I was catching up with friends last week after most of our kids had headed back to school. We were sharing stories of the summer jobs just completed, and I realized that in some ways things have not changed much since my college friends and I were working through the summers to help pay our school bills. I really can’t think of anyone I knew then or have met since that didn’t have to contribute to their higher education by working an assortment of less-than-glamorous jobs that would ultimately have little to do with their chosen careers (except for paying for the degrees required for those careers). We all have stories of the miserable bosses, lazy co-workers, impossible conditions, long hours, rotten pay and ungrateful public we dealt with during the “breaks” from school. All of that seemed so much worse when we could look back with longing to just a few years earlier, when we were too young (or worthless) for anyone to hire us during those lovely summer days. How we pined for all that freedom we had so carelessly frittered away. (Ah, to be able to sigh/whine, “Mom, I’m bored!” once again!) Truth be told, though, whenever I hear people sharing their summer job horror stories, I can detect a certain pride in the recounting of those tales. They are told with a certain amount of relish, and the tellers often seem to be engaged in a bit of one-upmanship as to who can relate the most awful experiences. Here’s my “worst job” story: Because my roommate and I were treating ourselves to a mid-summer graduation trip to New York and Washington, D.C., after our senior year, our job choices were limited to those who would hire us for just a month or so at a stretch. I found a job at a food processing plant where a variety of fruits and vegetables were prepared for canning and freezing. My first day on the job, armed with ear plugs, hairnet, rubber apron and gloves and a wicked-looking curved knife, found me on the beet line. Now, growing up in a large family, we did not have the luxury of being picky eaters, but I definitely drew the line at beets. Now I was confronted by a conveyor belt full of FOOTBALL-sized (I am seriously not kidding!), parboiled, steaming, smelly purple beets which I was to inspect and cut out any “blemishes” (black, rotten parts). The odor was bad enough, but did you know that you can get motion-sickness from watching a belt of vegetables rolling past you? Oh, yes. I don’t recall what job they gave me for the rest of that day, but I do know that I followed the company nurse’s advice to take Dramamine before coming to work from then on.  Okay–now let’s hear you top that one!  Patty Vanikiotis, proofreader