So Dad, in all his infinite wisdom, gave me my first job. He hired my brother and me to walk beans on the family farm. We do a little work and we make a little cash. A little. We made a whopping $3.00 an hour.
The idea was that we would wake up early and head out to the field with Grandpa, and while he did other things, my brother and I would walk up and down the rows of beans with a corn hook. We were told to hook the corn and pull the velvet weed and the cockleburs. It was a pain in the butt. I hated it.
We walked up and down rows, miles and miles, in the blistering sun. We were swarmed by locust and chased by critters. I even lost my flip flops in the mud. They were just sucked off my feet! I know, I know. Why was I wearing flip flops? I was 12! And I didn’t wasn’t sock tan too….jeez!
This job was pure torture. Not my idea of a summer vacation at all – for only $3.00 an hour? You have got to be kidding. I wanted to be home with my friends, talking on the phone, getting a tan…not a farmer’s tan.
That job lasted approximately sixteen and a half hours, for me. Long enough for me to make the money to buy my first pair of NIKE Tennis shoes….leather ones with the light blue swoosh. I had calculated the time exactly, and when I hit the magic number? I was done.
And Dad let me get away with it. I was a brat…a spoiled brat. He tried to guilt me into getting my fanny back out in the field, but there was NO WAY I was going back out into that field. I had my shoes, and that was that. Period.