MIGRANT WORKER BLUES

From previous posts, you have gathered that I will do pretty much any thing for a buck from selling coconuts to being a private eye. Well I did turn down my "first pimp" but as long as it was legal, I was game.


One summer on the lake Sis, my best friend from the second grade and I were wanting to make some money. We were barely teenagers at that time. Since there weren't any babies at the lake , baby sitting was out. We were too far from town for a cool town job like soda jerk and my reputation as a gardener had me banned from all yards.


Then we heard a farm in the tiny town just North of us was looking for bean pickers. We thought, how hard could that be? We teamed up with a couple of the boys at the lake and were driven out to the coordinators house. There we discovered the meaning of ethnic diversity. We were white, brown and black as a group. We were clearly novices in our pressed jeans with cuffs rolled "just right" and no hats.


We were driven out to the farm in an open stake sided truck. Actually, I was feeling pretty important. I was a worker, an honest to God worker. Sis and I were scoping out the guys to see if there was anyone interesting. That was a permanent teenage, unpaid but often rewarding, occupation. There was one kind of cute guy our age but there was a language barrier so that went no where.


We were dumped out and faced what looked like an endless field of bean plants. Row after row after row. A huge black woman named Belle was our boss and she told us to get a basket and start picking. No instructions but then it really wasn't rocket science. Belle was imposing and a bit scary. I mean this woman was really big. Very tall and heavy but nothing giggled so you knew it was muscle not fat. You could tell she would run a tight ship. "Yes Ma'am," was all she wanted to hear from you.


Sis and I hunkered down in the dirt ( these were bush beans so you couldn't pick standing up) put our baskets to our side and started picking. Pick and drag, pick and drag. Sis was in the row next to me so we kind of raced as we have always been competitive. She was a bit ahead of me when I saw it. The picker behind her that was supposed to be picking on the left while Sis picked to the right, was helping herself to Sis's beans. She was grabbing them by the handful. Before I let her know, I looked back at my own basket and saw a hand that wasn't mine grabbing my beans.


I was just getting ready to smack the hand in my basket and to alert Sis when a giant being straddling the row, grabbed up the fellow behind me and the girl behind Sis by their shirts. It was Belle. She had noticed the poaching and stopped it quick by jerking them to their feet. They had to empty their baskets into ours and were sent to back to the truck to sit out the day. Now if only the criminal justice system worked so well. Belle was awesome.


The sun made the sweat and dirt run into our eyes. We were used to playing all day in the sun at the lake but a quick dip always made everything right again. Not here, just pick and drag. Our backs hurt, hands were sore and our knees were taking a beating. Thirst was a constant and the warm water available helped little. Up and down the rows, pick and drag. Migrant worker was scratched off my list of possible occupations that day. The interesting thing was at the end of the day, there was no ethnic diversity, we were all similar brown, dusty beings.


We made a grand total of seventy five cents each. Of course that was three weeks worth of allowance but somehow, it didn't seem like much. The lesson learned , that was worth more than the money, was that no matter how hard a job I have faced in the ensuing 50 years, I always had bean picking to make me realize, things could be worse. Those who make a living today picking beans have my respect. I sure couldn't do it and I am grateful that other options were offered.