June. Finally. School was out for the summer: the thrill of freedom . . . but all too soon, the agony of picking summer crops.

That is how it was for me and many others here in Lebanon during the early 1960s.

Too soon, the growers' buses began hauling us to the strawberry fields. Worse yet, we had to wake up earlier to meet the berry bus than we did to get to school on time.

Of the three summer picking crops, strawberries, at least for me, was the worst: Six to eight hours a day on our knees or squatting or stooping over to pick. On top of that, June's seemingly non-stop rains made for very gooey work.

Our job was to fill one-pint boxes called hallocks, six of which made a 'carrier,' for which we would get a ticket as a receipt. At 50 cents per carrier, I was lucky to make $3 to $4 a day. At the end of the season, the grower redeemed these tickets for our season's wages.

Thank goodness strawberry season lasted less than a month.

Raspberries were easier to pick. Instead of hunching over, we stood all day filling hallocks, two of which fit into a larger box that we tied around our waists. Twelve hallocks made one crate, which we traded for a ticket worth about $1.80. For me a $12 day was exceptionally good.

Raspberries, however, also had drawbacks. As July drew on, more and more of the towering berry canes sagged into the aisles between the rows. We got scratched up, and when the weather turned hot, we'd sweat and itch and cuss.

Then came August and pole beans, the crop from which most people earned the most money. I remember 3 cents a pound was the standard, and a picker who missed work no more than a day or so would receive a one-half cent per pound bonus.

We picked into buckets that, when full, we dumped into a cloth sack, and when that was full, we'd carry it to the end of the row to be weighed and dumped into a wooden box that could hold about a ton of beans. Then our ticket was punched to show the number of pounds in that sack. A good season usually earned me about $140.

I'd be remiss not to mention the "row boss," whose job was making sure we didn't miss picking any mature berries or beans. Much like our school teachers, row bosses came in a couple varieties: Either "Here, if you push these leaves aside you'll find where you're missing the ripe ones" or "Pick your row cleaner or I'll fire you."

One bright spot came from the transistor radios some of the workers brought to the fields. A medley of Beach Boys or Beatles songs from a couple rows over always helped the time pass a little easier.

Time in the picking fields also provided an opportunity for a bit of mischief: A couple dirt clods buried in the bottom of a hallock, a nap in the raspberry field, even 'borrowing back' a few beans from the one-ton boxes.

At summer's end, wages we had earned paid for our school clothes and supplies for the coming year, while the remainder was put into savings.

I never will forget those summers: Mud, thorny canes, the Beach Boys and endless rows of beans - perhaps not the most fun at the time, but I believe most of us learned a bit about work, budgeting, and saving, and perhaps a bit about creative mischief.

Ken Bolf has lived in Lebanon for 50 years. Since retiring from education, he has assisted World War II veterans with writing and compiling their memoirs, has taken up kayaking and has become a professional photographer. His work may be viewed at www.kenbolfphotography.com.