Men of Labor-Nebraska

I climbed into the back of the canopy covered pickup with the contracted workers, heading to town after payday. This was the weekly trip that my father made with the men who worked in our fields. I was eight years old and quickly jumped into the back with them.  They spoke no English. All of them were smoking cigarettes and I motioned for one. They laughed and passed one to me. I puffed away, coughing and smoking as they joked and smiled, these men of labor on their way to town. Hemingford, Nebraska