He was able to handle the bales, averaging 60 to 75 lbs each, walking beside a tractor-drawn wagon and grabbing each bale by its wire bindings and swinging it up to another teenager with hay hooks, who would swing the bale into place on the growing load. Even for June it was damned hot and sweaty work. Hay stems and leaves stuck to his body inside his shirt, down to his waist; the rough stem sides of the bales abraded away his blue jeans, despite the short leather bale apron he wore as he gave each bale a "knee boost" to help lift it upward in a swinging arc to reach the waiting hay hook above him. His legs above the knees were red, raw and scratched. By day's end there would be deep scratches, some bleeding, and his blue jeans would be ruined. He was earning a dollar an hour. When his step-father's debt was paid, Graydon would have nothing left for his own.Blessed noon arrived, and Graydon and the others retired to the shade outside the hay shed for sack lunches and rest. He really. I would often talk to the rancher’s wife, Mrs. Keller, for a few minutes. She is a very nice lady and before long she seemed to trust and have full confidence in me. One afternoon I was talking to her when Patricia arrived home not too happy. “What the matter dear?” Mrs. Keller asked.“I may have to drop Calculus II. It’s too hard,” Patricia responded.“Perhaps I can help,” I suggested.“How could a damn day laborer know anything about Calculus?” Patricia spat.“Be nice dear,” Mrs. Keller admonished.“I gave Patricia my most dejected and hurt look and said, “Obviously we day laborer’s cannot be expected to have the intellectual capacity of nobility like you. However, sometimes we do by chance pick up tidbits of useful information. And, in any event, there is no dishonor in working even if it does not require your high level of intelligence. I don’t see how it would hurt for you to at least show it to me.” I knew Patricia would know better than to belittle the work of lower-level.
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