for whom the belle toils
by robin harris

My first job was at a pickle factory. Not many people can say that.
It was the hot Southern summer of 1974. This was also my personal Summer of Love, which I’ll get to later.

That summer was to have a profound impact on me. I didn’t know that as I began carpooling with several of my college buddies, taking the drive down a curvy, two-lane country back road at 5:30 a.m., to our summer job.

Fun, fun, fun was what this was going to be. Imagine one summer-long, pickle-packing party with my friends!

The pickle factory, which shall remain nameless for the protection and coverage of my proverbial ass, was located at the intersection of Cucumber and Vine. Cute. This was almost as clever and amusing as an intersection in my mom’s neighborhood: the corner of Tonya and Harding. But I digress.

Every summer the factory would hire extra, temporary workers for the Green Season. This is when zillions of fresh cucumbers come in from the fields and need be processed into pickles as soon as possible.

So here we were. Uppity, prissy, giggly white college kids set down for a flash of time in the middle of mostly black employees, many whose family members had worked at the plant for multiple generations. I remember feeling immediately embarrassed.
We worked 6 days a week, 10 hours a day. There was a 10-minute break in both the morning and afternoon, and 30 minutes for lunch. The building had little ventilation. No air conditioning, of course. No windows. A few floor fans blew around the hot, stuffy, oppressive air. It was hell on my hair and make-up.

On our feet the whole time, we stood at attention alongside a very long conveyor belt that originated somewhere else, miles away in another part of the factory. Its origin was a mystery we never figured out. As the fresh green cucumbers rode by, we stuffed them into glass jars as fast as our soft little hands could go.
T-shirts, jeans and tennis shoes were the attire. By the end of the day, we were exhausted, filthy and sticky from head to toe from all the brine and dust that had settled on us.

My third or fourth day, I came home crying to Mama and Daddy. They comforted me with “Darlin’, it’s too hard. You don’t have to go back.”
I sobbed through my tears, “Yes, I do. I can’t give up. I have to go back in there!” I had no idea why I said that. It was a melodramatic, Rocky-like movie moment. Hey, I was still a teenager at the time.

And thank the goddess I went back. If I hadn’t, I would have missed the compliment from Raymone, who told me one day at break that I had a great set of hips. Who knew hips came in sets, like encyclopedias? You should see these hips now, Raymone. Vintage World Books.

I would also have missed knowing Betsy, a second generation employee, and her daughters Precious and Rose, third generation. They sparked my summer days with their wit, pluck, strength, endurance, and stories no one could make up.
And, I wouldn’t have met a very special boy from another college. He was the first one who packed a pickle that would get merry with my cherry, if you know what I mean.
So, what did I learn that summer—about work, about myself, about life? I am guessing retrospectively from my middle-aged place, but here goes.

Ultimately, whatever I do contributes to the inner me, my life’s journey, the path of my spirit. How I do it, contributes to the inner me. Work with intention, with integrity and mindfulness. Be in the moment. (When packing pickles, just pack pickles?)

What I do brings me into relationship with others, which contributes to the inner me. And they also are affected. It is always sacred, this “I, Thou” relationship with others.
And now I would add: my work must also contribute to the greater good. I want to participate in the growth and healing of our world. In a nutshell: I guess I toil for me, for thee, for all that be.

I made it through that Green Season. For years afterward, I did have a recurrent dream where I was positioned eye-level at the bottom of a never-ending conveyor belt. Thousands and thousands of long, firm cucumbers would tumble end-over-end down the belt and bump into my face. Oh! That’s not a dream—that’s more like a nightmare.

Robin Harris is a Licensed Professional Counselor and Certified Eating Disorders Specialist in private practice in Arden. She believes in the importance of humor as she counsels folks with body image, food and eating struggles, and not just pickle problems. [ 828-775-5506 or robinharris5506@yahoo.com ]