When I began working at Bill's, I was 16 years old and had a drivers license...the primary requirement for holding the job, as my primary duty was to deliver liquor. (Or anything else the customer wanted) The delivery vehicle was somewhat of a letdown for me, (or any 16 year old) a blue 1955 VW van. It had 4 cylinders and a very odd 5 speed transmission. Looking back, I can see that the owners made a wise choice in buying the VW as we thrashed the poor vehicle mercilessly and yet it never really faltered. It didn't go much faster than 45 or 50 miles per hour and when it was going that fast, you felt quite vulnerable, perched on a hard bench seat just a few inches away from the front bumper.
Being such a boxy vehicle, it was a pain to drive down the many narrow alleys that were part of "downtown" Manhattan Beach. It was always tough to find a parking place for this vehicle and so double parking and parking at red curbs was normal. And since our boss contributed a few cases of liquor to the local police department each year, we were immune from being ticketed. (We usually left the engine running while we were away from the van, delivering; something you can't even imagine doing today!)
Part of the delivery process was the "Tip". I quickly learned how use appropriate body language and words that would motivate a customer to open their wallet one more time and extract a little something for me. Some tips were easy to get; if the order totaled $4.53, I would always get the .47 cents of change. But if it totaled $4.02, I had to work at it to get the .98 cents. A few "Yes sir's", maybe a, "Can I carry this heavy box into your kitchen for you?"Ah! Amateur psychology at its best!
Friday, December 30, 2005
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Another Day at Bill's
My job at Bill’s Liquor Store turned out to be one that I really enjoyed. There was always something new happening and that was so much better than the tedium I felt when washing dishes in a Chinese restaurant. I actually looked forward to each day at work.
When I arrived to begin my shift, I would have to go to the big walk-in box and make sure that all of the shelves were filled to the brim. Since no one had done this chore throughout the day, I would spend close to an hour replenishing the supplies. This meant many trips in and out of the walk-in…first hot and then cold. Over and over. The fans would kick on to cool the box as I continued to open and close the big door on my trips to bring in more beer.
Once the box was in order again, I would check the back rooms to make sure that all of the deliveries from that day had been put away properly. Since Bill’s sold food items as well as liquor and soda, there were lots of boxes to stack and empty.
And every once in awhile, one of the distributors would offer a big discount if Bill would buy a large amount of some particular product. Then it was my job to find a place for it all and to stack it as high as possible…without it falling over, of course.
As I was doing this, I kept my ears focused on the telephone, hoping that someone would call and order something to be delivered. A delivery meant a break from the chore of lifting and stacking. It was only a reprieve; the cases would still be there when I returned.
If there was an order; I would quickly fill it, making out a delivery slip and locating the address on the map we had posted on the wall in the back room. But before I could go, I had to get my “bank”. Each day, I would “borrow” $40 in small bills and coins. This is what I used to make change for the customers. At the end of the night, I would have to turn in all of the money I had collected. We would add up all of the delivery slips, plus the $40 “bank”. Anything left was all mine! And if I had made a mistake in counting out the change to a customer, or dropped and lost some money…the missing balance was mine to pay.
When I arrived to begin my shift, I would have to go to the big walk-in box and make sure that all of the shelves were filled to the brim. Since no one had done this chore throughout the day, I would spend close to an hour replenishing the supplies. This meant many trips in and out of the walk-in…first hot and then cold. Over and over. The fans would kick on to cool the box as I continued to open and close the big door on my trips to bring in more beer.
Once the box was in order again, I would check the back rooms to make sure that all of the deliveries from that day had been put away properly. Since Bill’s sold food items as well as liquor and soda, there were lots of boxes to stack and empty.
And every once in awhile, one of the distributors would offer a big discount if Bill would buy a large amount of some particular product. Then it was my job to find a place for it all and to stack it as high as possible…without it falling over, of course.
As I was doing this, I kept my ears focused on the telephone, hoping that someone would call and order something to be delivered. A delivery meant a break from the chore of lifting and stacking. It was only a reprieve; the cases would still be there when I returned.
If there was an order; I would quickly fill it, making out a delivery slip and locating the address on the map we had posted on the wall in the back room. But before I could go, I had to get my “bank”. Each day, I would “borrow” $40 in small bills and coins. This is what I used to make change for the customers. At the end of the night, I would have to turn in all of the money I had collected. We would add up all of the delivery slips, plus the $40 “bank”. Anything left was all mine! And if I had made a mistake in counting out the change to a customer, or dropped and lost some money…the missing balance was mine to pay.
Friday, December 23, 2005
Next
And which job came next? I believe it was the job at Bill’s Liquor Store. My friend, Bob Mailloux, had secured a job at this store, doing liquor delivery and stocking. One day, Bob told me that the owners had decided that they needed to expand their service and the other delivery person was being promoted to the position of clerk. There was going to be an opening soon and he would recommend me for the position. I would be glad to get out of the dishwashing job and into something a little more rewarding…financially.
I was 16 and had a drivers license; the only requirements for the job. I also had the grudging permission of my parents to work late a few nights of the school week. I applied and got the job. I would work Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Mondays. And I would work from 5 in the afternoon until 2 the next morning. My wages were $1.25 an hour plus tips. The tips were the whole reason for taking the job. On a good night, a Friday night for instance…I might make $50 or even a $70 in tips. At the end of a week, I could make a hundred dollars, maybe even $150, not bad money for those days. (Example: At that time, my uncle worked as the head of Public Relations (West Coast) for the United States Steel Corporation and made $12,000 a year. That was big money!)
The job was simple enough. I had to make certain that the big walk-in cooler was stocked at all times and that the display shelves in the cooler were filled. I also had to stock beer and soda deliveries in the warehouse section of the store. I learned the proper way to stack cases of beer and soda, tying the rows together so that you could stack them to heights of 10 or 12 feet. I also had to sweep and clean, wash windows and mop floors.
But that wasn’t where the money was. The money was in the deliveries. The phone calls would start about 5:30 or 6; people ordering a case of beer or a bottle of bourbon. We would usually wait until we had 3 or 4 orders before we begin the deliveries, but once we started, the pace accelerated throughout the evening and each time I returned to the store I would find a large stack of orders to fill and deliver. We would deliver (free!) as little as one six-pack of beer. That cost the customer $1.25. That continued until around 9:30 or 10 and then it dropped off until around midnight, when there was another burst of orders to be delivered. I might have 40 deliveries on a week night and the usual tip was 50 cents. The weekends could easily double that number. And there were always a few who would give you more and that was the bonus for us.
More, later…
I was 16 and had a drivers license; the only requirements for the job. I also had the grudging permission of my parents to work late a few nights of the school week. I applied and got the job. I would work Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Mondays. And I would work from 5 in the afternoon until 2 the next morning. My wages were $1.25 an hour plus tips. The tips were the whole reason for taking the job. On a good night, a Friday night for instance…I might make $50 or even a $70 in tips. At the end of a week, I could make a hundred dollars, maybe even $150, not bad money for those days. (Example: At that time, my uncle worked as the head of Public Relations (West Coast) for the United States Steel Corporation and made $12,000 a year. That was big money!)
The job was simple enough. I had to make certain that the big walk-in cooler was stocked at all times and that the display shelves in the cooler were filled. I also had to stock beer and soda deliveries in the warehouse section of the store. I learned the proper way to stack cases of beer and soda, tying the rows together so that you could stack them to heights of 10 or 12 feet. I also had to sweep and clean, wash windows and mop floors.
But that wasn’t where the money was. The money was in the deliveries. The phone calls would start about 5:30 or 6; people ordering a case of beer or a bottle of bourbon. We would usually wait until we had 3 or 4 orders before we begin the deliveries, but once we started, the pace accelerated throughout the evening and each time I returned to the store I would find a large stack of orders to fill and deliver. We would deliver (free!) as little as one six-pack of beer. That cost the customer $1.25. That continued until around 9:30 or 10 and then it dropped off until around midnight, when there was another burst of orders to be delivered. I might have 40 deliveries on a week night and the usual tip was 50 cents. The weekends could easily double that number. And there were always a few who would give you more and that was the bonus for us.
More, later…
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Tai Song
I wish I could remember the exact dates that I worked at the Chinese restaurant, Tai Song. I think I was 15 years old when I started, so that would be 1955. As I wrote earlier, my friend Dan had graduated to the position of Busboy, leaving the dishwasher job in my hands. The dishwasher (me) and the dishwasher (the machine) occupied a large corner of the kitchen. From my domain, I could see the entire kitchen; a long line of woks along the southern wall with 3 or 4 Chinese chefs manning that production area. Of course everything was stainless steel. Acres of it. And it all had to be kept clean. My job. When I would first arrive for work in the afternoon, around 3 or 4, my job was to prepare things like peas or beans for the cooks to use that night. Around 5:30, the first of the dirty dishes would arrive at my work station and I would quickly dispose of them, rinsing and placing them on the racks that would go into the washer itself. There usually wasn’t much to do for the first hour that the restaurant was open, but then, around 6:30 there would come a flood of dirty dishes. Dan would bring tray after tray and heave them up onto a growing pile of dishes and cutlery. At the same time, the cooks were demanding that their pots and pans be cleaned. That was a priority so the dishes would have to wait until the cooks were satisfied. The kitchen quickly became a battleground, with all sorts of people, waiters, cooks and even the owners shouting orders. Controlled chaos would be a good description.
And I should also mention that the cooks, all ethnic Chinese, took special delight in tormenting the dishwasher, barking commands at me in Cantonese and then laughing like crazy when it was obvious that I didn’t understand them. My bewilderment was their delight. And I remember that I had to supply them with coffee at all times. This led to one of their favorite tricks. They would yell at me to get my attention and then toss the empty cup to me. Of course they would throw it so that no matter how far over the counter I leaned, I would miss the toss by just an inch or so. The cup would shatter and I would be told to go and clean it up…all my fault of course. This trick would keep the cooks laughing for hours! And every once in awhile, through supreme effort, I would catch a cup. Their disappointment was quite evident.
Around 10:30 or 11, the level of dirty dishes would slowly sink until there were finally none left and I could see the countertop once more. Then it was time to clean the kitchen. When all was done, Dan and I would retire to one of the private dining rooms and enjoy a huge meal of shrimp, lobster and whatever else was still in the woks at closing time. With large glasses of soft drinks from the bar, we were in heaven! We were teenaged boys so there was no amount of food that we couldn’t eat.
Odd, it’s been 50 years, but I can still remember the smell of that place; the steam and the noise.
And I should also mention that the cooks, all ethnic Chinese, took special delight in tormenting the dishwasher, barking commands at me in Cantonese and then laughing like crazy when it was obvious that I didn’t understand them. My bewilderment was their delight. And I remember that I had to supply them with coffee at all times. This led to one of their favorite tricks. They would yell at me to get my attention and then toss the empty cup to me. Of course they would throw it so that no matter how far over the counter I leaned, I would miss the toss by just an inch or so. The cup would shatter and I would be told to go and clean it up…all my fault of course. This trick would keep the cooks laughing for hours! And every once in awhile, through supreme effort, I would catch a cup. Their disappointment was quite evident.
Around 10:30 or 11, the level of dirty dishes would slowly sink until there were finally none left and I could see the countertop once more. Then it was time to clean the kitchen. When all was done, Dan and I would retire to one of the private dining rooms and enjoy a huge meal of shrimp, lobster and whatever else was still in the woks at closing time. With large glasses of soft drinks from the bar, we were in heaven! We were teenaged boys so there was no amount of food that we couldn’t eat.
Odd, it’s been 50 years, but I can still remember the smell of that place; the steam and the noise.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Later
After the barber shop debacle, I wish I could tell you that I got a great job that fit in with my school schedule and that I made lots of money, which I gave to charity because there was more money than I knew what to do with…but I can’t. Not that I didn’t try and find a job that would satisfy my parents. I was still getting an allowance, but it was becoming a real grind to have to ask for my allowance money and then to endure the ritual of being asked about my prospects of getting a “real job”. I didn’t know it at the time, but my parents were actually prepping me for the real world that awaited me, “out there”.
Finally, success came with the opening of a Chinese restaurant, Tai Song. This restaurant took over the location of the old chinchilla store on Sepulveda Blvd. and as luck would have it, I had two links to possible employment there. One was an owner, Larry Song. Larry had been the owner of the produce concession at our local market and I knew him from being a frequent shopper (with my mother) there. The second link was my friend, Dan Holloway. His father had invested in the restaurant (Venture capitalist?) and Dan already had a job there. Dishwasher; but he was moving up to busboy, leaving the dishwashing job vacant.
I applied for the job and got it, despite overwhelming competition from (0) candidates.
Finally, success came with the opening of a Chinese restaurant, Tai Song. This restaurant took over the location of the old chinchilla store on Sepulveda Blvd. and as luck would have it, I had two links to possible employment there. One was an owner, Larry Song. Larry had been the owner of the produce concession at our local market and I knew him from being a frequent shopper (with my mother) there. The second link was my friend, Dan Holloway. His father had invested in the restaurant (Venture capitalist?) and Dan already had a job there. Dishwasher; but he was moving up to busboy, leaving the dishwashing job vacant.
I applied for the job and got it, despite overwhelming competition from (0) candidates.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Unpleasant Memories
I think I was 13 or 14 when I was given a job that I quickly grew to hate. My father had been going to the barber at a small shop near the corner of Sepulveda and Center and one day the barber told him that they were looking for someone to sweep and clean the shop, water and maintain the landscaping for the shopping center that housed the barber shop and shine shoes for the occasional customer. Since I was between jobs and needed to make some money, (or so Dad told me…) I agreed to the job. What a mistake! The only part of the job that I enjoyed was the landscaping and I would try to stay outside as long as I could, watering and trimming. But then, one of the barbers would call me to come inside and sweep the accumulation of hair from the floor or shine someone’s shoes. I think I lasted there about 3 weeks. At that age, I would rather face the parental nagging than sweep or shine shoes.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Do you really need a "creative job?"
Click here for the article
I ran across this a few minutes ago and it seemed relevant. In fact, I can relate to the steelworker in the Terkel story. There are buildings still standing that have my "dent" in them and I can still feel that sense of ownership. And I remember how sad I was when I read about the tearing down of the G. Fox store in Waterbury, Connecticut. I had a piece of me in that structure.
I ran across this a few minutes ago and it seemed relevant. In fact, I can relate to the steelworker in the Terkel story. There are buildings still standing that have my "dent" in them and I can still feel that sense of ownership. And I remember how sad I was when I read about the tearing down of the G. Fox store in Waterbury, Connecticut. I had a piece of me in that structure.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
More Work
Speaking of Larry Johnson…as I was. He was also my partner in another money making plan. We had teamed up on the lawn mowing projects, thinking correctly that with two lawn mowers going we could do both front and back lawns in record time and move on to the next job. A spirit of competition also helped us to speed things up.
On a slow day, we decided to search out new business and this meant crossing Sepulveda (near Marine) and visiting the sub-division that had recently been built there. We had made flyers with our credentials and phone numbers on them and were distributing them house to house. And at one house we hit pay dirt! The owner of the house, an older lady and a widow, had just moved into the new house and asked us if we could do landscaping? Well, of course we could! After a minute or two of negotiations, we had agreed on a price of $100 to landscape the front and back yards, with the owner providing the materials. $100? That was a number that was so foreign to us, that I’m sure our mouths had dropped open when she first mentioned it. But we recovered nicely and made arrangements to return in a few days and begin the project.
We immediately threw away the rest of the flyers and then began to dream of ways to spend that much money. $100! Was there anything that we couldn’t buy with that much money?
Long story; short…we did the job and it took us months of working two or three afternoons a weeks and some Saturdays as well. And our benefactor renegotiated the contract many times, always adding more money for us. I wish I could remember her name?
On a slow day, we decided to search out new business and this meant crossing Sepulveda (near Marine) and visiting the sub-division that had recently been built there. We had made flyers with our credentials and phone numbers on them and were distributing them house to house. And at one house we hit pay dirt! The owner of the house, an older lady and a widow, had just moved into the new house and asked us if we could do landscaping? Well, of course we could! After a minute or two of negotiations, we had agreed on a price of $100 to landscape the front and back yards, with the owner providing the materials. $100? That was a number that was so foreign to us, that I’m sure our mouths had dropped open when she first mentioned it. But we recovered nicely and made arrangements to return in a few days and begin the project.
We immediately threw away the rest of the flyers and then began to dream of ways to spend that much money. $100! Was there anything that we couldn’t buy with that much money?
Long story; short…we did the job and it took us months of working two or three afternoons a weeks and some Saturdays as well. And our benefactor renegotiated the contract many times, always adding more money for us. I wish I could remember her name?
Monday, December 12, 2005
Polliwogs, or Pollywogs?
I wish I had a better memory of the dates involved in these job descriptions…I’m afraid you will have to put up with vague and inconsistent dates here.
For this job description, let’s just say it was in the late 1940’s…My best friend and neighbor, Larry Johnson, came up with the job. The city of Manhattan Beach had finally installed a sewer line down the street where we lived. It was the responsibility of each homeowner to make the connection from their house to the new line. Larry’s father, Les, had decided to do it on the cheap and asked us if we wanted to dig the ditch from the property line to the house. And he would pay us $10…each! It certainly sounded more interesting than mowing lawns and since we had never dug a ditch before, we had no idea of the work involved. We agreed and began by removing the grass from a narrow strip that defined our area of operations. I think that took two days. Then it was serious pick and shovel work. We lived on Pine Street, named for the Black pines that were present in each front yard and the roots from that tree had invaded the space we were trying to dig in. (By the way, this ditch ended up being about 6’ deep. Just think of the safety laws we were violating!) I remember that day after day, the ditch called to us. Beckoning us into its depths. Would we ever finish it? We had to. Les had told us that it was an all or nothing job.
We finally got our $10, although Les had to climb into the ditch and do the final digging at each end. Ditch digging was forever off of my list of things I wanted to do.
And speaking of Larry, a memory from that time. When we weren’t digging ditches, one thing we enjoyed was making trips to Polliwog Pond. This involved our walking about a mile east, across the big street, Sepulveda, and down the hill on the other side. At the bottom of that hill was a huge pond and it was filled with, of course…polliwogs. Our favorite activity here was to find a raft or to make one from abandoned rafts. Then we would push out from the muddy shore and sail as far as we could. I have no idea as to how deep the pond was, it was far too muddy to see the bottom and once we were near the middle, our poles no longer touched the bottom and were useless.
The pond is gone now and I understand that it has been replaced by a park of the same name. I don’t think I want to see it.
For this job description, let’s just say it was in the late 1940’s…My best friend and neighbor, Larry Johnson, came up with the job. The city of Manhattan Beach had finally installed a sewer line down the street where we lived. It was the responsibility of each homeowner to make the connection from their house to the new line. Larry’s father, Les, had decided to do it on the cheap and asked us if we wanted to dig the ditch from the property line to the house. And he would pay us $10…each! It certainly sounded more interesting than mowing lawns and since we had never dug a ditch before, we had no idea of the work involved. We agreed and began by removing the grass from a narrow strip that defined our area of operations. I think that took two days. Then it was serious pick and shovel work. We lived on Pine Street, named for the Black pines that were present in each front yard and the roots from that tree had invaded the space we were trying to dig in. (By the way, this ditch ended up being about 6’ deep. Just think of the safety laws we were violating!) I remember that day after day, the ditch called to us. Beckoning us into its depths. Would we ever finish it? We had to. Les had told us that it was an all or nothing job.
We finally got our $10, although Les had to climb into the ditch and do the final digging at each end. Ditch digging was forever off of my list of things I wanted to do.
And speaking of Larry, a memory from that time. When we weren’t digging ditches, one thing we enjoyed was making trips to Polliwog Pond. This involved our walking about a mile east, across the big street, Sepulveda, and down the hill on the other side. At the bottom of that hill was a huge pond and it was filled with, of course…polliwogs. Our favorite activity here was to find a raft or to make one from abandoned rafts. Then we would push out from the muddy shore and sail as far as we could. I have no idea as to how deep the pond was, it was far too muddy to see the bottom and once we were near the middle, our poles no longer touched the bottom and were useless.
The pond is gone now and I understand that it has been replaced by a park of the same name. I don’t think I want to see it.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
And this
Some other jobs, worthy of note…
Once my parents began the push to imprint “work” upon my vulnerable young mind, it became a daily event. They never seemed to miss a chance to mention the word. And so I began to explore the different ways that a child could make money. Collecting bottles for the refund money was always a popular job. I would drag my red wagon around the town, eyes peeled for an empty bottle or two. At that time the refund was 2 cents per bottle, so 3 empties would net you a candy bar at Stuarts Pharmacy. 5 bottles was the big time; 10 cent candy bars were the best!
Other jobs I tried were door-to-door selling. Magazine subscriptions were the favorite. You could get the necessary subscription kit by sending in your name and address to a company found in the back pages of a comic book. Those pages had dozens of money making schemes and I tried lots of them. I even sold soap door to door.
But the ideal job was that of “paper boy”, a job that I really wanted. But since one paper boy could have a route that delivered perhaps a hundred papers, the jobs were very scarce. I remember that a route of 100 papers could net $30 dollars a month, a small fortune.
I got a chance to deliver papers once when a friend of mine (“Buddy”) went on vacation and asked if I would substitute for him and deliver them. It was mind numbing work to fold and rubber band the papers and then began the real test…remembering which houses got a paper and which ones didn’t. I never got it right and ended up having to make second trip to deliver a missing paper and apologize. At the end of two weeks, I was more than happy to turn the route back to “Buddy”. (Of course, later in our lives he became an Eagle Scout…and I became a mere Webelo)
Once my parents began the push to imprint “work” upon my vulnerable young mind, it became a daily event. They never seemed to miss a chance to mention the word. And so I began to explore the different ways that a child could make money. Collecting bottles for the refund money was always a popular job. I would drag my red wagon around the town, eyes peeled for an empty bottle or two. At that time the refund was 2 cents per bottle, so 3 empties would net you a candy bar at Stuarts Pharmacy. 5 bottles was the big time; 10 cent candy bars were the best!
Other jobs I tried were door-to-door selling. Magazine subscriptions were the favorite. You could get the necessary subscription kit by sending in your name and address to a company found in the back pages of a comic book. Those pages had dozens of money making schemes and I tried lots of them. I even sold soap door to door.
But the ideal job was that of “paper boy”, a job that I really wanted. But since one paper boy could have a route that delivered perhaps a hundred papers, the jobs were very scarce. I remember that a route of 100 papers could net $30 dollars a month, a small fortune.
I got a chance to deliver papers once when a friend of mine (“Buddy”) went on vacation and asked if I would substitute for him and deliver them. It was mind numbing work to fold and rubber band the papers and then began the real test…remembering which houses got a paper and which ones didn’t. I never got it right and ended up having to make second trip to deliver a missing paper and apologize. At the end of two weeks, I was more than happy to turn the route back to “Buddy”. (Of course, later in our lives he became an Eagle Scout…and I became a mere Webelo)
Thursday, December 08, 2005
And the subject is...
Let’s see…the subject is work and so far I have mentioned only one job that paid and one that I didn’t perform all that well. Searching my memory, I can also come up with a very odd job for a boy growing up at the beach; feeding a pig. It was probably 1948 and we lived on Center Street. The neighbors to the rear of our house kept a large pig in a pen. I was offered the job of feeding that pig for a fee of 25 cents a week. But there was an ominous warning from the owner…don’t put your fingers through the wire of the pen, the pig might bite them off! Feeding that pig was nerve wracking and I soon found a reason to quit.
Another early job…mowing lawns. That was the standard job for all boys back in the 1940’s. If you weren’t mowing your parent’s lawns, you were expected to take the family lawn mower and go to your neighbor’s house and ask them if they wanted their lawn mowed for a slight fee. Usually, 25 cents for the front lawn and 50 cents for a larger lawn in the back. Edging was included. The mowers were all the simple push type, no gas mowers in those days.
At this age, between 8 and 10, it seemed that all parents were involved in a conspiracy to force the work concept into their children. I would ask if I could go to the show on Saturday and the answer was, “Sure. But you will need to earn your own money for the admission.” What? How could I make any money? The answer was always, “You know, you could always mow lawns…why don’t you ask Mrs. Brown if she needs her lawn cut and edged?” How had this happened? My parents went from being kind and generous to cruel and stingy in a matter of days! Could I have some candy? Sure, mow a lawn! A kite? Same answer.
Another early job…mowing lawns. That was the standard job for all boys back in the 1940’s. If you weren’t mowing your parent’s lawns, you were expected to take the family lawn mower and go to your neighbor’s house and ask them if they wanted their lawn mowed for a slight fee. Usually, 25 cents for the front lawn and 50 cents for a larger lawn in the back. Edging was included. The mowers were all the simple push type, no gas mowers in those days.
At this age, between 8 and 10, it seemed that all parents were involved in a conspiracy to force the work concept into their children. I would ask if I could go to the show on Saturday and the answer was, “Sure. But you will need to earn your own money for the admission.” What? How could I make any money? The answer was always, “You know, you could always mow lawns…why don’t you ask Mrs. Brown if she needs her lawn cut and edged?” How had this happened? My parents went from being kind and generous to cruel and stingy in a matter of days! Could I have some candy? Sure, mow a lawn! A kite? Same answer.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Rewards
So what, exactly, is work? According to the dictionary, it’s a whole lot of stuff! It makes me tired just reading about it. And how do we learn to work? I will segue from that to this…
My first job was my worst one! I was probably 4 years old (Don’t laugh…I’m serious.) and I had to pick up my toys and clean my room. The task reduced me to tears. Something no other job ever did. OK, so that’s usually everyone’s introduction to “work” and it’s not a pleasant one. So why do we continue? Rewards, of course. The reward for cleaning your room? None. That’s why I was never very good at it.
My first job that rewarded me in some way came along when I was about 8 years old. I was living with the Wofford family in Colton at the time. (Asthma had my family trying out different climates.) Dave Wofford worked part time at his father-in-laws print shop; Alan (his son) and I would be given money to sort the type and put it in the proper bins. It was tough work and dirty. The type was mirror image of course and so reading it required more than a casual glance. And of course the type had ink on it and there was no way to stay clean while handling it. The job had a title, “printers’ devil” and that sounded pretty cool to an 8 year old.
I should add that we would have done the job for no money at all...We had a title and we got to work in room filled with interesting machinery. What else did we need?
My first job was my worst one! I was probably 4 years old (Don’t laugh…I’m serious.) and I had to pick up my toys and clean my room. The task reduced me to tears. Something no other job ever did. OK, so that’s usually everyone’s introduction to “work” and it’s not a pleasant one. So why do we continue? Rewards, of course. The reward for cleaning your room? None. That’s why I was never very good at it.
My first job that rewarded me in some way came along when I was about 8 years old. I was living with the Wofford family in Colton at the time. (Asthma had my family trying out different climates.) Dave Wofford worked part time at his father-in-laws print shop; Alan (his son) and I would be given money to sort the type and put it in the proper bins. It was tough work and dirty. The type was mirror image of course and so reading it required more than a casual glance. And of course the type had ink on it and there was no way to stay clean while handling it. The job had a title, “printers’ devil” and that sounded pretty cool to an 8 year old.
I should add that we would have done the job for no money at all...We had a title and we got to work in room filled with interesting machinery. What else did we need?
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
How did it start?
Working. What a great title for a blog. And why did I choose to do this? It began this morning as I drove by a construction site and I suddenly had a flood of memories from those times when I was the one standing out in the cold, a cup of hot coffee held in both hands as I waited for the clock to reach 7 so that I could get to work and warm up. Those memories are demanding to become stories.
And "Working" is also the title of a great book by Studs Terkel, the famous chronicler of our times. In it, he interviews the so-called "common man" and listens to them as they describe just what they do every day as they go about their work. And that's what I want to do, tell you about what I used to do...
So it begins; I will add a story every now and then and you may learn something about me that you never knew before. Or not.
And "Working" is also the title of a great book by Studs Terkel, the famous chronicler of our times. In it, he interviews the so-called "common man" and listens to them as they describe just what they do every day as they go about their work. And that's what I want to do, tell you about what I used to do...
So it begins; I will add a story every now and then and you may learn something about me that you never knew before. Or not.
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