Harvest of Love

Chapter 2

           I awake to the first rays of daylight streaming in through the windshield of the truck. I roll my head side to side and rotate my shoulders, trying to ease the stiffness from sleeping on the bench seat. After answering the call of nature in some woods, I drive until I find a gas station. I grab my duffel bag and head to the bathroom for a quick spot clean and change of clothes. I glance at my reflection as I'm tucking in my plaid dress shirt into my best pair of jeans. I'm in need of a haircut. The hair that I normally keep cut well above my ears is now covering the tops of them. I wet my hands and push my now too long bangs back and comb them to the side. It will have to do for now. Anyway, I doubt the cleanliness of a prospective work hand is a requirement, especially if old Clem is any example. I sip on hot coffee as I drive following the directions the old man gave me yesterday. Thankfully, they were easy to follow. There isn't much besides fields and an occasional old vacant building dotting the way. 

             After driving almost thirty minutes, I spot the large wooden entrance on my left. It has two tall wooden posts that hoist the name of the place above the dirt drive. 'Thomas Tobacco Farm' jumps off the sign in big, bold, black letters. I slowly make my way down the straight and narrow dirt road. To my right and to my left as far as the eye can see are large man sized bushy plants with big green leaves starting to turn yellow around the edges. This was as far as Clem's directions got me. Seeing no other option, I just keep driving straight, hoping for some sign of civilization to appear. Eventually, the crops diminish, and my line of sight is broadened to include an open field. Slightly off in the distance to my right is a large white two story house with black shutters around each of the nine windows adorning the front of the house. There is a big black door surrounded by four white columns that support the semi-circle porch roof. That definitely has to be the residence of whoever owns Thomas Tobacco Farm. 

               I glance to my left and see a few wooden cabin-like buildings, and straight ahead of me is an enormous white barn with black trim. The huge front doors are pulled open, so I drive my truck toward it. Just as I'm killing the engine of the truck, I see the figure of a man walking out from the shadowy interior of the barn. He steps out into the early morning sunlight, and I see that it is Clem. I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding until that moment. I am grateful to see his familiar face. I step out of the truck and walk toward him. Clem lets out a loud, high-pitched cat call whistle.

"What do we got here? All gussied-up like your going to your first day of prep school instead of sweating it out in a field all day." Clem's smile reaches all the way up to his cataract clouded blue eyes. 

 "I figured I needed to impress the boss some to get the job is all," I mumble out of embarrassment. 

"Heck boy! Whatcha think you're applying for? The boss man ain't gonna give two licks what you look like. It's how hard ya work!" At that, he laughs so hard, he ends up wiping tears from his eyes. I bite my tongue not to retort that based on his looks, it doesn't appear to take much to qualify, but my need for a job outweighs my pride at the moment. Once Clem got control of his mirth, he clapped me on the shoulder and instructed me to follow him. 

            We trek across the field into the manicured yard in front of the house. Clem walks up to the big black door and bangs the knocker a couple of times. The door is opened by a portly older man dressed in a butler's suit. He looks distastefully down his nose at Clem. "May I help you?" Clem walks straight in past the man without any hesitation asking, "Where's the boss man? I got some business to discuss with him." 

"Mr. Thomas is having breakfast in the dining room. I'm sure he doesn't want to be disturbed, and whatever it is can wait until . . ." 

             But Clem doesn't let him finish. Instead, he takes off down the hall. I quickly fall in step behind him, leaving the butler red in the face with his eyes bulging at the audacity of it all. Sure enough, Clem leads us straight to the dining room where a middle-aged man with black hair and a big black mustache sits at the end of the long empty table. In front of him is a half eaten plate of eggs, bacon, grits, and toast. He is sipping a steaming cup of coffee while reading the newspaper that he holds in his other hand. He glances up at our intrusion. "Mr. Clemons, what do I owe the pleasure of your presence so bright and early this morning?" 

"Sorry to interrupt your meal and all, but I found us a new field hand, Sir. This here's . . . uh . . . whatcha name again, boy?"

"Mason, Sir. Mason Harper." I walk up and extend my hand out for a shake. Mr. Thomas eyes me up and down without offering his hand. I slowly lower mine back down to my side. 

"How old are you, son?" he asks and sets down his coffee cup. 

"Nineteen, Sir." I reply, maintaining eye contact. 

"Hmm, you realize it will be very hard work, long hours in the hot sun?" he asks skeptically. 

"Yes, of course, Sir. I'm prepared." He lifts one dark eyebrow, giving me a questioning look. I feel my face turn red as I hear Clem snickering behind me. I clear my throat and say, "I have other clothes I can change into." 

"Alright then, do you live nearby?" 

"No, Sir, but if you tell me where a simple motel is, I will . . ." 

"No, that won't do. I expect you here when the sun comes up and finishing as it sets. I can pay you the minimum wage of $1.25 per hour plus room and board. I offer three square meals a day, only water to drink. Anything else will come out of your own pocket. I don't tolerate laziness, fighting, or drinking on the job. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Sir, of course." 

Mr. Thomas gives me one last look over before he states, "Alright, I guess that settles it. Oh, you'll be rooming with Mr. Clemons." 

"What?!" Clem exclaims all wide-eyed in surprise. Mr Thomas answers casually while stabbing a forkful of eggs. 

"One cabin is in the process of a roof repair. The other is double full with workers because of it. What else would you have me do? Besides, being the work hand manager, who better to learn the job from." He snaps the newspaper back upright, and we take that as our sign of dismissal. 

"Come on, kid. I'll show ya to OUR cabin," Clem states on a sullen sigh.

           I grab my duffel bag out of the truck and follow Clem into one of the little rustic cabins. Only offering the necessities, the cabin boasts of three cots along one wall, a small table and chairs set, a large dresser, and a small bathroom with working facilities. I toss my bag onto the cot farthest from where Clem appears to sleep; the only one that has bedding on it. As if reading my mind, Clem opens a closet and gathers a pillowcase, sheet, and a thin blanket. He drops the bundle on the end of my cot. "Here, I thought the boss man was going to give me a reward for bringing in fresh muscle, but instead, I get to babysit. Get changed, boy, daylight's a waste'n."          

           I quickly change into some old clothes and follow Clem out to start earning my keep. I learn fast what it takes to work a tobacco farm. And after a month of Sundays, Clem finally quits grumbling about having to 'babysit' me. Topping, cutting, and housing the tobacco leaves will take us all the way into December. Even with a harvester wagon, ten men are needed. Eight people cropping and stringing, plus a packer who moves the heavy strung poles of wet green tobacco from the stringers and packs them onto the pallet section of the harvester, plus a horseman. I was quickly voted into the job of packer. Since I was the youngest and newest, I got the hardest job, while Clem being the oldest, was the horseman steering the horse pulling the wagon. We all worked hard and did well as a team. As August rolled into September, a blessed slight drop in temperature was greatly welcomed. Between the hard labor in the late summer sun and eating only the three meals a day, my already lean physique became sculpted into bronzed muscle.

           Tired of being called 'pretty boy' by the guys due to my over grown hair that I'd tie back into a ponytail, I decided to let John, another work hand, use a razor and some kitchen shears to cut my golden brown mop of hair. Thankfully, he didn't do that bad of a job. He kept it razor short all around but leaving a flop of hair to fall over my 'big forehead,' he said jokingly. We became a family of sorts, and for the most part, we got along. We had weekends off, and a few had families they would return to on Saturday and Sunday. Others found comfort in drinking and perusing in town. I went with them a couple of times, but Big Mike always drank too much and would pick a fight with anyone who was unlucky enough to cross him. And if you weren't with him in the fight, you were considered against him, which was not a good place to be. If I didn't back him up in the fight, I was liable to be punched in the face for being a coward. I learned that the hard way after receiving a black eye. Big Mike apologized later once he was sober, but after that, I just stuck around the farm with good Ole Clem.