What I Learned From My Old Jobs

When I was fourteen, I got my first, real, paycheck-at-the-end-of-the-week, job.  I spent the summer working on a blueberry farm in South Georgia. The work was hard.  If memory serves, we began harvesting in June and worked through the end of July.  It was hot – but we couldn’t wear shorts or t-shirts.  We had to wear jeans and long-sleeved shirts, because of the briers and wasps that loved to live in blueberry bushes. I worked alongside the son and grandson of the farm’s owner.  The grandson was a year younger than I, but he had grown up on the farm, so he knew the ins-and-outs of the operation.  His dad drove the massive blueberry picking machine while he and…

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