The Last Bus of Summer by: Kathe Campbell
Midi now playing, "Hey Big Spender"
THE LAST BUS OF SUMMER
By
Kathe Campbell©copyright, all rights reserved
I was an only adopted kid nicknamed Casey back in the dark ages. I understand now what I didn't understand then. My family was sweet and sheltering and the best folks a girl could have. Sometimes though, that just wasn't enough when 12-year-olds decide their own fate. Mom always said . . . "If Pudd sat in a mud puddle, you would too." Probably, for Pudd was my best friend. Brilliant dreams meandered through our young minds when peers took precedence and parents became the pits, even in 1944.
We didn't need the extra money. Dad had a great career and I had an allowance, but entrepreneurial genius overwhelmed my adolescence. I baby sat hour upon hour, loathing stinky diapers and cleaning dirty little hands and faces, highchairs and kitchen floors. I resolved that if this was marriage, leave me out.
Friends knew of job openings picking berries in the summer months out in the vast and fertile Puyallup Valley. In those days one didn't need a parent's signed note. The picker busses left the Winthrop Hotel weekday mornings promptly at six-thirty. Mom and dad encouraged me to forget the idea until they discovered Monnie, Jiggs, and Pudd were equally eager to test fiscal stirrings. Our families perceived the work as slave labor for young ladies. For us, it was the snipping of a pre-teen apron string. We would flutter wings and become rich beyond our wildest dreams.
Tongues in cheeks, families reluctantly gave in after mutually thrashing out pros and cons. In hindsight, parental grumbling about daily early hour chauffeuring was probably galling them most. Nonetheless, Monday morning we four arrived at the busses all decked out in rolled up Levis, our dad's white shirts down to our knees, cardigan sweaters, and sack lunches. God forbid even one of us should begin our careers unfashionably clad.
The morning hours were cool, perfect for berry picking. But as the day wore on, I became acutely aware of the one ton flat contraption hanging off my shoulders. The sweater was discarded, and finally the shirt right down to my cotton tee while the sun scorched the fields and me. A few thousand new freckles would become my badge of financial triumph.
I kept up with the gang over in the next rows until the picker boss tapped me on the shoulder. "You're missing half the crop, girlie. Go back and start over," he growled. But for one or two berries, I was hard pressed to see any strays. The scolding slowed my pace and my skimpy flat appeared a sorry sight. It was as though Kilroy was eating raspberries faster than I could pick.
Finally, twelve o'clock and my tummy was growling audibly. Peanut butter and jelly never tasted so good while I discovered everyone else had picked nearly four flats. They would surely go home with two bucks or better and I'd be lucky to have a dollar in my poke. I had wanted so badly to show mom and dad I could do it. Suddenly, the thought of squalling kids and dirty diapers for two bucks a day didn't sound half bad. But I wasn't a quitter, and as long as my best friends were picking, I'd pick too.
With every week down, a blessed weekend loomed ahead. Despite the heat, dust, and sticky stained fingers, I boarded the last bus with the grand sum of a dollar-fifty on my best day. Our little gang agreed there must be a better way to make a living. It was important that we had struck out on our own to make it big in the world. Equally important, our smug parents had allowed it when rescuing our exhausted and sunburned frames Friday evening.
Monnie helped out at a kid's day camp. Pudd decided to help her father do odd jobs at his lumber yard. Jiggs spent the rest of the summer shucking corn and washing produce at the corner market. And I, well I gladly went back to caring for the divorcee's kids. She even took me along to her family's beach house as the nanny for two glorious weeks - with pay. After all, being wealthy would have undoubtedly caused endless tax complications for our folks. Thus, the six of us collected thousands of newspapers and tin cans for the war effort in our spare time.
I was a sorry berry picker, and although I love berries, you'll not find me picking a bucket anytime soon. I stopped at a fruit stand up in the Flathead Valley recently. With each succulent cherry and each chilled sip of local apple cider, I couldn't help but recall how lucky I'd been while watching the young picker crews. I had parents who longed for me to grow up reveling in the memories of a privileged childhood. All well and good my darlings, but oh how my youthful memories always summon up the tough, rather than the easy.
�2004 Kathe Campbell
Kathe lives on a 7000 foot western Montana mountain where she and her husband have raised national champion spotted asses. Three grown children, 11 grandchildren, and two greats round out the herd. Kathe has contributed to newspapers and national magazines on Alzheimer's disease, and her stories are found on many e-zines. She is currently featured in Chicken Soup for the Grandparent's Soul, Chicken Soup to Inspire the Body and Soul, and People Who Make a Difference.
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