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The year was 1972.

A chilly winter's morning greeted a shy, nervous, skinny, anxious thirteen year old as she tumbled out of bed.

"Aw mum, do I have to?"

"Yes."

My mother's voice was firm if not regimental. We hopped into her 1960's, red, near- new Volkswagen (funny right), to scoot off to a place of unfulfilled toil. A place where the sun don't shine, her second home away from home, "the fruit factory". Ah, I can still smell its aromatic appeal; the crisp Johnny apples, the Valencia oranges squirting juice into my eyes, grapefruit and pears sitting profoundly proud as they ran along the wobbly belt, as if they owned the place. Boy, I hated that.

"Do we have to go today?" I winced, clenching tightly onto my bag, as it was my last familiar item of security.

"Yes, of course."

My mother looked old. I wondered if other people at the factory liked her or just put up with her as a coping mechanism.

Time stood still as we waited an eternity at the lights."C'mon," I grumbled, wishing I had control of her car. My mother was such a careful driver, she never had a speeding ticket or even a warning but boy did she drive slowly.

The place I'd only seen once before, appeared solicitously before my eyes. The greyness of it; an old tin shed housing about sixty people and two very long lines of shaky belts disbursing apples. I sneer myself into obscurity as I push myself out of the cosy seat. She really prefers this place to me I felt.

Why did they always stare so hard at me like a bug on a windscreen? Why weren't the boys drooling as I slid past them? Why do I have to work? These and many other thoughts travelled through a tormented mind.

I'm assigned to box duty! Great, I can barely fold my lunch in wrap let alone a cardboard box! Yikes, who is that blond over there, looking so striking? (Later that year she became pregnant and left her job).

The withered lady with shady black eyes positioned me with a mountain of cardboard.

"You need to go as fast as you can. The packers are waiting for them," she proclaimed.

I glanced over at the line of packers with their heads dropped, intently wrapping red delicious apples. They used crates, all of them, so why was I making cardboard boxes?

I conformed to her request, not knowing how to fold them. The blond girl showed me carefully. She appeared to have done it all her life.

The siren rang for "smoko". Hang on, I don't smoke. Oh boy, did these workers ever smoke! The room was full of ladies and two forklift guys, one of whom caught my eye. The thick, grey line of stinking smoke twirled a thin trail around the packers' heads. I coughed lamely.

Thick black tea appeared before me as others unwrapped their lunch. Hang on it's not lunch time is it? I frantically looked around for a clock until someone asked me a question.

"And how do you like working with your mother?"
Technically, I didn't work with her as I was assigned to box duty.

"Oh good."

My words accompanied my sheepish grin as she swiftly turned back to her friend. I noticed a few English ladies by their accents. A very pretty blond named Rhonda appeared to be the leader in most of their conversations. In truth, I was shaking through the entire episode. Not only was I the youngest in the group by a generation, but I was virtually ignored the whole twenty minutes, which was the time allotted for morning tea. I self consciously ran to the bathroom to see if there was something on my face.

"Back to work," a lady screamed. They all resumed working as I stared at the cardboard mountain.

Later on that year I discovered that Jean, who did the bookkeeping, was suffering from cancer. She looked about 70 I thought, and no wonder. (She died the following year). I had always admired her tenacity and hard work. I was then ordered to get a move on.

The next week I inquired if I could pack fruit like my mum did. They said I wasn't ready for it. Ready? It's not rocket science, I mused.

Eventually, I started packing fruit. I didn't have a clue. I would have rather thrown an apple at that so handsome forklift driver to attract his attention. What's his name again? James Dean?

I must have daydreamed over at least sixty fruit cases that morning when a sharp voice reprimanded me.

"Stop the belt. Stop the belt."

That's not for me I thought smugly, admiring the pretty green wrappers on the rows I had just finished. A very stern lady walked right up towards me.

"We have changed growers. You are packing the wrong fruit."

"No one told me anything."

She grabbed my case and stared at all the fruit. She retrieved a new case from down the line to repack it.

"How many cases have you done?" she swore at me.

"I don't know." Her words left me stunned.

Three women checked all the cases I packed, tipping them into the new grower's cases.

"You see, every time a new truck comes in we change growers."

I was still stunned. It took all morning to pack those cases, wrapping each perfect apple as I was told to.

I wandered over to the machinery, wishing I could use that instead. Can't I do anything right? There's no way I'll work in a factory when I grow up.

I learnt my lesson. From then on I listened carefully to the lady's call and watched for new trucks but I was still a bit confused.

Later when I packed some boxes, I happened to glance up at the dark-haired forklift driver. Wow, my heart skipped a beat as I bent over for another box. Try and look like you know what you are doing, I thought. He certainly does. He professionally spun the lift around taking many crates with him. He looked like he had been using it his whole life. Life was going to be hell if I couldn't keep moving or accepting orders.

The weeks turned into months. Packing season was almost over as it lasted only three months each year. I was paid well.

My feet hurt, my ego was as bruised as the reject apples, but at least I'd have nothing to brag about at school or to tell my children about!