Roy Jones remembers the day the Hispanic grandmother outworked the American teenage boy.

"She was a Guatemalan lady in her 70s," Roy remembers. "A little bitty lady. And she was running circles around him."

Roy and daughter Rebecca run their 1100-acre Jones Farm in north Alabama. Their main crop? Fruit, with some vegetables, grown on 15 acres. During prime season, they need a dozen workers, sometimes more.

For a spell, he'd tried hiring local folks. After all, that's how things worked, right? Growing up as a boy, Roy would get calls from neighboring farmers: we need help. Come work for us.

He'd show up, put in an honest day's work and get paid.

"That's how it used to be," he said.

During strawberry season, Roy and Rebecca tried everyone, from home schoolers to high schoolers to adults.

"But we quickly discovered the availability and quality of work wasn't there," said Roy.

"They'd come out, make it an hour, then call their ride to come pick them up," added Rebecca. "Ninety percent wouldn't show up and those who came are gone in an hour."

One woman came to work in flip-flops and pressed-on nails. One man got so hot, he took off his clothes while working.

"All of them," said Rebecca.

Needing reliable labor, they turned to the local Hispanic community.

"Immediately, the quality and availability got better," said Roy. "They would get the job done."

So, he began making introductions in the local Hispanic community, shaking hands, offering broken Spanish. At his farm, he began hiring Hispanic laborers. Had to. Fruit was being left on the vine.

It was 20-some-odd years ago, but Roy remembers the labor-shift well.

"Everything changed," he said.

That's why he's telling this story of the Guatemalan woman going up and down the strawberry rows, passing the teenage boy like Katie Ledecky at the YMCA.

Roy walks up to the American kid and tells him: if she laps you in the field one more time, you're fired.

"It didn't take 30 minutes," he said. "She'd already gone up and down and back and passed him again."

These days, the boy is long gone, but the story remains. It's both chuckle and warning.

Without farm labor - especially Hispanic labor - food doesn't get to our plates.

These are loud days in America. Much is being said about immigrants and immigration. Roy isn't interested in talking politics or border walls and czars, but he is damn interested in something else.

"People's perceptions on who should be here working and who shouldn't," he said.

Roy wants to uplift, protect and honor the countless Hispanic men, women and children whose labor helps feed this country.

"What I want people to know is that without people coming here, they are not going to eat," he said.

He knows the danger of slipstreaming into generalizations. He's not saying everyone south of the border is hard-working or that every American-born worker isn't.

He is, though, voicing the experience of many American farmers, who say something's been lost.

"Fortitude," Rebecca said.

"They are no longer able or competent enough to feed themselves or do the jobs to get food," said Roy. "They're not physically or mentally capable. They don't have the stay or fortitude to do it."

Roy is a sixth-generation farmer. Rebecca is the seventh. Jones Farm dates back to 1838.

Years ago, both father and daughter left - Roy to the west, Rebecca to NYC and Broadway - only to each return, drawn back to the land and its care.

For two decades, Roy has been fully reliant on Hispanic men and women, particularly Guatemalans, living in north Alabama.

"They're like family," he said.

They work alongside one another in the fields. When one of their children gets sick at school, teachers call Roy when they can't reach the parents. He built a playground on his farm.

His barber is Hispanic. Those closest to him? Hispanic. Ask him what this community means to him and only one word is needed.

"Everything," he said.

During fruit season, Roy and Rebecca employ 12-15 folks. During off-season, far fewer.

The US government offers an H2A work visa program; to hire foreign nationals, employers pay for transportation from nation-of-origin, the cost of the visa, housing and offer at least 30 hours of work per week for workers.

"They don't want 30 hours," Roy said. "They want 60."

Jones Farm doesn't hire H2A workers, instead hiring from the community nearby.

"All my workers have a driver's license and Social Security card," he said.

"Most already have jobs," said Rebecca. "They work the night shift, then come to the farm, work until around 12:30 or 1, then go home to nap."

Jones starts off at $14-an-hour, or, a guaranteed $10-an-hour plus a commission on the amount of fruit picked.

"They know their value. My best guy is making between $23 and $25 an hour," Roy said. "He's been with me 12 years."

In Ooltewah, Aubie and Michelle Smith hire seasonal H2A workers from Mexico to help farm strawberries, pumpkins and other row crops at Smith-Perry Berries Farm.

They work and live together on the same land.

"We consider them like family," said Michelle.

Last May, Aubie and Michelle threw a Cinco de Mayo party at their farm.

Friends, other farmers, neighbors came, all eating and drinking together: men and women from Mexico alongside men and women from Ooltewah, enjoying hand-made tortillas, meat slow-cooked off the bone, margaritas that quickly go from one to two.

After dinner, Aubie joined them around a Mexican flag - this is their equivalent of the Fourth of July, someone said - before shooting off a .22 rifle into the summer sky. When that wasn't strong enough, he brought back a 12-gauge from the barn.

Sometimes, to find integrated America, just look for your nearest farm.

Across Canada and the US, concerned farmers and investors are exploring the use of robots to pick fruit. Automated drones and robots that work 24/7 in all kinds of weather are a tempting response to threats of labor shortages or mass deportations. Roy mentioned one massive Southern strawberry farm predicting a shortage of migrant labor.

"They've spent a couple of million dollars developing robots because they do not believe they will continue to get workers in," he said.

Roy leans into one final story. Once, a Guatemalan father brought his son to the farm to work.

At the end of the day, the father tells Roy: do not pay him.

Don't pay him? Why not?

He didn't work hard enough.

"His dad was teaching him a lesson," Roy said.

It was a lesson about character and hard work, yes. But, it was really a lesson about survival. That son's future depended on his ability to outwork everyone else.

"The next time he came out, that kid was turning and burning," Roy said. "He's now worked for me for years and is doing great."

For years, Roy's been cautious around reporters.

So why talk now?

"If this whole thing got shut down, we'd be over," he said. "Our farm would be over."

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This story is 100% human generated; no AI chatbot was used in the creation of this content.