What jobs have you had?

A Job I Once Had

Perhaps one of the most surprising jobs I ever had was packing pickles at a local company called Roddenbery’s, a business that unfortunately no longer exists. Like many family-owned companies, after the founders passed away, the business was eventually sold by the next generation. But for years, it helped support local families and played a huge role in our community’s economy.

Back then, my parents believed that summer meant having a real job.

Some of my friends worked at a local nursery called Wight’s, but I quickly decided that standing outside in the Georgia heat all day was not for me. So instead, I chose to work indoors — though “indoors” did not necessarily mean comfortable. There was no air conditioning, only huge industrial fans blowing through the building while we stood for hours at conveyor belts working assembly lines.

It was hard work.

But what made it meaningful was the people.

Both my maternal and paternal grandmothers had worked there years before me to help provide for their families. So in many ways, I was walking into a space already woven into my family’s history.

What I remember most are the women.

Older women — Black and white — working side by side, building friendships, sharing stories, and surviving life together. There was something humbling and beautiful about that environment. Those women taught me more than how to work an assembly line. They taught me endurance, humility, and community.

They would teach you little things, like how to stand so you wouldn’t pass out from the heat and exhaustion. The hours were long, and the work was repetitive, but there was dignity in it. Honest work. Honest living.

And somehow, inside that hot factory filled with noise, sweat, and pickle jars, a sisterhood existed.

Years after the plant closed, I would occasionally run into some of those women around town. My favorite was an older white woman named Ms. Ruth. She always asked about my family, and over time I came to know about her daughters and granddaughters too. That’s how close those connections became.

Those women were humble people. They packed jars all day, raised families, cooked meals, paid bills, and still found ways to show kindness to others.

They became part of my village.

I remember one day I blacked out at work from the heat and exhaustion. And when I opened my eyes, I was surrounded by women making sure I was okay. Women who showed me compassion and care in a moment where they could have simply kept working.

That moment stayed with me.

Because long before people started talking about “community” online, those women were living it every single day.

And when I think back on that job now, I don’t remember the pickles nearly as much as I remember the people. The conversations. The laughter. The shared meals. The lessons passed from one generation of women to another.

What seemed like just a summer job at the time became something much bigger.

It became a reminder that some of the most ordinary places in life quietly shape who we become.

And maybe that’s why I remember Roddenbery’s so fondly.

Not because of what we packed.

But because of who packed it beside me.

Years later, I can still see their faces.

Still hear their laughter.

Still remember their kindness.

The factory is gone now.

But the lessons those women left behind are still very much alive.