On January 24, 1965, I reached the mature age of nineteen years and left Michigan State University in a snowstorm. It had snowed more than a foot and the drive south to Baroda took over six hours. I have reflected on that day upon more than one occasion in my life, and still marvel at how seemingly innocuous events can have such far-reaching repercussions.
I had left school after one semester. It was not that I didn't like engineering. I had worked on cars with my uncle since I was fifteen, and I wanted to be an engineer more than I wanted anything else in the world. I had a singularly difficult problem with continuing my education. My father had died when I was ten, and he left few assets. Mom's salary as a secretary didn't provide all of the toys my friends owned, but had been sufficient to see us through my high school years. I had not been fortunate enough, or smart enough, to win a scholarship, and Mom had been able to save only enough for the first semester's tuition and expenses. I didn't want a student loan, so I decided to come home, get a job, and try again next year.
I soon found that temporary employment in an inflationary economy was only a dream. I applied at all the factories in Benton Harbor, but as soon as I mentioned I was going back to school in the fall, the interviewer would relax and switch to idle chat. I tried finding farm work, but most of that was done by migrant labor from the South. In February, I took my draft physical, and the doctors discovered the twisted left leg that remained as a reminder of a childhood accident. They sent me home with a 4-F status and the embarrassment of explaining it to my high school buddies. I watched them board the bus for basic training, and soon was nearly the only guy my age left in town. I was also still without a job. I had six months to earn about three thousand dollars, or I would have to let another year go by.
I found a two day job moving boxes of peaches at the local Co-op, but that wasn't going to do more than let me pay Mom back for the gas I'd burned in my search. On the last day, the supervisor told me that if I was interested, there might be another temporary job available. The next morning, I drove to Laura Hildebrand's grape farm.
The long, wide white rock drive ran in a horseshoe around the huge lawn, and the farm buildings sat along the curve. The twenty-odd acres of grape vines surrounded the farmstead proper, and the place looked run down. A huge red barn stood on the left, but the roof sagged and one of the double doors hung by one roller. I saw the headlights of an old Ford tractor gazing out of the shadows, but that dangling door would hold it captive until someone fixed it. The hayloft door hung down from it's hinges, and a half-dozen pigeons sat sunning themselves on the edge. In front of the barn, and joining the wide drive was a white rock area that must have covered at least an acre. The house wasn't much better, and must have been at least fifty years old. The mortar was crumbling between the cobblestones that formed the walls, and the enormous weeping willow trees around it probably made it dark for most of the day. The moss growing on the stone and cedar shake roof gave it a rustic look, but the facia was rotting away, and the porch hadn't been painted in years. In it's day, it was probably a beautiful house, but now it looked shabby and neglected like the barn.
In between the house and the barn stood a small replica of a chalet. I couldn't fathom the reason for such a structure, but I figured it was Mrs. Hildebrand's business. I was there for a job, not to criticize the architecture. I knocked on the back door of the house, and it was opened shortly by a woman in a long, grey wool dress coat. She was fifty or better, small in stature, and wore a man's winter hat with ear flaps that hid most of her silver-streaked brown hair. Her orange cotton gloves were about three sizes too big, and she tromped out on the porch in four-buckle overshoes. Her face was severe looking, as if she was angry with someone or something. She asked why I was there. The voice was just as severe as the face.
"Mrs. Hildebrand, I'm Terry Winters, and I hear you need some help with your grapes."
"I can't pay much, and you'll have to work hard."
"Anything is better than what I have now. How much is not much?"
"Three dollars an hour, and all the hours you can work until the vines are trimmed. That'll be about a week, if you work fast enough to earn your pay."
Well, it would be over a hundred dollars that I didn't have, and I had nothing better to do.
"When do I start?"
"Monday morning at six, unless it's snowing."
Southwest Michigan has a peculiar winter climate that dumps inches of fluffy white snow on its occupants one day, and then warms enough to melt it the next. That weekend was typical of late February. The temperature rose to about thirty-five, and the snow turned to slush. The sun was barely up when I drove to Mrs. Hildebrand's, but she was already standing outside with a five gallon water can. She was dressed in the same garb as last Friday, and as I drove in, she started across the white rock. She met me as I got out of my car.
"Well, at least you're on time. Here's your shears. Ever trim grapes before?"
I told her I hadn't.
"Just watch me. It's not hard. There's just a lot to do."
I followed her down the row, and she taught me how to cut away all of last year's growth and make sure the main vines were still on the wires. Half way through, we switched, and she followed me. She had to correct me a few times, but when we reached the end, she seemed satisfied, and moved over two rows. We started back through the field. Laura trimmed her row and I trimmed mine, and things seemed to be going quickly. By nine, however, the temperature had risen enough that the dirt between the rows melted, and soon we were slogging through mud. We finished one pass at about twelve and Laura announced it was time for lunch.
"I hope you brought something, because I don't have enough for two", she said casually, and tromped off to the house. I went to my car and ate the peanut butter and jelly sandwich Mom had made for me. I got a drink from the water can, and sat back to wait. She came walking back across the drive after about twenty minutes, motioned me to come, and started back to the field.
We stopped when it was too dim to see the vines. I was feeling my lack of activity over the last five months. My legs were rubbery from struggling through the mud and my hand felt numb from squeezing the shears all day. The engineer boots I had worn had started to leak sometime that afternoon, and my feet were freezing. As she walked me back to my car, she said, "You did pretty well today. Will you be back tomorrow?"
Her voice seemed a little more friendly. I assured her I would be back, and asked why she thought I wouldn't.
"Most young men don't want to work this hard. The last one left at lunch. I just guessed you might quit after today. I'd bring rubber boots tomorrow, though. That mud can get pretty cold."
I went home and collapsed on my bed. Mom woke me for dinner, and I ate a little, but then went back to bed and slept until the alarm went off at four. I staggered to the john against the ache of my legs, and soaked in the shower for fifteen minutes. The bacon and eggs Mom fixed tasted good, and by five-thirty, I was on the road to Laura's.
Tuesday was the same, except that it stayed cold enough to keep the dirt frozen. We made better time, and by that evening, had finished a little over half of the field. I still ached when I moved in certain ways, but the rows of neatly trimmed vines more than made up for the pain.
Each day was a remarkable repetition of the first. Laura wore the same clothes, had the same sour expression, and seldom said anything except for short instructions. She was a strange woman, I thought, but I was impressed by her ability to so easily do the work that was leaving me exhausted at the end of every day. We finished the field about ten on Friday.
"Well, Terry, I promised you a week's work, but we've finished the field, and I don't have anything else for you to do. I'll go get your money." She went to the house, and after a few minutes, came back out with a handful of bills. She handed them to me, and I grinned at her. The start of a smile crooked the corners of her mouth, but the sour expression quickly returned.
"That's a hundred and thirty nine dollars there, and you earned it." She paused for a moment as if resolving some internal struggle. "You do good work, and I've been thinking. I need that door fixed on the barn. That ought to take you at least part of the day. You interested?"
The door was a challenge. It must have been hanging there for several years. I found a bench in the barn with a few tools, and after a lot of effort and a few words I couldn't say around my mother, I got the door down. It took an hour to loosen up the rollers, and half an hour to get it back on the track. When I finished, it worked; it wasn't new, but, with some effort it would roll open and closed again. I went to the house, told Laura the door was fixed, and she gave me six more dollars.
That weekend, I splurged and bought a milkshake at the local restaurant. I was sitting at the counter nursing it along, when Tom Wilson sat down beside me. Tom was a close friend of mine, and was marking time until Uncle Sam called. He told me he had gotten his letter.
"Well, Terry, I go to Chicago next week. I probably won't be seeing you for a while, so keep your dipstick dry." As always, he laughed at his own joke. "Hey, I hear you're working for Crazy Laura."
"Crazy Laura? I'm working for Mrs. Hildebrand, if that's who you mean."
