Brad Nelson

When hauling bulk potatoes out of potato sheds in the winter in southern Idaho, one thing you never wanted to do is pass the last café en route to loading unless you had just eaten. Too many ifs and maybes.

‘Finish the job’ heart

It was the summer my brother Neal was my main hay bale-throwing helper. He was the only one of us to whom football was important. (This good-sized kid, almost as big as me, was infuriated he was not quite big enough for a serious college football career.)

Shaving. Washing your face. Buying gas or diesel for the vehicles. Mowing the lawn. And, in my end of the country, dealing with goat-heads or puncture vine. These are just some things that are regular, reoccurring – and not a big deal if done regularly.

Ron was new on the job, driving a semi. Sleeper team – he was the junior driver. He came to a stop sign, stopped and, when traffic was clear, he gave the truck a little throttle and eased off of the clutch.

Flack. Harassment. Annoyance. Utter disbelief. Face-making accompanied by head-scratching. Occasional profanity. Threats of bodily harm.

In the summer of 1964, shortly after graduating from high school, I was working at a dairy farm near Nampa, Idaho. The owner decided to get his hay from Fairfield, Idaho, hauled in by a smaller trucking outfit, which was relatively new on the scene and struggling.