Unless you were born a trust fund baby, it is likely that
you have climbed upon the hamster wheel of currency acquisition and experienced
a number of employment opportunities throughout your life. I certainly was not
born with a wad of cash in my back pocket so the need for good old-fashioned
work has always been a part of my existence.
Not surprisingly, my first jobs were agrarian related. Many chores were
just part of belonging to a farm family and monetary compensation was not to be
expected. A few jobs had a carrot of cash dangling at the end of them, heavy on
the work, light on the cash.
One job that always struck terror within my soul was the
call to “chase pigs.” For whatever reason there were times when the swine
needed to be moved from point A to point B. One does not herd pigs, they are chased.
However docile a pig might seem, they carry an evil gene that can turn on you
in a moment’s notice. My ineptness as a pig chaser was soon evident as I ran
for the nearest point of sanctuary at the slightest provocation from my piggy
friends. At some point, my father quit asking for my “help” and thought it best
that I stay in the house and bake cookies instead.
A job that came with a bit of compensation was tying bales.
This task required a bit of on-the-job training and was not for the faint of
heart. The farm’s baling equipment left a loose end of twine on each bale. Our
task was to loop the loose end into a knot with the adjacent line of twine,
thus securing the bale for later retrieval. My siblings and I would gather at
one edge of the field in the early morning hours in an attempt to escape the scorching
heat of the day. Blisters from pulling on the twine were somewhat abated by
wearing stuffy gloves. Unprotected ankles were scraped up as we trudged our way
through the field of stubble. My fair skin was a canvas for sunburn and
needless to say, I was not a big fan of this duty. The pennies we received per
bale helped lessen the sting somewhat and I learned about perseverance and
calamine lotion.
One task I never complained about was the opportunity to
rock and read to my younger siblings. There always seemed to be a little
munchkin whose attention needed to be diverted for awhile. I loved reading
books and was only too happy to do so for as long as it took for a wee one to
nod off or forget about the next tantrum. One favorite book was Walter, the Lazy
Mouse. It was about a mouse who wanted to play rather than do his share of
household tasks. One day he arrived back home, only to find an empty nest
because his little mousie family had moved away while he was out frolicking about.
I don’t remember how it ended but I do remember that Walter was a somber
reminder to stay industrious and mind your mother. Another beloved book (and perhaps less
traumatizing) was Pockets. Each page revealed another surprise that could be
found in the hidden recesses of a variety of pockets. The climax happened on
the final page when Daddy’s pocket revealed “candy for all of us!”
Life on the farm was a great way to grow up but I clearly
did not have the fortitude and constitution to follow that career path. Suffice
it to say, I am better suited for rocking and reading books. Not much pay for such things, but both are an option for alleviating the next tantrum.
