Backhoe

When I was a young man, I floated from job to job for a couple of years before I finally settled down and stayed put at one place of employment. I stayed longer at some jobs than others, but generally it would take a few weeks or months to decide that I wanted to do something else. I tried working in a hardware store, but didn’t think much of the pay, or the hours. I tried welding, and was good at it, but didn’t like being trapped under that helmet all day every day. I even tried digging ditches. That’s what this story is about.
I had been welding on a production line, in a local factory for several months. It was hard, hot, dirty work and to top it off I had to do a swing shift. That meant two weeks of days then two weeks of nights. I really hated the night shift, and I didn’t like the day shift much better. After nine months I wanted out of that place, so I started looking for something outside.
I come from a farm background, so I was, and still am, quite versatile when it comes to driving or operating just about any kind of machinery. When I saw a listing at the local manpower office for a backhoe operator, I jumped on it. It turned out that a company from Kitchener Ontario had a contract to install underground phone lines in Ingersoll and they were advertising for heavy equipment operators. I applied and was hired over the phone. I gave my notice at the factory the next day. I couldn’t wait to be out of that place. I spent the next two weeks dreaming about sitting at the controls of a shiny new backhoe, looking down on the world from my lofty perch.
There was never any doubt in my mind that I would excel at this new job. After all I had been driving tractors, combines, backhoes, bulldozers and lots of other equipment ever since I was able to reach the pedals on Dad’s old Ford 8N tractor. Why wouldn’t I be successful at this new endeavor? Boy, was I in for a wake-up call.
I was to start on Monday at seven o’clock in the morning. It was raining, but I showed up at the designated spot, (a parking lot near the high school) at the designated time but nobody else was there. I waited for about two hours, before a van pulled up with five men inside.
The driver rolled down his window and shouted to me. "You Taylor?" he said.
"Yup, that’s me."
"Come back tomorrow," he ordered, "There’s no work today. Too wet."
"Same time tomorrow?" I asked, but it was too late. He had already rolled up his window and was backing away.
Tuesday morning at seven o’clock I was back in the parking lot. Again it was raining and again I waited. Again it was nearly nine, when the same van pulled in, but this time there was just the driver present.
Again he pulled up beside me and rolled down his window. "Might as well go home," he said, "Too wet again today."
I drove home wondering if it was ever going to stop raining. This was a great job though. I figured it didn’t get much better than getting paid for sitting at home every day watching it rain. I did want to get to that backhoe however.
The next day the sun was shining when I pulled into the parking lot at six forty-five. The same van pulled in at seven fifteen and out climbed the crew. They went to the back of the van and started unloading . . . shovels, picks, axes and . . . nothing else. Hmm, I wonder where I pick up my backhoe.
The guy who had driven the van each day motioned for me to come over. When I did, he handed me a shovel. He then explained that I was to dig a trench through the roots of a huge maple tree beside the street. Apparently there was some bylaw in Ingersoll, designed to protect the trees, that said we weren’t allowed to cut any root bigger than your thumb. We had to dig around them.
"I was hired to run a backhoe," I told him, "not to dig ditches by hand."
"Well," he said, "this is the only backhoe you’re gonna see today. That trees’ yours."
I had quit a good paying job in a factory to take this one so I started digging. I had car payments to make, and a baby on the way so I was determined to make the best of the situation. Besides, I was sure that this was only a temporary thing. After all I was hired to run a backhoe . . . Wasn’t I?
It was probably the worst day of work I had ever been subjected to. It was the middle of September, but the sun was beating down like it was July. I dug until my hands bled from the blisters. I hadn’t come prepared for this kind of labor. I didn’t wear a hat or bring gloves. I didn’t even have water with me. Still, I persevered and tried to keep up with the more experienced ditch diggers, but it was no use. Hour by hour I fell further and further behind. By noon the rest of the crew had all moved on to their second tree, but I was barely half way done my first.
I had only been out of school for about two years and as I said earlier we were working right by the local High School. The same High School I had attended for four years. Every time I looked up somebody I recognized was walking by, and they all recognized me too. Some of the kids even spoke to me. I was sure all of them were laughing, as they walked on down the street. I had been an honor’s student in High School and here I was digging a ditch. I wanted to climb right down in and pull the dirt in behind me. The only thing that kept me going was knowing that soon enough I would be sitting in a backhoe and it would be doing the hard work for me.
Somehow I made it through the day. At the end of the shift the foreman took me aside and gave me a little pep talk. "You did all right today," he said, "but tomorrow you’re going to have to work harder. You can’t be taking all day to get past one tree. Oh, and bring some gloves tomorrow man. Your hands are a mess."
No kidding. They hurt too. I didn’t need anybody to tell me that my hands were a mess. I could feel it with every heart beat, but I didn’t bother telling him that. I just stood there listening to his expert advice.
"Same time tomorrow?" I finally asked.
"Only if it’s not rainin’," he told me, "No sense in wastin’ gas comin’ over here and not gettin’ paid."
I nodded as I dragged my sorry, tired butt to my car and got in. I was half way home before it hit me. "Not gettin’ paid!" I shouted to nobody, "I’m not gettin’ paid for rain days."
What a shock that was. I though that everybody who worked on construction got paid for rain days. I made up my mind then and there to ask about that the next morning. So far that week I had only worked one day, and the forecast was calling for rain the rest of the week. If I didn’t get paid for rain days, I was going to have a very thin pay envelope. That night I didn’t sleep much, but it didn’t really matter because it was pouring rain Thursday morning and kept it up all day. At least it gave my hands a chance to heal.
Friday morning I woke up to a beautiful sunrise. By the time I got to the construction site it had become another beautiful late summer day. The rest of the crew was already there, sitting on the grass under the trees sipping coffee and waiting for seven o’clock. One of the first things I had been told was that you never start before seven and you never miss a break or lunch. I went to the van to get a shovel. The foreman was sitting in the drivers seat doing some paper work.
"Good morning," I said, "looks like another nice day."
He looked back and nodded at me. "Do ya think ya can pick up the pace a bit today?" he asked.
"I’ll sure try," I promised.
"Did ya bring some gloves today?"
"Yup."
"Well, I hope it helps. You’ve gotta do better than Wednesday or I can’t keep ya on."
"I will," I assured him, "My hands were rally hurting by the end of the day, but they feel a lot better today."
"I hope so," was all he said.
The other guys were heading for their respective trees and my watch told me it was seven o’clock, so I grabbed a shovel that looked like it had a nice smooth handle and picked a spot to start my first hole of the day.
The gloves helped, but I was stiff and sore from work that I wasn’t used to. It took me an hour or so to loosen up and get going well. Every time I looked up the foreman was watching me. I was sure that he was just waiting for his chance to let me go. I don’t exactly know why, but I had the feeling, and I still do that he didn’t like me and that he was looking for any excuse to fire me.
At about the same time as I started to get in the groove, the High School kids started walking by on their way to class. Once again I recognized way too many of them. I pulled my hat down low on my forehead hoping to keep them from noticing me, but some still spoke to me. I was sure again that they were laughing at me when they walked away.
I stewed all morning, wondering about the rain days and whether I would be paid for them. Finally, at lunch, I decided to approach the foreman about it.
"Excuse me," I said, "can I ask you something?"
He just nodded at me.
"Can we talk in private," I continued? The entire crew was sitting there under the same tree eating lunch.
"C’mon," he growled, "we can sit in the van."
I walked with him to the van. As soon as we were out of ear shot of the others the foreman looked at me and rolled his eyes. "OK," he growled "what’s so important."
"It’s something you said the other day," I told him, "about the rain days. Do I get paid for them or not?"
That was the only time I saw that man laugh. "You have to work two hours before you get paid for the day. That’s why we all get in the van and drive up here every day even if it looks like rain. By the time we drive up and drive back we’ve got our two hours. You don’t."
"So you’re saying I don’t get paid?"
"You are dense aren’t you?" he snapped, "I told you. Only if you work two hours in the day before you get rained out. Anything else?"
"No. Thanks," I muttered, "that’s it."
I wasn’t very happy that afternoon as I dug in the hot sun. My hands were still sore and the gloves only helped so much. By mid afternoon many of the blisters had broken open again and were bleeding inside my gloves. I was afraid to take them off because I didn’t want to see how bad, I was sure, they looked. I hung in until the bell rang dismissing the kids from school. When they started to come past agin on their way home, I had taken about all I could take. The foreman had been riding me ever since lunch and even though I was keeping up with the other workers, he seemed to think I should be going faster.
At about two o’clock I put my shovel down and went looking for the foreman. For the first time that afternoon he wasn’t breathing down my neck. I found him in the van sitting there with the air conditioner on full blast. The thought suddenly struck me that he did an awful lot of paperwork for a guy who was in charge of only six men, but I thought better of mentioning it. Instead I asked about my future with the company.
"I was hired here to run a backhoe," I told him, "When do you think I could reasonably expect that to happen?"
He looked at me as though I had suddenly grown a second head. "You were hired here to dig ditches . . . by hand!" he said.
"No," I insisted, "the posting at manpower clearly said ‘backhoe operator.’"
"They all say that you moron," he sneered, "Nobody would take the job if they knew they were going to be a ditch digger. You really are stupid, Man."
That was it. I had been called stupid by this guy one too many times. I dropped my shovel on the ground beside the van. "I’m done," I said.
"See you Monday if it’s not rainin’," he called after me as I stomped toward my car.
I stopped dead in my tracks, turned on a heel and stomped back. "Oh you won’t see me Monday, or any other day for that matter," I fumed, "I’ve had enough of you and of this job. I quit. Oh and by the way, I don’t think I’m the stupid one here . . . MAN!"
As I drove away, I couldn’t help wondering where my next paycheck was going to come from, but I also knew that I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life with a shovel in my hands every waking minute. I also knew that I didn’t have to put up with being called stupid, or a moron by anybody.
That was the extent of my career as a backhoe operator.

The Rock

Mom and Dad were probably the most loving couple I ever knew. I can truly say that I never in all my life saw them fight. They sometimes would disagree but they never fought. Each told the other every day that they loved them, not just once but many times. Love in our house was a tangible thing and it was always there. No matter what happened. No matter how angry we got. No matter what you did wrong, the love remained. We never went to bed angry. Whatever had happened that day had to be resolved or we would sit at the kitchen table all night talking it out.
It may have come to light, throughout this narration, that I was not always a perfect angel as a child. My parents understood that and loved me perhaps even more because of it. You see, sometimes, kids are more fun when they aren’t behaving perfectly. I was very good at that.
One fine summer evening I was outside in the barnyard doing some small chores, watching the pigeons flying in and out of the hay mow. They were gathering sticks and pieces of rock and other stuff as pigeons do. Mom and Dad were both in the barn milking the cows. Now, you have to understand that Dad hated pigeons. He called them disease carrying vermin that served no better purpose than to poop (he didn’t say poop) all over everything in a hay mow. The only hunters allowed on our farm were some men with a thick accent. I remember them coming around to shoot pigeons in the barn a couple of times a year. Dad always let them in with an admonition not to shoot any holes in his steel roof. Dad really loved that roof.
Suddenly I had an epiphany. There were tons of small rocks laying around and I had a fairly good arm, so it would naturally follow, that I should pick up a rock and, with all the might and accuracy I could muster, hurl it toward a flying pigeon.
Hey . . . I missed . . . oh there’s another one. Pick up a stone . . . take aim . . . wait for it . . . follow through . . . swoosh . . . dang. Missed again. Ok this time for sure. Here he comes. Nice big rock. Wait for it . . . Wait for it . . . Swoosh . . . Crash!
Seconds later Dad emerged from the barn holding the rock that just crashed through a window and hit him squarely in the back of the head, as he was bent over milking a cow. He simply held up the rock, rubbed his head and watched me standing there, trying to look as innocent as possible. I was good at it too.
When he asked me why I had thrown a rock through the window I said, "Huh? Rock? What rock?" (It just doesn’t get more convincing than that does it?)
"The one that just hit me in the head!" said Dad.
"Hit you in the head? A Rock? Really? How the heck could that happen Dad?"
"You tell me!" he insisted. (I think you get the idea.)
I was good, but the dust on my hands and the fact that I was the only one out there sort of gave me away. I did what any red blooded boy would do. I lied some more, but Dad was having none of it. I could see that he was starting to get angry. His ears were getting red. That was a sure sign that it was time to come clean, except on hot days when his ears tended to get red all the time. (Another story there too)
I wasn’t a dumb kid. I knew the right thing to do, so I made a snap decision. I stood up straight, looked Dad right in the eye and I lied some more.
I started with something about the neighbor kid, who was probably at home lying to his own father, then went off on a tangent ending with something like "I didn’t do it . . . on purpose . . . sorry." Followed by a flood of tears. Tears always helped. Dad hated to see me cry, and I could do it on command.
By the time all was said and done, Dad was laughing too hard to be mad anymore. After all, as he said, I did have good intentions, if not good sense, and no one was really hurt. The window which had already been badly cracked got fixed and I put some fear of God into those pigeons.
Oh . . . and I really pulled the wool over Dad’s eyes that time.

Reputation By Association

When I was in High school, I was rewarded for my exceptional mental acuity as well as my great manual dexterity by receiving the highest honor our society can bestow upon a teenage boy. I got my drivers license, and it only took me three tries . . . again because of that great dexterity and acuity thing . . . right. Well, it wasn’t my fault if two inspectors didn’t recognize the greatest driver of all time sitting right there beside them. The third one sure did.
I had actually been handling many items of farm equipment since I was old enough to reach the pedals and Dad had been letting me drive the cars and trucks around the farm and even down some gravel roads since I was thirteen so I really could handle a vehicle. The main problem was that I thought I could do it at any speed and I tried to. I had two speeds "stop" and "How fast will this go." By the way, a farm tractor on the right hill with just the right amount of tail wind can achieve speeds of nearly thirty miles per hour . . . but that’s another story.
As soon as I got my license I started hanging around with some guys whom I wouldn’t want my kids hanging out with. They smoked and drank and did some drugs but didn’t really get into any big trouble. That is to say they weren’t in trouble with the cops or the school administration or even their own parents, but the other kids all knew them and they didn’t have a good reputation. I didn’t do drugs and I didn’t drink alcohol even though I was hanging around with these kids who did, but Dad had a saying I’ll never forget. "Reputation by association." It was proving to be true in my case and that bothered me. I didn’t like the idea of folks thinking I was someone I wasn’t.
I was no angel and I got into minor trouble from time to time, but my parents never had to face a police officer standing on the door step with me in handcuffs, or come into the local constabulary to bail my ass out of jail after a night of carousing. In fact my worst encounter ever, with the police, was being pulled over by a local cop who decided it would teach me a lesson if he tore Dads car apart on the main street of town looking for drugs.
With my help, removed the spare tire, the back seat, the hub caps, the floor mats and the lining form the trunk. He found nothing because there was nothing to find. He then told me that I had five minutes to get the car off the street or he would be back to charge me with obstructing traffic. It took me about two minutes to pile all of the stuff into the trunk and the back seat and get out of there. I don’t know to this day whether he came back to check on me or not, but if he did I was long gone.
I never told Dad about that little incident but years later noticed that any time Dad and I drove past that spot, he seemed to have a funny little smile cross his face for just a second. It never happened if he knew I was looking at him though. Hmm, I wonder . . . I never bothered with drugs much or with drinking either. I was afraid of getting caught. Hmm, I wonder . . . Come to think of it, I stopped hanging around with those kids right about then too. HEY!

I'm Coming Back

I havent been able to post for the last few weeks because of problems in many areas of my life. I haope that as of today I can begin again to publish the stories of my and my family's life. My heartfelt thanks to all who have wished us well during our time of tribulation.

Mother passed away in the summer leaving a huge void in our lives that we will never fill. we are only now beginning to get back to normal and resume our day to day routines.

To top everything off my computer crashed and had to be replaced. It took much of my writing with it. I was able to save some, but not all, of my stories but I am getting back into the groove now and there should be new posts here from me soon.