Child Labor
The first time I worked for money-picking tomatoes from our small patch, a preview of our real farming life-I was seven years old. It wasn't very much work, of course, or very much money. My brother was ten, and I remember thinking that he a) had to work more, and b) made good money. It was the beginning of a long, mostly profitable relationship with this particular, even peculiar, employer, which (almost) ended a decade later, when I was 18. It was the summer before college, and I announced grandly that I was not going to work on the family farm, but in a restaurant, like a normal teenager.
Waiting tables didn't last, of course. It was much worse than mulching tomatoes and picking beans with intelligent, funny people. Desk work is a doddle, but most physical jobs, I've concluded, are worse than farm work-farm work of the Growing for Market variety, anyway.
But this is not a sermon on the smell of the honeysuckle, the bees buzzing in the zucchini blossoms, the joy of tilling the rich earth to grow food people need and want. You know all that. You want to know whether you should be making your seven year-old do it with you.
Lucky you. The answer is yes, with a few qualifications. First, one disclosure: I have no children, so I know nothing of your parental dilemmas on sugar, sleep, discipline, etc. All I can give you is my opinion about work, the view of one product of child labor. I didn't consult my brother Charles for this piece. I will say only that he is also mentally and physically healthy, and visits the farm regularly, without horrible flashbacks.
We were a family of four. Our older sister had been a bit of a farm-work rebel, preferring to buy blue jeans and invent languages instead, but she died when I was six, before we started to farm on our own, and that is relevant, somehow. Farming full-time for a living was a big change. It was a new family project, by coincidence beginning soon after our sister died. Our tight bond, largely around work in the early years, was a way for us to stay close after a family tragedy. It was surely unselfconscious, but the work had a purpose greater than growing vegetables, and I am grateful for the extra role work played.
There was also much to love about farm life: my parents and brother were always there, there were bugs to play with and tractors to drive, the food was great, I earned money, friends loved to visit, I was in charge of things, I enjoyed teaching the workers how to pick squash, selling at farmers markets was a joy. These are immediate benefits for kids. Lesson one: do call attention to them (in the lightest possible way) because other, more meaningful, benefits don't sink in for a while.
Later I appreciated much more about having grown up working: I know about money, business, value. I know I can do physical work. I'm not lazy. I appreciate concepts like scarcity, necessity, efficiency. When I do indulge, it's without guilt because I know I have worked, and can work, hard. I have expertise. How many children understand their parents' work in any detail? I knew every detail, and food production is not only fascinating; it's an essential industry few people know anything about. I like being intelligent about farming, and I like being unique. (There is also a thrilling, if unworthy, social benefit: few can beat me at the game known as 'my wretched childhood'. When I talk about parading the street in a heavy sandwich board to advertise markets and hauling firewood to heat bathwater, a respectful silence descends. Now there's a benefit that's not apparent to an eleven year-old. But don't tell them it's coming.)
But life on the farm isn't always fun. If we had to do it again, we might work less. But I doubt it. In the early years, we worked hard because there was no other way to make it work. My parents were perfectly able to relax, but that came later, when we could afford to. What we would do is make the work less serious. It's apparent-even to a nine year-old working the roadside stand alone-that this is all part of making a living, that your parents are working even harder, that you're all in it together, that it has to be done. But must you tell her? Lesson two: if you labor the child, you needn't labor the point.
The work is necessary, but it can be fun. There could be lighter moments, even when it doesn't rain, when hoes break, when baskets fall over. My parents were not particularly strict in the traditional sense, but they are hard workers with high standards. If they did it again, they would be softer. There would be more emphasis on fun, luck, beauty, the good work we're all doing, fewer criticisms. Lesson three: don't be as hard on your children as you are on yourself. A corollary: don't be as hard on your workers, either. They look up to you more than you guess, and they need your respect as much as your criticism. Just as you would thank the mechanic for fixing your car, so should you thank your children and your (other) employees for their work. Be generous with praise.
But that's only farm work itself. It's off the farm that envy of suburban kids can sting even the happiest farm kid. Lesson four: allow-encourage-your children to do non-farm stuff. For me this was sports and school work, which I loved, but I wish I had started earlier than 12. The longer you wait, the harder it is to integrate into life off the farm, to gain off-farm confidence. Speaking of the future: my parents never assumed, never so much as hinted, that we would or should take over the farm when we grew up. Lesson five: the freedom to leave is a great gift. It is the best way to see the benefits of where you are.
How much work? I simply don't know. We worked a lot. Milking before school, picking beans after school, fifteen-minute breaks timed by the clock, and six days a week all summer. We had responsibility for tractors, trucks, markets, money, college-aged work crews. But we had one day a week off, just like the workers, and when I was little (perhaps ten?) I remember playing a lot, too. When we were older, we needed an off-farm excuse for not working. I went to summer camp once, to learn German, and there were nights I was allowed to leave Friday night loading early to make the football game. Certainly-and I don't feel bitter about this-the benefits from working on the farm could have been won with less work. How much less? I don't know. Okay, I do think I should have gone for the whole summer camp session, rather than half. We didn't know any better.
Money is too tangled a subject be specific about figures, but please note: you must pay your children and they must feel they are paid enough. Money is no substitute for praise and kindness, but free labor is exploitation. Whether or not your kids are an essential part of the business, they deserve the simple respect of a wage. I don't believe in paying kids to do the dishes, though. But that's another column.
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