Blogger’s Note: A new mini-memoir series!
DECEMBER 29, 2023 – In searching for a new blog series topic, I dusted the cobwebs off my past to see what material might spring forth from cartons in the attic of my memory. Miraculously, some rich stuff surfaced from a tired old cardboard box labeled (figuratively), “SUMMER JOBS THAT REALLY SUCKED.”
When I sorted through the contents, however, I realized that in writing about jobs that I thought “really sucked,” I’d be revealing how comparatively easy and sheltered my life was—to the point of self-embarrassment. Example: quitting a job after one day of “arduous” (child) labor.
The hardship I endured was a case of cold wet hands after hand-picking dew-soaked strawberries for a couple of hours one fresh morning in July 1964. As an almost 10-year-old going on 18 (it seemed), I was put out by the combination of the physical discomfort and the measly wage of 10 cents a quart (it could’ve been a pint, I can’t remember). When I’d filled a buck’s worth, I told the farmer woman I was calling it quits. From her cash box she gave me my hard-earned dollar and had the grace to wish me well. I then hopped on my bike and rode the two miles or so back into town, down our street, and parked my bike in the garage. When Mother asked me why I was home so early, I told her I’d quit “the worst job in the world.”
“Well, I very much doubt it was the worst job in the world,” she said, “but quitting is entirely your decision. Just don’t ask me for any extra money.”
Harrumph. She’d gotten me the lousy job after she’d driven by the truck farm just off the West River Road southeast of Champlin, which was right across the Mississippi from our house. Posted at the end of the driveway leading into the modest farm was a hand-painted sign that read, “Hiring School Kids to Pick Strawberries.” Mother being Mother, stopped, introduced herself and told the farm woman that she, Mother, had “a son who’d be perfect for the job.”
“Good,” said the farm woman. “Send ’im tomorrow. We start early—7:00—to beat the sun.”
See what I mean? My farmer ancestors—starting with my Swedish grandmother, who grew up on a farm in Småland, for crying out loud—would’ve been scandalized upon learning that in just two generations, their male descendant (I had three sisters) was a certifiable wimp, who couldn’t handle the tough task of picking strawberries with his soft little hands—boo, hoo. Readers who’ve endured far greater on-the-job challenges than I, would likewise react negatively and move on from my writing about “summer jobs that really sucked.”
But from the same memory box arose another summer job—which I also quit, albeit after a month of giving it the college try—that really truly sucked, even by the standards of people much tougher and far less sheltered than I. And speaking of college tries, the job that truly sucked more than any other job I’ve ever had was experienced between my sophomore and junior years of . . . college.
Yet, as is the case with most miserable experiences, the job to which I now refer taught me invaluable lessons—mostly about myself but also about the world. And now, a half century later, that job provides material for my new blog series called, The Sales Job. Not to get too far ahead of myself, but the title is a double entendre.
Meanwhile, my memories of the other “summer jobs that really sucked” (besides the two-hour strawberry picking job) have been folded back into the box and returned to the attic. Perhaps on another day the stored “material” will see the light of day for a longer stint.
For now, dear reader, draw your cushion and hot cider up to the warm hearth for the telling in winter about a time in summer a long, long while ago . . . (Cont.)
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
