Several trips 'round the sun back, young Me, your pal and humble scribe - looked upon the impending summer of that mid-80's year with a fairly sizable quantity of dread. While untold drillions of young turks were practically fit to burst in anticipation of that halcyon piece of the year called Summer, I was ready to step up to the Melancholy Buffet for multiple helpings of Woe Stew.
Cause Summer meant Harvest, and Harvest meant suffering. 24-7, no days off, almost till school started in the fall. No pay, either - well, no cash, anyway. My pay came "when I put on my boots, or when I put 'em under the supper table", as Step-Pop put it oh-so-succinctly. Such a quaint little homily would have meant more to me if I didn't have to lace up my pay and watch Step-Pop trick out his Camaro or buy a new pickup. Those times, I felt like depositing some of my recently digested pay in the front seat of said vehicles, then kicking in the front headlights with my foot-borne, steel-toed, leathery pay.
Oh, sure, katillions of fine folks got to enjoy the fruits of my labors. I mean, shit... what's life without Wonder Bread? And ya caint get no Wonder Bread without wheat, sunny jim. But I didn't hear the cheers, see the smiles, feel the love.
I got to sit my teenaged ass in the cab of a truck, in the middle of a wheat field, in 100 degree plus weather... without the blessed kiss of air conditioning, I might add. I got to drive behind a fume-farting combine as it vomited grain into the bed of my truck, all the while praying to fucking God above that the piece of shit truck wouldn't stall. Cause then the combine would keep going and vomit all that grain into the dirt of the field. That's when it aint so Norman Rockwell, O Reader O Mine. That's when you wish Osh Kosh sold kevlar overalls (with extra padding in the fanny) and Caterpillar baseball caps came with a faceguard.
Needless to say, farm livin' aint all Green Acres. But I digress. My point here is that summer's almost here, and I'm actually pleased. I still have to work - but not every day. I get paid. I like my job a lot, in fact on good days I love it. Not love like 'thanks for the cookies, Grandma', or love like 'Until the end of time, my dear', but a 'Christ, this beats the shit out of driving a wheat truck' kinda lovin'. And that aint all bad, friends and neighbors.
May your summer be at least as blissful as mine. And if you're stuck in a fucking wheat truck, find a good book, drink lots of water, and find someone cool to talk to on the CB.
Cause Summer meant Harvest, and Harvest meant suffering. 24-7, no days off, almost till school started in the fall. No pay, either - well, no cash, anyway. My pay came "when I put on my boots, or when I put 'em under the supper table", as Step-Pop put it oh-so-succinctly. Such a quaint little homily would have meant more to me if I didn't have to lace up my pay and watch Step-Pop trick out his Camaro or buy a new pickup. Those times, I felt like depositing some of my recently digested pay in the front seat of said vehicles, then kicking in the front headlights with my foot-borne, steel-toed, leathery pay.
Oh, sure, katillions of fine folks got to enjoy the fruits of my labors. I mean, shit... what's life without Wonder Bread? And ya caint get no Wonder Bread without wheat, sunny jim. But I didn't hear the cheers, see the smiles, feel the love.
I got to sit my teenaged ass in the cab of a truck, in the middle of a wheat field, in 100 degree plus weather... without the blessed kiss of air conditioning, I might add. I got to drive behind a fume-farting combine as it vomited grain into the bed of my truck, all the while praying to fucking God above that the piece of shit truck wouldn't stall. Cause then the combine would keep going and vomit all that grain into the dirt of the field. That's when it aint so Norman Rockwell, O Reader O Mine. That's when you wish Osh Kosh sold kevlar overalls (with extra padding in the fanny) and Caterpillar baseball caps came with a faceguard.
Needless to say, farm livin' aint all Green Acres. But I digress. My point here is that summer's almost here, and I'm actually pleased. I still have to work - but not every day. I get paid. I like my job a lot, in fact on good days I love it. Not love like 'thanks for the cookies, Grandma', or love like 'Until the end of time, my dear', but a 'Christ, this beats the shit out of driving a wheat truck' kinda lovin'. And that aint all bad, friends and neighbors.
May your summer be at least as blissful as mine. And if you're stuck in a fucking wheat truck, find a good book, drink lots of water, and find someone cool to talk to on the CB.
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I have a trained monkey job.