Page 263 - The Legacy of Abraham Rothstein - text

Reminiscences

David (Ben Rothstein’s son)

My earliest memories? That would be in the late thirties. In the old
days there were no social visits; the Rothstein brothers didn’t know
how to socialize, period. I do remember hearing some things about
Abe when they had that farm. My father lived out there some of the
time; I have some photos of it, a rickety old place, like the Grapes of
Wrath. It had an artesian well, a great big cement casing with cold
water coming out, and a cup hanging by a chain. And an old rickety
barn with a crazy old horse. It was blind in one eye; someone had fed
it poisoned carrots, and my dad salvaged it to pull the plow. But
every so often it would flip out and my brother said you’d see my
father flying through the air hanging onto the plow, and the crazy
horse would be running across the field. I think they also had one of
those old iron-wheeled tractors, because my dad’s kidneys were
ruined from shaking around on a tractor.
My dad did most of the farm work, while Joe was sleeping under a
tree and Abe was out in the truck selling produce. It was during the
depression and they made very little money; sometimes fifty cents for
a whole truckload of carrots. I know Abe used to have a pistol he
kept in the truck for protection, and my dad kept a loaded double-
barrel shotgun lying against the barn. Every so often he’d take a shot
at somebody stealing vegetables on the other side of the fields. He
never hit anyone, but it sure must have scared them. It was not a safe
gun: it used black powder, not a modern shell, so it could have
exploded. That’s why I got rid of it, sold it for three dollars.
I think their payments on the farm were eighteen dollars a month,
for fifty-five acres, out by Artesia Boulevard and Long Beach
Boulevard. After they missed three payments, the Bank of America
took the farm away in 1935 or 1936. By that time, I think my dad was
already working in the city, at Oriental Rug and Cushion Company.
But all three of them were farmers at heart; wherever they lived, they
had a little patch of land to grow vegetables on. My dad worked later
at MGM, in charge of building all the blacktop roads, but he still got
up at four in the morning and tended his little vegetable patch first.

259