My fifteen year old has been working on a farm this summer. It’s hard work. She’s out the door by 5:30 every morning, six days a week. It’s piece work so the pay can be variable and the weather can steal a day’s pay too.
Other parent’s interest in the job is always colored by whiff of skepticism. A flicker of disdain is covered quickly by brief, awkward, friendly queries. Unsaid: “You let her do that?” or maybe even, “I can’t believe you make her do that.”
She’’ll have plenty of time in her life to stand behind a counter or use a keyboard. It is good hard work, it’s outdoors, she’s home by noon everyday, she’s feeding people. And she gets a paycheck. She’s got an Estilo habit she needs to feed. She’s out to Sunday brunch now with her friends. She didn’t ask for money before she left. She got this job by herself. No suggestion from us that she should work, or where she should work. In fact the early hours had us urging her to broaden her search—plenty of food service jobs available.
For her it seemed a given: I’m old enough to work, how can I get a job, who do I know who can help me find work?
A friend who has worked there for a couple of years hooked her up. He has a crew of maybe five or six, drives them out to the fields every morning, brings them home at the end of the shift.A dollar a day for gas. It’s maybe a twenty minute ride from our house to the fields at Fairwinds Farm in Bowdoinham.
The people running the farm are brilliant. In addition to the weekly paycheck, everyday she gets a quart of strawberries, or a pint of raspberries to bring home. The fruits of her labor. Live on the bush hours ago. It’s a stroke of genius. Right there on the counter for everyone to see. Tangible branding. A bit of personal recognition. Almost like a present instead of pay.
