Every time we drove through the south end of town in our red-and-white Nash Rambler station wagon, I’d keep my eyes open for The Blueberry Farm. We didn’t travel to the south end of town often—no shopping to draw us there or people we knew—so it was always a treat to see that sprawling expanse of bushes beside the road. The farm had a big sign with blue letters welcoming passersby to the biggest blueberry farm in the Greater Seattle area. I was proud that my hometown had such an illustrious claim-to-fame. I didn’t know that it used to be the Strawberry Capital of the area, complete with a Strawberry Festival, Strawberry shortcake eating contests, and Strawberry Princesses in pale pink gowns. To me, my town would always be Blueberry Town.

Why did I have such an interest in blueberry fields when I was a child? No idea. But something about that business called to me. I’d heard stories from local teenagers about how much they enjoyed working at the blueberry farm during the summer harvest. Eating berries right off the bushes. Talking to their friends as they worked their way down the rows. It sounded like the perfect first job. Unlimited blueberries, lots of sunshine, and good times with friends.

I had friends who started their working career by babysitting. Babysitting didn’t appeal to me. Babies were noisy and smelly. Little kids didn’t obey and were just annoying in general. I wasn’t much of a “little kid” person at that age. They sort of repelled me. I was a good kid, a nice girl in nearly every sense—there were a few secrets nobody knew about, but those are for another story. Because I was basically an all-around nice girl, the moms nearby were always asking me to babysit. But the idea just wasn’t attractive to me. Besides, I was determined to start out my working career with a “real” job picking blueberries.
The years went by. The magic age of fourteen loomed closer. Fourteen was when you could start working at the blueberry farm. The child labor laws must have been different back then.

Even though I was now a teenager, I would still crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the blueberry fields when we’d drive past on those rare drives to the south side of town.

Next year. The magic would happen next year.

For some reason I didn’t understand at the time, my mother would chuckle quietly when I’d say I wanted to work at the blueberry farm. She told me that she’d picked strawberries one summer when she was young. She sometimes said she didn’t think blueberry picking was going to be all I’d dreamed of. Although she said things that felt like hints, or maybe warnings, she didn’t tell me any stories of her strawberry picking days. I probably wouldn’t have heard the underlying warning message of her stories, anyway. I was going to be a blueberry picking maniac, finding great satisfaction in my first job and starting a lucrative summertime career—which didn’t involve diapers or naptimes.

It turned out on that magic summer when I’d turned fourteen, the little bit of babysitting I’d done paid off. I had to have an interview with the field boss before I could start working. They wanted to know about my work history. Work history? I’d been saving all my “work history” for picking blueberries. They asked me, “Have you ever babysat?” “Yes.” “Great! You’re hired!” And just like that, my lifelong dream of picking blueberries was about to begin. Now that I’d had my interview, and my mom had filled out papers, and I’d gotten my first schedule, there was nothing left to do but wait two days until my first shift started. Nine-to-two with a break in the middle for lunch. “Don’t forget to bring a lunch,” the field boss told me. It made me think that forgetting lunch might have been a common occurrence.

My mom made me prepare my lunch the night before. “Since you’re working now, you’re old enough to make your own lunch.”
Hm. I didn’t really care for this development in my blueberry picking fantasy. I maybe should’ve read this as a portent of things to come. But I rolled up my sleeves, made myself a sandwich, filled a thermos, and grabbed an apple. While annoying, the “making your own lunch” thing did give me a sense of satisfaction. Yes, I’m a grownup girl with a new job, preparing to spend my first summer employed at my dream job. Life doesn’t get much better than this.

My mom had me set my alarm. She said grown-ups with real jobs don’t have their mother’s getting them up in the morning. So I set my alarm and laid down for the night, visions of blueberry bushes and warm sunshine easing me to sleep. When the alarm went off, I nearly jumped out of bed. It was here! My magical summer of blueberry picking was finally here!

My mom surprised me with a hearty breakfast that morning. Bacon, eggs, toast, grapefruit. “Physical labor requires a good meal to start the day.” Physical labor? Hm. I wasn’t sure what that had to do with blueberry picking. At the time, I just thought it was one of those nonsense jokes my mom would make sometimes, which ended with a chuckle and the phrase, “You’ll understand when you’re older.” My mother could be so weird.

I dressed in comfortable summer clothes and pulled my long hair into pigtails on either side of my head. I liked pigtails better than a ponytail because I could fasten them over my ears. I was always self-conscious about my ears. Kids would tease me about my ears because they stuck out from my head and would peek through my hair. I heard stories that when I was a baby my grandmother would tape down my ears to try and train them not to stick out. My freaky ears weren’t my imagination. I hoped when I was older I could have cosmetic surgery to fix them. Along with my nose with the bump at the bridge, the other body part that was frequently ridiculed at school.

My mom and I drove to the blueberry farm, each of us in silence. I was too excited to talk, and she was listening to the news on the radio. Something about something called Watergate that led to the President getting in trouble. The teachers at school talked about it in Current Affairs, but I wasn’t really sure about the details at the time. I knew it was important, but it didn’t seem to have anything to do with me and my life. I was much more interested in blueberries.

When we arrived at the farm, there were other cars in the parking lot with young teenagers piling out. Some came in groups, looking like they were getting ready for a summer at the beach. The girls in short shorts with bikini tops. The boys shirtless. I was wearing a t-shirt and blue jeans. I felt overdressed, and could tell some of the other kids were looking at me funny. I felt like I didn’t fit in from the first moment of getting out of the car. Oh, well. I was here for the blueberries, although making a few new friends would’ve been a nice side benefit. There was still a day ahead. Maybe things would turn around.

I grabbed my lunch bag, waved goodbye to my mom, and headed over to the line that was forming by the office. The field boss was showing us how to use the time clock and given instructions about bathroom breaks. Then we were each handed a large bucket and were directed out into the fields.

Everyone gathered around a veteran blueberry picker and we were instructed in correct blueberry picking form. Don’t pick the berries individually. Takes too long. Cup your hand under a group of berries and flick the berries into you had with your fingers. Seemed easy enough. Don’t move on to the next bush until the first bush is completely clean of berries. Okay. No eating the blueberries—if you’re caught eating them, they’ll be deducted from your pay. Wow. I’d been told we could eat the berries while we worked. Bummer. So much for free snacks. You’d be paid $5 for every bucket you filled. Really? These buckets were pretty big. I had a hard time imagining these little berries filling up a bucket very quickly. Well, maybe it’d go more quickly than it seemed.

We were each set put into a row of bushes, and told to get started. The sun was warm and I was happy to be getting started. Put my cupped hand under a bunch of berries, flick the berries into my hand … and watch the berries roll out of my hand and onto the ground. Well, shoot. They didn’t warn us that could happen. So I spent time I should’ve spent picking berries off the bush picking them up off the ground. There. First handful done. The next handful went better, with no berries rolling onto the ground. Plunk, plunk. The sound of the berries hitting the bottom of the pail sounded great. Only 5,000 more handfuls to fill a bucket. Or so it seemed.

As time went by, the sun got higher in the sky. I wished I worn sunglasses and shorts. I’d finished two bushes, when the field boss came up to me and said, “Come with me. I want to show you something.” We walked back to the first bush I’d worked on. The field boss lifted some branches from the lower part of the bush and said, “See all these berries you missed? The bush need to be clear of every ripe berry before you move on. So come back and start again. Call me when you think you’re done and I’ll come over and check to see if you missed anything.” Ugh. It seemed to take forever the first time through that bush. Now I had to do it again, this time bending over and looking underneath all the branches. I set the bucket on the ground and started picking again.

A cute boy with short sun-bleached hair and the sort of blue eyes you could fall into, walked up to where I was working and said, “Hi, Pigtails.” I was a bit flustered that he’d even noticed me. Whatever school he’d come from, he was obviously one of the popular kids. He stood there and smiled at me with a blinding white teeth, and then reached out his foot and kicked over my bucket of hard-earned blueberries! They rolled all over the ground. The boy laughed so everyone could hear, and then said loudly, “I can’t believe you just spilled all your berries! What a klutz!” And then walked away while the field boss came over to see what all the commotion was about. The boy had moved far enough away in the rows of bushes that the field boss didn’t even know anyone had been with me. I was told to pick up every single berry. Every. Single. One. “I’ll come back to make sure you didn’t miss any.” Geez. This isn’t fun at all.

Then the bell rang for lunch break. The sun was getting hotter and the idea of getting to sit for a while in the shade sounded heavenly. I’d only picked up about half of the berries that had spilled, but I left then were they were and headed to lunch. “Where do you think you’re going?” the field boss scolded. “Get back to work until you pick up all those spilled berries. Then you can go to lunch.”

While all the other kids sat together at picnic tables under the wooden shelter, I bent over for another ten minutes finishing picking up the berries from the ground. The sun was hot. Sweat was starting to drip down my back, and I was feeling hungry and very thirsty. Plus I hadn’t had a bathroom break yet.

First step, pick up berries. Check. Next step, head to the restroom. Check. Next, pick up lunch. Wait. Where was my lunch? I heard a giggle from one of the girls at a nearby table. Then I heard the blond boy’s voice say, “Mm. Good sandwich, Pigtails.” Everyone at the table laughed and turned their backs on me.

I sat down at a table to at least get a little rest and some shade. I didn’t know what to do about the lunch that had now been eaten by the blond boy. I was still hungry. They’d evidently stolen my thermos so I didn’t have anything to drink, either. My mom was going to kill me for losing the Thermos. The bell rang and it was time to get back to work. Since I’d started lunch late, I assumed I’d be able to continue my lunch break a bit later, too. Nope. The field boss came over to me and told me to get back to work. “But I …” I started to stutter out, only to be met with, “No buts. Get back to work.”

And so the day continued on in much the same vein. Insults and rude noises directed at me from Blond Boy and his friends. The field boss scolding me for missing berries or not using the correct technique. Mosquitos came out and found me. I’d always been a magnet for mosquitos. The sun got warmer. My T-shirt was sweaty. My arms were getting scratched from the branches. My nose was sunburnt. I ate a few berries because I was still so hungry after missing lunch, and of course the field boss saw me eat them, so they estimated the amount I’d eaten and said it’d be deducted from my pay.

I was probably the slowest blueberry picker in the history of blueberry pickers. I was so tired, hot, hungry, and thirsty, it was becoming difficult to hold the berry bucket, or even to stand up without feeling dizzy. I was so light-headed I couldn’t even hear the taunts from the Blond Boy. It all just melded into a daze.

Then the bell rang again. The workday was over! I don’t think I’d ever felt so relieved before. Everyone grabbed their buckets and lined up to have our final buckets weighted and measured. Believe it or not, I was still working on my first bucket, even after a full day of blueberry picking. The field boss looked carefully at my bucket, told me it wasn’t full, estimated how much it was lacking, and then gave me a slip of paper that said $4.25. I took it to the office and was handed four one-dollar bills and a quarter.

A day of hard work, too much sun, no food or water, sunburn, mosquito bites, scratches, and an ample dose of humiliation. All for less that five dollars. My dream job. Maybe more like my nightmare job.

When I saw my mom waiting in the parking lot, I ran to the car, hopped into the passenger seat, and promptly began to cry. Between sobs, I kept saying, “I don’t want to come back! I want to quit! Don’t make me come back!” My mom looked a little surprised by my strong reaction, but she told me if I was serious about not coming back, I needed to go tell them that I wouldn’t be returning the next day. I begged my mom to do it for me, but she kept insisting that I take care of it myself. It was my job, not hers. I finally stopped the shoulder-shaking crying I’d been doing, wiped my runny nose on my T-shirt, and walked over to the office. The Blond Boy and his friends started laughing and saying, “Hey, Cry Baby! Wah wah wah!” Knowing I wouldn’t have to see them the next day was the only thing that kept me from running back to the car.

I had to wait behind a couple of kids in order to talk to the field boss. They all looked at me out of the corner of their eyes and then turned away, almost as if they were embarrassed on my behalf. The field boss finally got to me and said, “What do you want?” I started to feel the sobs trying to come back, but somehow I got the strength to say I was quitting and wouldn’t be back the next day. All they said was, “Yeah, I had you pegged for a quitter.” And then waved me away.

The next time one of the neighborhood moms called to ask me to babysit. I said yes. A thousand times, yes.