One high-school summer break, my buddy Shawn and I worked as farmhands on his Uncle’s farm. He grew tobacco and raised hogs, and we figured all the hard labor would make for good Rocky-style conditioning for the upcoming football season.

Before that summer, I was often guilty of entertaining the occasional romantic notion of doing strong, mean man labor on rustic landscapes under a setting sun. I imagined a tough but fairly painless work environment, where I almost always looked like Tristan (Brad Pitt) in the movie Legend of the Fall. It was typical for me to roam the countryside by horse – a horse that I had broke. Sometimes, I might free an entangled lamb from a thicket, rescue a bawling calf caught in the middle of a rushing stream, or scoop up the earth and smell the fragrance of my toil.  

Never did my hands turn into two hunks of bleeding blisters, or my lower back feel as though it’d been struck by lightening after operating the hay escalator for four hours. Nor did I ever imagine myself white-eyeing, which is, I learned, the name of the condition for when the victim’s eyes go goofy from the onset of heat exhaustion. But this was more the reality. Add to this: farm hours start insanely early.  

Every predawn for three months, Shawn would pick me up. I’d finish the rest of my previous night’s sleep in the passenger seat on the ride there, while Shawn drove, manned the radio, and got on me about being a poor conversation partner. Once at the farm, I’d stumble out of the car to a low-slung sun poking just over the trees. Then we’d go find Uncle Wes to receive our orders for the day.

For our first assignment, we were banished to the tobacco fields. When we started, the tobacco was already in the ground and blooming nicely. So, the main thing at this point was the vigorous task of weed maintenance. Wes, therefore, introduced us to the gas-powered tiller.  

There was just one tiller, so Shawn and I took turns guiding it through the lanes of the tobacco field. The tiller moved about an inch an hour, giving you considerable time to think. I usually just zoned out on one of the churning blades or something and let the muffled roar of the engine carry me away to a distant daydream. 

Yes, it was a fairly peaceful process, that is, until your forearms started to heat up from gripping the strong, metal levers that propelled the tiller forward. The pain would typically set in midway through, when Shawn or I, whoever was left behind to kick dirt clods, was just a speck on the horizon. It’d begin with a slight tingle, which deceived you into thinking you could take it. Then, suddenly, the deep, burning hurt would bite down. It was probably equivalent to injecting lava into your arms. Daydreams turned into prayers for strength and deliverance. And any screams were drowned out by the roar of the tiller engine and the heavy sense of isolation.           

Sometimes, while letting our forearms cool, we’d try to come up with ways to entertain ourselves. We’d wing dirt clods at a stationary target or swim in the pond with the pigs. Once we got so desperate, we shoved a bright green tobacco leaf into our mouth, to see if it tasted like the store kind. It did not, of course. It tasted like chemicals or a bad salad soaked in insecticide dressing. But we were glad we did it anyway.

When we weren’t in the fields, we were either baling hay or chasing pigs, which I will talk about next time.

Categories: Odd Jobs
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