The Hopyard Hobo - the final chapter

Written by my late father (1900-1977)

Part 1 of my father's short journal told about the depression and his experiences in California. Part 2 narrated a satisfying 5 weeks living off the fat of the land on a self sufficient farm in Southern Oregon. Befriended by a Hop grower in Part 3, he was hired as a chauffeur and then offered a job in the hop fields. Dad described his first impression of life on in a Hop Yard in Part 4. His high hopes of continuing the easy chauffeur type duties were doused by a hard dose of manual labor. The teasing by his fellow crew members and the young Russian beauties are not mentioned again. I think this says much about his discretion; Dad didn't kiss and tell. Part 5 describes a Hop Yard in the 1930's with detail - just in case you wonder where your beer has its earthy beginnings. Dad became the nozzle man on the spraying crew and a raise in pay. Nora, the bosses daughter, eloped in Part 6. He didn't suggest it in any way, but I wondered if Nora was trying to force my dad to declare for her by asking him to help her. In any event, he vowed never to interfere in a love affair again.
(My brother told me recently that "Putnam" was not really their name - Dad apparently believed he should not reveal identities. I think I met a very old "Mr. Putman" once when I was a child.)
Part 7 disclosed the inner workings of a hop harvest- the people and the field mechanics. Here is the final chapter. I wish that he would have continued to journal the rest of his life.


The field to be picked was marked into sections, sixty rows in each, with two or three pickers to the row. There was a weight boss, a check boss, and a helper for every two or three sections. A wire man lowered and raised the vines, and finally a vine cutter removed the picked vines from the wires. There were also sack bucks and haulers who took the hops away to the kilns to e dried and baled for shipping all over the world.

Image courtesy of the Oregon State Library.

Putnam's son, Winston, was field foreman. He needed a field boss who was to walk over the yard and see that the pickers gathered only good hops and that they did not put more than nine percent leaves and vines in their baskets. I got a surprise when he gave this job to me. It was the first time I had ever seen hops picked. I had never bossed women and children, Later on it became embarrassing, especially when some pretty young woman tried to flirt with me. The yard was well supplied with all types of beauty. There were college girls from Corvallis, country girls from Eugene and Albany, and city girls from Salem and Portland.

My nickname of Happy-Go-Lucky Al seemed to suit them and I was soon known to everybody.

Fritz Launer, a vine cutter, and I became infatuated with a couple of nice blond college girls. We took them to shows and dances and enjoyed their company. But, it was only a passing fancy with me. I never missed the girl when hop picking was over.

The early hops lasted only four days with this army of pickers. When we started picking the late field, Winston let over 200 of the hands go. Many of the remaining ones quit later, so that the crew was not nearly so large when the season ended.

There seemed to be trouble brewing one morning. Winston seemed to think the field boss has been chiseling, so he fired him. This boss was a young Russian, a brother to the one who had been boss all during the training and cultivating season. All of the Russian men and women quit out of sympathy for the discharged boss, Leo. Winston stepped lively until all of the vacancies were filled. I was made check boss and held this job until the season was over.

September the fifteenth came and the last of the hops were picked. There had been delay on account of rain. This, however, was the usual occurrence in Western Oregon. The pickers drew their money and were on their way. Some went back to school, some went to Idaho and Washington for potato picking, some went home, while others started they know not where. They probably fell in a soup line before the winter was over.

I had to get mixed up with romance again. Young Putman had asked me to be a witness and also best man at his wedding. His was a hop yard romance. The girl he was to marry worked in the yard all season. He is a lucky boy, for she is a splendid girl. She was literally a darling, her maiden name being Vesta Mae Darling.

When picking was over I got a chance to learn how to bale dry hops. When dry, the hops have an aromatic, spicy, tangy odor. After inhaling this invigorating odor and wrestling with two hundred pound bales all day, one needs no coaxing to eat a hearty meal or a lullaby to put one to sleep.

When the baling was done we cleaned the camp ground and put it in order. This included burning the trash and stacking the tables and benches where high water would not sweep them away. Everything seemed deserted and forlorn. The yard was barren and brown. The wind sighed lonesomely through the fir trees and even the purling water of the Luckimute had a mournful sound.

It was October the second when I bade the Putnam family goodbye.

I had found Mr. Putman to be A-1 in every way, and one of the most versatile men I have ever known. He was a farmer, a salesman, a carpenter, an architect, a musician, an artist, and a poet. He was a man worth sticking to; but I wanted to go drifting. Perhaps I shall come back and find romance next season. Quien sabe.