The spears, just the right height—eight to ten inches above the soil—stood straight and proud, waiting for the cut. Cutting asparagus in Gonzales was exacting work. A wrong move meant a crooked spear or a wounded crown that wouldn’t produce again that season. By midday, the sun had burned away the fog, and the valley floor shimmered with heat. The crew would break for lunch—rice and adobo from a tin lunch pail for some, bolillo sandwiches or tamales for others.