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Growing Up On Jefferson Street, set 8

“Chipin’ Boilers & Drivin’ Truck” and “The Joy of Unpaid Labor”

Dear Marilyn,

Because working during the summers seemed inevitable, I decided that it was important to find alternatives to crop work. I say inevitable, but not forced. Much like going to college (specifically the University of Oregon) the question never came up. I don’t know if Mom and Dad actually took my working in the summer for granted, I just assumed from fifth or sixth grade that was what I was expected to do in the summers. Part of it was that I usually had a goal that required cash to achieve. Another part is that both of them had worked from an early age, especially Dad; but then, Mom too was teaching school by the time she was 19. Paying part of one’s way seemed the natural thing to do. These two stories illustrate the kind of work available to “underage” boys in those days, and the sort of exploitation that could occur.

Chippin’ Boilers and Drivin’ Truck
by
Jack Loughary

It was in the summer of 1945 when I was 14 and after a week of staking beans I obtained work at Central Heating Company. Thinking it a step up from field work, I soon realized that I had landed in the basement of physical labor. Central Heating Company had a steam plan in the middle of Eugene on eighth street. The steam was generated in boilers literally located in the basement of the building and then piped to customers all over down town Eugene. Each year the boiling water left a deposit of chemical residue on the inside of the boilers. Apparently the limit had been reached by the summer of 1945. Central Heating determined that the chemical deposits would be removed. The procedure essentially entailed hanging an elective light cord inside a boiler, supplying a small lad with a hammer and chisel and instructing him to chip away 8 hours a day until the supervisor determined that a boiler was acceptable. There were several boilers. That was probably my most brutally boring job.

By the end of two weeks of chipping it was clear to me that I had made a poor occupational choice. I was prepared to quit Central Heating, but discovered that they also operated a small paving division specializing in asphalt driveways and parking lots. With not much hope, I asked the supervisor if I could transfer from boilers to paving, and to my great surprise he said yes and within a day or two I was out of boilers and on the paving crew. Central Heating was non-union and not one of the more forward- looking employers in Eugene. The crew consisted of a foreman who had sufficient brain power to operate the asphalt dumper and run the roller, a bunch of nomad roustabouts, and a couple underage workers, me being one of the latter.

As a side note, I had learned by then that in order to beat the low paying farm work rap, it was essential that one be willing to fib about your age. Always add a year or two when applying for a job. It was not until I was 18 that this obstacle disappeared.

Things must have slowed in the paving department, and soon I was at liberty again. As luck would have it, I discovered an opening at the College Ice Cream and Ice Company near the university campus. The Ice works was the main part of the business. It operated huge freezing tanks that manufactured unbelievably large blocks of ice for trucks, trains, and other meat and produce hauling companies. Large trucks would pull up to the loading dock and the huge ice blocks would be man-handled via a system of steel rollers and cables and pulleys from the ice room to the dock and into the trucks.

The College Ice Cream operation manufactured ice cream for grocery stores and restaurants. Their retail specialty was ice cream in a quart paperboard cylinder made in such a manner that if you removed the top, the ice cream could be pushed out from the bottom up, thus displaying your preference for any size of slice you desired. Restaurants were supplied ice cream in five gallon cardboard tubs from which servings could be scooped. My assignment was to operate the tub making machine. This consisted of placing a card board tub bottom on an assembly platform, fitting a double-sided metal ring on to the lip of the tub bottom, unfolding and fitting a paper board cylinder into the top of the bottom metal ring, fitting a single opening metal ring around the top of the carton, and then holding the pieces in place while pushing a foot lever that pushed both rings firmly into the body of the cylinder. The top of the tub, thank god, came pre- assembled and was manually set in place after the tub had been filled with ice cream.

This was a tedious process but was done sans supervision, a work condition I immediately took to and, incidently have cherished ever since. The ice cream side of the operation had the additional benefit of good supply of nearly frozen, creamy ice cream which I could add to my daily ration of lunch berries brought from home, again, without supervision.

The College Ice Cream job had another component which more than compensated for any boredom entailed in operating the carton making machine. College Ice Cream was essentially an assembly operation that consisted of a prepared ice cream mix with cream. Both of these were produced by the Farmers Creamery Cooperative located just over a mile from the College Ice Cream Plant. An important additional component of the process was transporting empty cream and mix cans to the Farmers Creamery dock on west 6 th avenue, exchanging them for full cans of mix and cream, respectively, and then transporting these back to the College Ice Cream works. The mixing was then done according to formula and the product was packaged as described earlier.

Transporting the cans of cream and mix was, as it turned out, part of the job description of the Ice Cream Tub Making Machine Operator. College Ice Cream had what was probably a 1935 half ton pick-up truck for which the normal load of full cans pushed its load limit, but with careful slow driving the trip could be accomplished. The mechanical brakes did, however, present a challenge. I certainly felt up to the teamster assignment, having driven the family car under my father’s supervision on several occasions. The first couple of trips, I still recall, were an adventure, but I soon honed my driving skills and self confidence as well. If there was anything missing, it was an Oregon State Drivers licence with my name on it. At 14 I was one year short of being eligible for a learners permit and two years for a license.

Our family enjoyed open communication, as far as I could tell, but it also seemed to me that each person was allowed a reasonable number of private thoughts. In my judgement, driving the ice cream truck with out a driver’s license qualified there in, and so while I would respond to questions from my parents regarding work down at the College Ice Cream works, I chose not to volunteer information pertinent to my teamster duties.

Soon after beginning employment at College Ice cream, my aunt Mabel took it upon herself to inform my mother that an adult employee at the plant was suspected of being a “homosexual”, assuming that having this information would result in my parents forcing me to give up my position. The ensuing conversation between my mother and me was odd, to say the least. The few intimate conversations I had experienced with my parents were instigated by my mother and this was no exception. A first step took the form of a knowledge test of sorts. When it was established that I “queer” or “homo”), then it was clear that I had the capacity to discuss my aunt’s concern. I had nothing in the way of events or contacts to report and thus having made me aware of possible dangers of which I should be concerned, the matter seemed closed.

Then, by chance, there was a log truck accident in front of the loading dock of the Ice Factory section I noted earlier. One afternoon as a loaded logging truck was traveling by the loading dock its load restraining chains snapped, dumping a couple of large logs onto the dock, seriously injuring a dock worker to the extent of requiring the amputation of his leg. The story was above the front page fold, as they say, in the next day’s evening paper. A key factor, as reported in the story, was that the truck driver did not have a truck driver’s endorsement on his license. He was too young.

It was perfectly natural (and expected) that the event be a dinner table topic that evening and in the course of the discussion Dad asked me to tell what I knew about the accident. I can’t recall the exact sequence of events, but he continued questioning me until I acknowledged that I was required to do a little driving on my job. I don’t remember if there was an attempt to do a job analysis and negotiate removing the truck driving component with my employer, or whether I was just told to quit. I would suspect that he contacted the employer and stated that I was never to set foot in the truck again and that in the course of that conversation he resigned for me.

Whatever, I had enjoyed my brief foray into the teamster world, admitted it had been a dumb thing to do, and besides it was September and school was about to start anyway.

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Dear 48 Flavors of Ice Cream Bro,

All I can really remember about this time in your life was driving down with Dad to pick you up after work. You often had a quart of ice cream with you and we hurried home to push the ice cream through the paper cylinder, slice off four pieces, which Mom often covered with sweetened strawberries or chocolate sauce, and sit down to a evening treat. I thought that your job must be the most wonderful place in the world to work. I wonder if those push-up cylinders were the precursors of the small “push-up” treats that exist today. I do remember that Popsicle and ice cream bars were around when we were kids, but a whole galaxy of frozen treats have been developed over the years. None of them hold quite the memorable flavors of our past.

While you were out in the world, having all those enviable adventures, I remained cloistered at home. I thought it terribly unfair that you got the freedom to explore the world, while I was unable to test its waters. All the time that you were checking out the world of finance, I was being educated in the ways of domesticity.

THE JOYS OF UN-PAID LABOR
by
Marilyn Loughary Kok

It seemingly never occurred to many women in The Forties that much what they were doing was little more than hours of un-paid labor. Mom certainly had it figured out. She returned to teaching as soon as possible after producing both of us. Not only did she go back to teaching because of the monetary contribution to the family finances, but also because being back in the classroom was where she really felt valued and rewarded.

However, she did her best to get me enthused about the joys of housework. It began with learning to dust, running the vacuum cleaner and drying dishes. We did have an electric vacuum, but electric dishwashers and clothes dryers were not yet part of American homes. As soon as I passed muster with those tasks, I graduated to peeling vegetables, making cookies, hanging and folding laundry (we had a wringer washing machine and backyard clothesline) and the correct method for setting a table.

My bedroom was my private domain. Mom seldom put pressure on keeping a tidy bedroom. I took full advantage of that lack of attention. My room generally was in such a mess, that finding the bed became a case for Hercule. Every once in a while I would “get in the mood” and proceed to pick up clothes, change the linen, organize the books shelves and chase the dust bunnies that lived beneath the bed.

Summer also brought into play another whole agenda of jobs that every woman needed to know. Dad was a champion gardener and each year he produced enough produce to feed a nation: bushel baskets of tomatoes for juice and canning; buckets of green beans and spring peas; strawberries, raspberries and strawberries for jams and jellies; carrots, onions, radishes, corn and cucumbers; lettuce, cabbage, turnips and even a few potatoes. It was a feast of fresh food that I never really appreciated, but it resulted in my being instructed in the ways of food preservation.

Mother and I peeled, chopped, crushed, squeezed, sliced and diced. We boiled syrups and thickened jams. We made quarts of applesauce, peaches, pears and cherries. She taught me the tricks of pickling, not only dill pickles, but, also, jars of sweet chunk pickles, bread and butter pickles and mustard pickles. I learned how to make salty brine and the correct amount of pickling spices to add to each jar.

It was a life lesson on preserving, planning, growing and appreciating the foods that sustained our lives, all done without the convenience of a home freezer, electric blender, food processor, or hourly wage. Usually performed on the hottest days of July, August and September, the boiling canners of water, the hot bubbling syrups, and the jars that had to be sterilized made the kitchen into a steaming room from Hades.

No wonder that Home Extension Services developed the idea of women exhibiting their canned foods in county fairs. They even convinced a generation of homemakers that winning a blue ribbon was right on par with receiving a salary for work well done.

For many farm women there were opportunities for selling their goods, but for town women it was strictly an expected part of being a wife.

For me, I was happy when September rolled around and school began. It meant I could get out of that kitchen. I suspect that Mom was just as happy. We were free to return to the land of ideas which we both thought ever so much more exciting.

Love, your please can the canning sister, Marilyn

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