When I was a kid, summer didn’t mean vacation. Summer meant opportunity.

Once school let out, you could almost smell it in the air. Hay needed cutting. Produce needed picking. Lawns needed mowing. Newspapers needed delivering. And if you were a strong young boy who didn’t mind sweating a little, there was money to be made.

Dad made sure Mike and I were strong. When Richard came along, he got the same training. The Pass boys were expected to work. Not asked. Expected.

I was blessed to have the opportunity to find work every summer.

But not every summer job turned out to be a blessing.

The only job I ever quit in my life was picking peaches at Kimber’s Orchard. That peach fuzz drove me crazy. It felt like rolling around in insulation. One day, I’d had enough of that infernal fuzz. So, I walked off the job and marched all the way back to Dongola.

But as much as I detested picking peaches, I absolutely loved hauling hay. 

Now, some people hate working in the heat. But not me. I loved it. There’s just something so satisfying about stacking hay under a blazing southern Illinois sun while sweat drips off your nose. It makes a young fella feel useful and productive.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that, every now and then, a farmer’s daughter wandered out to the hayfield carrying lemonade or sweet tea. Mercy. A young man could lose his train of thought mighty quick under those circumstances. One minute you’re stacking hay… the next minute you’re trying to remember your own name.

Now, while hauling hay was my favorite summer job, it also led to one of my least favorite summer memories. 

I was hauling hay for a fella named Red Dillow. 

At the time, I had two carbuncles on my stomach. If you’ve never had one, let me educate you. They’re kinda like boils only much worse. Those big angry blisters burned like fire. Dad kept trying to convince me to let a doctor lance ’em, but I wanted no part of that.

One day, Red’s wife was running the hay wagon. Since I was one of the stronger boys, I was a thrower, which meant I rode high atop the wagon, stacking hay bales. We were headed toward the barn with a full load when Mrs. Dillow cut the turn a little too sharp.

The wagon tipped, and over we went. Hay. Me. Everything.

I tumbled head over heels down the embankment like laundry in a washing machine. And, somewhere amid all that rolling and bouncing, both of those carbuncles burst open.

Lord Almighty. I thought I’d been shot. I was lying in the dirt with this big, wet, gooey mess across my stomach, wondering whether to cry or call a preacher for last rites. 

In the end, the only thing bruised was my pride. And Dad was satisfied because those dadgum carbuncles got lanced after all. So, I guess, in a strange sort of way, Mrs. Dillow did me a favor and saved me a trip to the doctor’s office. 

And that, my friends, was the day I fell off the wagon.

Be well.
Stay well. Thanks for readin’.

Francis Pass

P.S. One of these days, I’m gonna drive back down to Kimber’s Orchard and measure just how far I walked back to Dongola. As I recall, it must’ve been at least a hundred miles. Uphill both ways, of course.