One of the jobs I had while waiting for my call to be a pastor was in the tare lab for the sugar beet harvest. Which is, for those of you gentle readers who are all ready confused, is where a sample of the beets grown in the fields are brought for a series of tests to determine how much sugar can be extracted from the beets and therefore, how much the farmers will get paid for their crop. This was truly a cultural expericence; a view into how the people and the land are sensitive and responsive to each other's rhythms. For a short education of the beet harvest, watch this video first aired on Sesame Street and shot on the fields around my new hometown.
It wasn't a bad job really. I enjoyed meeting some new people, lovely folks who were anxious to teach me about beets, harvest, farming, and life on the prairie. The company was delightful. My boss was good-natured and very generous. The hours were very long. And I just pushed that button, on average, 93 times per hour.
With my active imagination, I got really bored. To entertain myself, and to push away the catchy "Beet, beet sugar beet" jingle, I listened to all of "Great Expectations" on audio book. I wrote sermons in my head. I hatched plans for an ordination service. I made up a game where I would create a color name for every sample I got, because they could vary quite widely in color. There was ocher-orange and silver-lining-grey, peachy-pear delight, too red, bad tattoo crimson and so on. Some were crayon-box worthy, others would make no sense to anyone but me.
All in all, it was a job. Not a bad one, just a boring one. I liked the paycheck when it came. And, you'll be glad to know, I have almost stopped smelling like beets though it lingers a bit in the corners of my purse. The locals just shake their heads, "smells like money," they say. All I know, I will never be able to look at a styrofoam cup the same way again. It might be awhile before I can drink coffee from one again... without trying to name the color of the brew.
