Harvest of Love

Chapter 1

1965

        I need money, and I need it fast. The reality of it hits me as I'm digging around in my pockets for change to pay for the burger, fries, and coke that the waitress has just placed in front of me. She gives me an impatient stare, arching one neatly plucked eyebrow upward towards the paper A&W hat she is wearing. I hurry my effort in counting out the change. I know I'm holding up the line at the register. I slap the last few pennies down onto the counter and push them towards her with an apologetic grin. She pops her gum, scoops the change into the drawer, and then turns to the person behind me as she says, "Next." 

           I take my bagged lunch out to my powder blue 1959 Chevrolet Apache. Well, it's mine now, I think, with a sad pang of regret. It used to be my big brother's. The image of him in his army greens comes back to me swift and painful. He always seemed so much older than just two years my senior. He was wiser, too. He could do anything right the first time while I fumbled my way through life. So, needless to say, I was more than a little surprised that day when he tossed me the keys to the truck.

"Take care of her while I'm gone, little brother," he stated casually with a wink. He then turned and saluted our father, who gave a proud nod while Mother dabbed tears from her eyes with a handkerchief. That was a year ago, and the last time I saw my brother alive. So much has changed since he left. I no longer have him to be my buffer from our father's obvious disappointment in me. I will never understand why Jack felt he had to follow in our father's footsteps. "Three generations of military men is something to be proud of," my dad would exclaim at least once a day when Jack signed up for the army at the ripe old age of eighteen. I tried to tell him that he didn't have to sign up. Dad would get over it, eventually. At least he did when I disappointed him, which was pretty often. Jack gave me a brotherly punch on the arm and said, "It's not like that . . . I want to do this."

            Of course, he would. Jack never did anything half-heartedly. If he tried out for a sport, he became the star. When he decided it was time to date, he landed the most desired girl at school. I couldn't hate him, though. Jealous? Most definitely. But for all he did well, he stayed humble and kind. He was the best big brother a guy could have. He was always there for me, a constant protective shadow. So, I guess it wasn't all that surprising he wanted to serve and protect our country. He got his first and last chance to do so in August 1964, Vietnam. My brother became one of the 216 American soldiers who was killed by the year's end. President Johnson was pushing to send more ground troops against military recommendations that were calling for a large-scale bombing. Our family was crushed, to say the least. No one expected that Jack wouldn't return from war safe and sound with a jacket full of metals of honor. Our own father had fought both in WWII and the Korean War, and he had returned with no outward scars. His war wounds were internal and deep. He never discussed the things he saw and did there, but at night, I would awake to his nightmares and Mother's quiet words of comfort.

             After Jack was laid to rest, my mother became deeply depressed, and my father turned toward anger. He would lash out at me for every little mistake. He constantly reminded me that I was nothing like Jack and never would be. Then he got it into his head that I should join the army and take revenge on those 'commie bastards!' Once I realized he was serious and my mother was in no condition to talk sense into him, I decided it was time to leave and make a life of my own. I am nineteen now, so no one can stop me. The one thing I know I don't want to do is join the military. It's not that I don't see the honor and nobility in it. It is. I just can't unsee what it has done to my family. And if Jack was so quickly disposed of, I know I don't even have a chance of making it out alive. So, I packed up my belongings and all the cash I had from my bag boy job at the local grocery store. I quickly penned a note to my folks explaining I was going to find my own place in this world, and I would let them know when I found it.

           So here I sit in the parking lot of an A&W restaurant somewhere in central Kentucky. I am no closer to my destiny than I was when I started some days ago. Unless my destiny is to be a beggar, which brings me back to my present dilemma . . . I need a job. Finishing off the last of my fries, I hop out of the truck to throw my trash away. Next to the garbage can is an old man smoking a cigarette. He eyes me up and down as he blows smoke out the side of his mouth. "You ain't from around here, are ya?" he drawls. 

"No, sir. I'm actually looking for a job. You wouldn't know of anything, would you?" I ask boldly while squaring back my shoulders, hoping to look older than my nineteen years. 

"I might," he answers and takes another drag on the cigarette. "What kind of work are you look'n for, kid?" 

"Anything . . . legal," I add thinking this man could fit the description of a moonshiner; old stained overalls, long white scraggly beard, and a beat-up hat sits a top his head with stringy white hair puffing out the sides. He starts to chuckle, but it turns into a deep chest raking smoker's cough. He hacks up a loogie and spits it out onto the ground beside us. 

"Well, I do know of something and legal to boot," he grins. "But it is hard manual labor out in the heat. Are you up for something like that?" 

"Yes, Sir! You just tell me when and where. I promise you won't regret it." I answer excitedly.

 "Well, you best not disappoint, son, because I'll be putting my arse on the line if ya do," he states with a direct stare. 

"I'll work as long and hard as anyone else. I swear it," I say confidently. 

 "We'll see," he smirks, then goes on to give me directions to a large tobacco farm in a small town called Bloomfield, Kentucky. "It's almost time to harvest the tobaccy, and boss man is always in need of extra hands at that time of year. I'm a work hand there myself. Show up tomorrow morning, and I'll introduce ya." 

"I'll be there bright and early. Thank you, mister . . ." 

"Clemons, but most just call me Clem."

"Thanks again, Clem. I'll see you in the morning," I say and turn back towards my truck. 

Just one more night sleeping on the road, then hopefully I can start sleeping on a proper bed.