heavy cabbage

After lunch we move across the road to another field of cabbage. This stuff is much bigger than the bravo cabbage. Darren joins us in the effort.

He tells the workers the "mega-ton" cabbage will be used by a kraut processor and doesn't have to be handled with as much care. Just chop and toss it in the bin. It doesn't have to be handled like a carton of eggs, he says.

This mega-ton cabbage feels like a heavy bowling ball. I cut it and throw it, but it takes a mighty effort because of the weight. I suggest to Darren the Buffalo Bills come out and heave this cabbage as part of their training camp.

Because this cabbage is so big, we can fill two bins in about five minutes. Then the tractor turns around and the other two bins get filled.

It's 10 minutes of high-paced chopping and tossing and then we get about a five-minute break before the next tractor is ready.

We all sit on the enormous heads of cabbage while we wait.

I find out the workers are ages 27 to 50. At 34, I'm one of the younger guys in the group.

Joshua revealed

Someone is again singing "Come on, Joshua" and I ask the guy next to me if he's Joshua. Nope. His name is Desmond. He tells me Joshua is the Jamaicans' name for the sun. When it rains, they sing for the sun to come out.

Now they're singing because they're happy with the weather. The sun is in its glory and everyone left their rain coats off after lunch. I can now see all of their faces and I can see their big arms and shoulders. Bob, the 50-year-old, looks to be the toughest dude in the group. He's built like a boxer.

Desmond tells me the workers really crank up the "Joshua" songs in October and November, when they're out harvesting cabbage in the snow.

Desmond is 38 and he joined Lynn-ette in May. He's already dropped 30 pounds in three months.

We continue to fill the bins, working 10 minutes in a frenzy and then getting a five-minute break.

It's around 2:30 p.m. and King Kong tells me he can't believe I'm still here. The guys figured I would have left hours ago. I tell them all I'm trying to get in my eight hours. I tell them they're fun to work with but I confess my right hand can barely grip the knife anymore and the boots have rubbed the skin and hair off my shins.

Desmond says he'll cut the cabbage if I toss it and that's the plan for awhile. I sneak in a few cuts but I think my fingers are dead, which makes it hard to grip the 20-pound cabbage and heave it.

I try cutting with my left hand and miss the stalk and nearly jab one guy in the boot. I'm mainly just a thrower now, and I'm using my left hand for most of the work.

We continue moving around the field, hitting different cabbage patches. There's one low-lying spot that is flooded with 400 or 500 heads of cabbage. They all have degrees of rot on the leaves. Some of them have an awful stench.

We spend 15 minutes inspecting and trimming the heads, trying to determine whether they're salvageable. We can cut some of the rotted leaves off and the cabbage could pass the processor's muster. But Darren decides he doesn't want to risk it. The processor could reject all the cabbage based on the iffy ones from this spot.

So we just move on. We're not short on cabbage options.

8 isn't enough

It's 3:30 p.m. and I've hit my eight-hour goal. Darren gives me a ride in the tractor back to my car. I get a drink and decide I'm not done after all. I'd like to finish the shift. Maybe these guys will be done at 5. Then I could interview them and get their last names. Most of the information for this story comes from shooting the breeze in the field. I don't have my pad and paper in hand.

Darren finishes unloading the bins and gives me a ride back to the workers. I have a new burst of vigor in my right hand and for the next half hour I'm cutting, throwing and doing the full job.

But by 4 I give up trying to cut anymore with the knife. I just can't seem to grip it anymore. It's a struggle to grab the cabbage but I can still do it. I can't throw it from 15 feet anymore. I try to stay close to the bins and I alternate my throwing motions, from the underhand toss, to shooting it like a basketball, to some overhand, using my left and right hands.

Bob gives me high praise.

"You're doing good, man," he tells me. "You're keeping up with us."

Bob's words are a boost, but I soon feel deflated. King Kong tells me the workers will be there until 7 or 8. He doesn't seem to mind. After they finish the mega-ton cabbage, they have 18 more tons of the smaller bravo cabbage to harvest.

It's getting close to 5 and I tell the guys I'm just going to finish this last batch of mega-ton cabbage. I can no longer throw it, and I'm feeling shooting pains or something just trying to grab the stuff. I just walk it to the bins and drop it in. I'm barely helping the cause at this point, but I want to do what I can. I get through the next 10 minutes and tell everyone good-bye. I get a few handshakes but I think they can tell my hand has moved into the throbbing stage. Most just wave to me.

Winston gives me a ride back. He's 38 and worked as a truck driver in Jamaica. He says he can make more working for Lynn-ette in five months than he can the whole year in Jamaica.

He has a baby at home and he is focused on a goal for his family.

"Some people buys cars and other stuff (with their money from the farm)," he says. "But I'm saving up for a house."

He invites me to visit him someday in his home. I tell him that would be an honor. I manage to give him a hearty handshake.