06/10/2026
Summer jobs for teenagers were plentiful in the 1950s and '60s, whether it was a paper route, milking cows, working in the canneries that stretched along Maple Street, toiling away in the corn and pea fields, picking raspberries and strawberries.
June was strawberry time and in my neighborhood (I, being Mac Bates), a rickety decommissioned school bus would pick us up at the ungodly hour of 6 a.m. and deposit us out at the Pilchuck Berry Field, which I believe is now a huge soccer complex on the way to Granite Falls.
If you were disciplined, focused and efficient, you could pick 10 or more flats a day. I lacked all those skills and spent my first day lollygagging, eating as much as I picked, tossing berries at Butch Messman, until he walked over, picked me up like a rag doll and threw me over four rows of berries (I loved it!).
I managed one flat that day, picked up my 50 cents and was told by the row boss not to return. In the parlance of berry pickers, I got canned.
Today scores of U-pick berry farms can be found around the Snohomish Valley, and people think its fun. Go figure.