Childhood memories remain with us always. Some of these we share with other people. Others are uniquely our own. Here is a poem that relates my family experiences shortly after world war 11. My sisters and I still vividly recall these even though they happened some 60 years ago. In spite of the aches and pains at the time we were happy to share a vital part in the wellbeing of our family. In the midst of poverty we experienced a sense of self worth that defies explanation.
EARLY CHILDHOOD MEMORIES
(Saga of the child potato pickers)
Was the eldest of siblings, seven,
A scrawny lad, barely eleven.
Who by fate was poverty- born,
Had felt already the wealthy’s scorn.
War was dangerous, food was scarce,
Giving survival troubling cares.
Father’s paltry wage was not enough,
Children must help. Life was so tough.
Farmer came to my mother’s door,
Saying: Give me three kids, or more.
Need more workers in my field.
This year’s potatoes bear much yield.
I will pay them twelve cents per hour,
They must work through sun and shower.
And work at least nine hours or more
Those potatoes must go in store.
Mother uncertain, losing poise,
Then consented. She had no choice.
They will work, but don’t be rough.
They’re children. Know when it’s enough.
Woman, there’s no need for worry.
Summer will be gone in a hurry.
Besides, idleness is the devil’s tool.
Keep them busy, or you’re just a fool.
Son, of your sisters take good care.
Of lunch they too must get good share.
Watch out for them. Make sure you see,
That they drink enough of their tea.
Listen kids, this is what you do,
One basket each to two of you.
Sticks in the ground every thirty feet.
Pick up all potatoes until you meet.
Once you’re done, I’ll dig some more.
Those potatoes must go in store.
Keep picking spuds, and that real fast. Summer is here, and that won’t last.
Backs bent low felt the stinging sun.
We picked potatoes on the run,
We picked, stick to stick, row on row.
Whew! How much further can we go?
Our legs too long – or arms too short?
Our aching backs couldn’t find support.
With our noses close to the ground,
We picked , picked spuds, till none were found.
Needed relief for aching back.
Couldn’t stretch for the boss gave flack.
You think I pay you for nothing?
Keep picking till it’s time for quitting.
The endless day did finally end.
We washed up, ate, and were content.
We went to bed and fell asleep.
Too tired to ask God our soul to keep.
Early morning came all too soon.
Children get up! It’ll soon be noon!
Got up as tired as the night before,
To start the day to pick some more.
Backs bent low felt pouring rain.
We picked the spuds, ignored the pain.
We picked stick to stick, row on row.
We’re soaked! Boss, when can we go?
You can’t quit now. Pick some more.
Those potatoes must go in store.
Want to get paid? Keep on working!
Don’t give every excuse for shirking.
The endless week did finally end.
We got paid and we were content.
Our aches and pains were still much there,
But felt our pay for work quite fair.
Mother dear, can you close your eyes?
We want to give you big surprise.
Hold up your apron big and wide.
In dropped our pay like a mighty tide.
It felt good to help mom and dad.
Together, we overcame the bad.
In the end, summer’s work was done.
We were content that good had won.
Theo. J. de Koning – June 21 2006 All rights reserved
Tags: child labor, childhood, family, hardship, joy and pain, poverty, war time
