My Summer in Colorado [reminiscence]

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1

My very best summer job came between my junior and senior years of high school.  I never knew precisely how it happened, but I always have presumed that my parents were talking with their long-time church friend, Mr. Eckhardt, sharing notes about their children - as parents always do, I guess - when Mr. Eckhardt mentioned that his son John was married now and worked for his in-laws in a winter resort in Arizona and in their summer resort in Colorado.  Mr. M-------, John's father-in-law, had now passed away, and Mrs. M------ couldn't run the place(s) by herself, and a lot of people had been working with them for years, all moving back and forth in the short transitions between seasons, and on and on...  So John was now the Executive Manager of these two places.

My folks talked about their son - me - beginning to look for a summer job.  (This must have been in February or so).

2

So, the last week in May there I was with my one little suitcase on the bus on the way through Denver and Boulder, headed for Estes Park.

Someone must have picked me up to whisk me away from the little vacation town itself and on to the Rocky Mountain National Park 10 or 15 miles away.  All I remember about my arrival at the Fall River Lodge is that I had a terrible headache, I suppose from the rapid change in altitude.

The Lodge where I was to be a bellboy was built about 1920.  In front was a little man-made lake with a meeting house on the other side (where there were weekly Square Dances.  The staff slept in a series of little uninsulated cabins hidden behind the main building.  Across the road were five or six guest cabins.

And all this picturesque scene was surrounding by stunning, snow-capped Rocky Mountains!  It was breath-taking.

3

There was one other bell boy besides me.  I think he may have worked at our Lodge the year before.  He was two or three years older than I and - like most of the Wait staff (we said then "waiters" and "waitresses") - he was probably a college student during the academic year.  He spent his free time with one or more of the young guys who worked the Dude Ranch side of the operation.

There was one of us on duty 14 hours per day, 7 days a week.  One of us would work from 7 am to 2 pm, and the other from 2 to 9 pm.  Soon, we sorted it out so that the mornings were mine, while he took the afternoon.  I never had the full day off, but I did do a double-shift for him once or twice.  I think his name was Antoine.

The morning guy had clean-up responsibilities for the large front lobby.  That meant vacuuming all the red oriental carpets and - the challenging part - washing the large, multi-pane windows.  The windows like the rest of the place were gorgeous.  But since they faced east, it was frustrating to clean them, streak-free, between 8 and 9 a.m.

Mrs. M-------- was a smoker-voiced, stocky, commanding woman who supervised us closely.  I worked hard on those windows and fretted at the streaks.  But she did not generally complain too much.

Of course, we carried guests' bags arriving and departing whenever they showed up or telephoned the front desk.  Once every couple of days, we had to get an extra, roll-away bed up to the room at the time of a check-in.  That was just a little bother for the second and third floors of the Lodge, but was daunting when it came to the cabins here and there across the road and up the winding, rocky pathways.

It was also our responsibility to make sure the pop-vending machine in the little gift shop never ran out.  At irregular times, then, we would go down a dark little staircase off one corner of the front lobby to the basement where many supplies and tools were stored and where, relatively handy, was an empty carrying case for the pop bottles (Canada Dry: my favorite was the Black Cherry flavor). 

nce in a while, Mr. Eckhardt or one of the other two desk clerks would open the door off the lobby when I would be loading the new bottles or unloading the empties and call down in a melodious tone: "'Byron?' we have a Check-In."  Each of them called out in a sweet tone like a good friend speaking with a beloved associate, because of course the guests could hear him or her and they wanted to show everyone how really nice they were.

4

When we were not working, we could get a ride into town for a few hours, where the older staff members - like Antoine - would disappear at night to sample the Colorado 3.2 beer.  I would go in once a week in the early afternoon to bank my tips, which I kept in a stretched-out white athletic sock.  Once I bought a pair of deer-hide gloves, which I loved to wear for years afterwards.

And we were allowed to participate in any of the activities the Lodge offered its guests.  Despite there once being a free staff horseback tour of the lower slope, except for that once I did not take advantage of that activity.  But I never missed a Thursday-night Square Dance, a Tuesday night sing-along, or a Sunday night movie in the lobby.  I must have read most of the books available to us - as to guests - on bookshelves here and there around the lobby.  (I remember reading Richard Matheson's science fiction thriller I Am Legend there in the beautiful Colorado Rockies, for example.)

One cabin out back was the staff rec room with a sofa and some comfy chairs (and a heater!).  It had a 45 record player and a small stack of records too.  I got to know them all by heart, of course.

I had arrived at the Lodge by June 1.  One afternoon in July Mr. Eckhardt found me in the rec room and asked me to come back with him to his office, which was off the big lobby.  I may have changed my shirt or brushed my hair or something, but of course I hurried over.

He told me that Antoine had decided not to continue working at the Lodge, so as soon as they could find someone to replace him, I would have somebody else to work with.  Antoine had already left.  So, could I be on-call for the rest of the afternoon?  They would start looking for a replacement right away...

I told him I had found the seven-hour shift easy to deal with.  He started thinking about what hours I could be on and which I could be off, minimally covering the bases while they looked for a new bell boy.  But I put myself forward to say I could cover both shifts, indefinitely.  (I didn't say so, but after the first week or so I had been a little bored with all my free time.)

Mr. Eckhardt was reluctant, but he said he would give me both shifts for a week or two and we would see how that went.

So I was THE Bell Boy at Fall River Lodge!

After two or three weeks, though, I have to admit I was beginning to tire a bit.  I didn't mind when Mr. E------- called me in to say he'd decided it would be better to have two of us and he'd hired a guy who would start tomorrow.  (It turned out his name was ... Antoine.)

5

Altogether, working at the Fall River Lodge that summer were only three high school students: besides me, there were just the two Mexican-descended dishwashers from Laredo.  Just the three Texans too, now that I think of it. 

When I was off and they were working, I would often check in with them in the kitchen and help out a little.  Really, I was just looking for a little company.

The three of us used to hang out together pretty often in the rec room too.  I had brought with me a new pair of bongo drums, quite the fashion back then.   In fact, the other guys had a set of bongos too.  I was just learning to play myself, but one of the two others - taller, lighter skinned, thinner - was actually good.  He wasn't very good at teaching me to get better, though, but listening to the two of them go at it together, accompanying the 45s on the record-player, was a treat.  There was an older upright piano in the rec room.  I could play two or three popular songs, or rather I could play a crude accompaniment of myself singing a couple of Fats Domino songs (I remember "Blue Monday" in particular) and maybe something else.

I asked Mrs. M-------- one day if they ever had a staff talent show.  She had heard about our banging around in the rec room and didn't say No anyway.

And as a matter of fact, the two Laredo boys and I played a couple of songs one night for the guests.  They were very nice and we were proud of ourselves.  After the show, though, one of the other two stopped playing with us in the lounge  - the skinnier one - and no one ever brought up our doing it again.

6

 One day late in the summer, as I filled an empty case with fresh bottles of various flavors of Canada Dry, the door off the lobby swung open and Mr. Eckhardt's cheery and friendly voice called out; "'Byron?' We have a check-in!"  He had the same inflexion and tone as usual.  I set the pop aside and skipped up the stairs, taking pains to close the door quietly behind me as I had been trained to do.

The little woman standing at the Check-In Desk next to her modest little suitcase turned around.  What a total surprise!

"Well, Mother!" I exclaimed.  I little noticed the little burst of laughter and applause around us from the staff who had been let in on the surprise and had had their wish at seeing me dumbfounded.

Yes, the older Mr. Eckhardt and Mother had driven from way down there inTexas to spend two or three days up there in the Colorado Rockies where their sons were working.

7

Frankly, I don't remember doing anything in particular those couple of days, but it was good to see Mom.  Several weeks later, after Labor Day, the Lodge closed for the season.  The three Texam high-school students had to leave for home right away, but everyone else had to stay around for a week or so more as everything was thoroughly cleaned and closed up in order to get through the tough winter anticipated.

Having spent the summer so far from home, doing work different from anything I'd done before, changed me - I thought - but I comfortably reassumed my role at home and in school.

I'd made some pretty good money, and had had valuable experience.  Most of all, I knew myself better than I had before that unusual summer.

NOTE: Other summer job recollections may be found below at  http://byronderrick.blogspot.com/2010/05/reminiscence-summer-job.html




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Off to Graduate School, II [reminiscence]

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NOTE: The first part of this story is found below, at http://byronderrick.blogspot.com/2010/11/reminiscence-off-to-grad-school.html



I had told this story up to the time I arrived at my first graduate school, but my arrival there had been timed so that I'd have about a week to get settled before our first staff meeting the day before classes began.

My strategy to find a place to live was to start walking from the department office, getting to know the street names before I studied the For Rent columns in the local newspaper.  It didn't take long to find a busy street only a few blocks from the campus that had some buildings that looked like apartments, so I looked in the paper to see if there were any ads about places on G------- Street for rent.  I noticed that among the apartments there were "housekeeping rooms," a term I didn't recognize but which seemed as though that would be okay for me, and... they were much cheaper.

I walked up a slight rise to one of the addresses on G--------- Street with a housekeeping room available.  I can't remember what the notice said about rates, but it was probably something vague like "low rent."  It turned out to be an older Victorian house that had been divided into separate rentals.  I found a public telephone and made an appointment to meet someone at the house in just a few minutes.  No, I don't remember looking at any other alternative.

It was a rather young (30-something) black man who was waiting for me when I arrived.  He didn't say much, but he seemed happy enough to show me the room.  On the phone he had seemed surprised when I'd had to ask if his place was furnished.  The apartment I had rented with two other students my senior college year in the Midwest had been furnished, so I don't think I thought anywhere I looked would not be. 

It was indeed one single room, right in the front of the old house, in what had been the living-room (or "front parlour").  It seemed large enough; I'd guess it was about 18 x 15.  I had a fireplace that didn't work, the mantle of which I thought of as a bookshelf.  A single chair and a vinyl table were set in front of the big window looking out at G------ Street.  On the left of the table was a small kitchen unit containing a place for a little two-burner hot plate, a small preparation area, and a sink with a full-size refrigerator standing next to it.

In my previous apartment we'd had a full stove with an oven, but I figured this arrangement would be all right.  On the other side of the hallway door was a small book case whee there was a telephone, and against the wall was a twin bed.  My host said it had a new mattress, and it seemed firm enough and level enough to me.  The bathroom down the hall, next to the staircase,  which I would share with the residents of two other housekeeping rooms, was large, clean, and well-lit.  The big tub looked just like the one from last year, with a shower mounted at one end, which seemed normal.

So I asked the guy about the rent.  He said two weeks' rent was needed up front, and from then on it would be... in 1966 ...$11 per week!  So I took it on the spot.  I took out my checkbook to pay the $22, but he interrupted me.  Cash only.  Every Friday night between 5:30 and 6, someone would be by to pick up $11, in cash.

Fortunately, I had $22 in my wallet.  I had probably left my bags at the bus station, and I probably brought them to my new home by cab.

I was all set!

3

I subscribed to the local newspaper, found a small grocery store a few blocks down G------ Street and picked up a skillet, a plate and cup and glass, a few utensils and dish-washing materials.  I started a local bank account between campus and my room, found a couple of local stations that I thought I would like to listen to on my little portable radio... but no classical music station.  I thought I had pretty much everything I would need.

The day before our first staff meeting was scheduled, a Sunday, I thought I should have a special lunch.  That would mean fried chicken, boiled corn, bread and butter.  As the chicken simmered away in a  half-inch or so of cooking oil in my new skillet, I turned away for a minute - maybe to fill up a glass of water - and when I turned back, I realized the oil had gotten too hot.  It was starting to smoke.  I lifted the skillet off the hot burner but didn't have a good place to set it to cool off while I turned off the burner.

So I slid the skillet up on top of the refrigerator next to the sink.  It was slightly rounded.  As I reached to turn off the burner, I heard the skillet begin to slip.  I reached my left hand out to grab it, but it fell, with that hot oil splashing down over the back of my hand.  That hurt, a lot.  The floor was wood, so I dumped a good handful of flour to soak up the grease and scraped the two pieces of chicken (perfectly cooked) back into the skillet which I left on the cooling hot plate.

I don't remember if I was smart enough to plunge my poor burnt hand in cold water, but I remember wrapping it in my new dish-towel.  The skin was kind of hanging in shreds off the back of my hand, so it was clear I needed help.

The telephone book did list a university clinic across the street from my new bank.  I called, they were open and said to come right in, so I skedaddled.  As I walked, the shock began to hit but I managed to keep going up the hill.  At the clinic they were waiting for me.

4

Anyway, I got to the staff meeting the next morning to meet my new professional associates, and my new boss, with a honking huge white bandage on my non-writing hand.  Everyone was appropriately supportive, but I was damned embarrassed, I can tell you.

The doctors at the clinic were great, and when I came in every day, they trimmed the dead skin away and re-bandaged my hand.  The pain killers worked well enough.  But I started my new career as that new guy with that big white bandage on his hand.  I didn't get it all off for three or four weeks.

But I was - now - on my way.

5

In my field, in my time the average time between the B. A. and the PhD. was 9.5 years, but it was common to earn both degrees at the same university.  I had taken more of my course work thus far from the man who at my Eastern graduate program would have been my Dissertation advisor.  I had seen a lot of him - and had learned a lot - and of course he had seen a lot of me.  I had no reason that he liked me and admired by abilities.

I made an appointment with him "to discuss my future."  I mainly wanted to know his feelings about being my dissertation advisor.  He said right away that, although he would be glad to continue working with me, I might learn more by moving somewhere I could benefit from others' perspectives.

"Well, how would I do that?"  I asked.  Dr. D--- said he usually students in my position to select some critics I admired the most and contact them about my beginning work with them.  This was quite a challenge.   I hadn't picked out "professor hero," but that seemed a reasonable approach.  Based on a single article and articles about one particular guy, I decided to contact him.  He replied right away and said it seemed it would be valuable for both of us for me to come be his student... but he would be moving to a different university in a month or so and would not feel comfortable setting up such an arrangement at that time.  He apologized, but that was that.

Then, I wrote to two or three other scholars who did not themselves do the kind of work I wanted to do but had done and could be presumed to have underway works to which I could contribute and which were relevant to what I would be working on.  It happened that these men were both Department chairs.  While I waited for replies, I looked over what the other faculty in these two, West-Coast Universities had been studying.  In one of them, sure enough, there was another fellow whose works had been new to me but looked interesting too.

A day or so after the first reply came, the other arrived too.  Both of them offered my full graduate scholarships, one for two years and the other for three.  The first university was the larger and more prestigious, but there was only the only faculty member whose name I recognized and they were offering only two years of full scholarship.  I knew I would be able to teach half-time after the scholarship, but the second place had the several people whose names I recognized, plus the three-year scholarship they were holding for me.  (The annual terms of the scholarships were exactly the same, by the way.)

So I called the second university and accepted their offer and turned down the other offer.  My future was all set again.

6

It was a longer bus trip from Texas to the California university than it had been from Texas to my Eastern university.  But after the summer at home was almost over, there I was pulling into the small university city out west about noon of the second day of my journey.  There was only one small hotel in town, and it was upstairs in the bus station.  So that was easy.

After hauling my luggage upstairs to me room, I was too excited to rest, so I walked on over to campus, found the department office, and announced my arrival.  The staff had been expecting me and said Dr. O...... was looking forward to meeting me but, it still being summer, he was not present at that time.

At just about that very moment, an older fellow wearing something like bedroom slippers, wrinkled jeans, and an older sport shirt shuffled in, looking down at some paper in his hand.  He didn't notice me, but the two secretaries scurried over to him and asked how he was.  He just nodded in reply, and they directed his attention to me.  "Oh," he said.  "Oh, yes.  It's nice to meet you and to have you joining us."  And we had a brief cordial conversation, he said the secretaries would help me get settled, and I think with a sigh, shuffled on to what must have been his inner office.

I got office keys, a campus map, and a brief tour of the building - making sure the key to the doctoral student's joint office worked, and that there was a desk and typewriter I could take over.  Only one or two of the six or seven appeared to be already taken, so I staked my claim.

They advised me on how to look for an apartment and reminded me of the schedule of start-up activities for the new students in a week or so.  They didn't say anything about making an appointment with Dr. O......, and I didn't ask.

7

I found an awfully nice, furnished one-bedroom apartment a fifteen-minute walk away from my office that I could afford, so I took it and made arrangements to move in the next afternoon.  The next two or three days were spent getting settled.  I bought Wearever kitchenware in a local Ben Franklin store, a Raleigh English bike at a store about five minutes from the apartment, and - a big deal for me - my first TV set: 15 inches with a rabbit-ears antenna for VHF reception and a round antenna for UHF reception.  (I didn't know what there were, by the way.)  That Sunday's paper brought an ad from a local jewelry store for a whole set of dishes, serving bowls, and glasses for about $20.  They arrived a couple of days later.

That second week, when I checked in at the department office, everyone looked really down.  They told me that Dr. O...... had died over the weekend!

8

Apparently, Dr. O...... had been ill for some time, and it wasn't too much of a surprise.  When I told my folks, they asked what impact this all had on me.  It didn't really have any.  I wouldn't really be able to work with him, of course, but several others in the department had national reputations, and one professor had credentials and taught courses on several of those same topics I had studied with Dr. D--- in my Master's years.  For myself I was feeling pretty good about things.

I wasn't even surprised when that other professor, whose books had looked good to me before I made the change, would in fact be on Sabbatical that year.

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The REAL Amerikuh

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An impassioned Letter to the Editor in our local newspaper the other day made me think.  The letter did not seem worth commenting on at the paper's website, but here's the more general thought it raised:

Students of art, music, literature, and theatre often speculate about what features of the artwork's creator's unconscious are embodied or revealed in the particular instance of imagination one is contemplating.  The vision of "America" behind this particular Letter to the Editor is clearly a work of a feverish imagination or fantasy, so maybe analysing what it reveals about the author's subconscious or character would be revealing in a more general way.

I say this because the man writing the Letter seems to me not so much a unique individual, but a representative of a loud and potentially influential side of our current culture.

1

The writer himself is concerned about the crucial difference between appearance and reality (I might say, the difference between imagination and truth).  His intent seems to be to make sure his readers understand that the "America" supported by one of the national candidates on November 6 is not the same as "ours."

He complains about the real America today, for which the other party is responsible.  America today is not recognizeable from what it once was, he says.  These were his particular concerns:

1. "continuing massive debt"
2. "political correctness," which has apparently contributed significantly to America's decline
3. "constant attempts to divide and incite different groups of people
4. "the ability of a minority [of Americans] to overrule the majority on moral, religious and patriotic issues and more.
5. "the assault on Christianity" and our hope to "preserve this nation 'under God'"
6. "photo ID should be required in all states," though the letter-writer doesn't say why he thinks so.

What apparently does this writer hate about our nation today?  And what were the key features of the "America" of the past which he has imagined?  What does this tell us about the mass of Americans who seem to feel the same way?

2

First, let's reconstruct this man's America in its better days.

That America had at most a small national debt; when a large debt did accumulate, it was paid down quickly.  Everybody took this as their responsibility.

People got along with each other, and everyone agreed this was as it should be.

In America, you didn't have to worry about offending someone just by using a word that everyone uses, and has always used, to refer to some minority group, like saying someone is "physically challenged" instead of being crippled.  That's too bad for him, of course, but that's the truth.  Okay, we know "Nigger" shouldn't be used anymore, but what's wrong with talking about a colored girl instead of "an Afro-American woman," Right?  And Polack jokes?  They're just jokes!

As in all true representative democracies, the majority of Americans' views on all key matters were embodied in our laws and customs.

Everyone was Christian, or at least everyone understood that America is and always has been a God-fearing and God-loving Christian nation.  (As for you Jews, we always included you too, didn't we?  And you appreciated that.)

No one - or at least no respectable and self-respecting individual - had anything to hide and wouldn't think twice about having a photo ID handy at all times, if it were required by majority rule.

Now that's the America - my letter-writer would say - the America that used to be but recently has been stolen from us.

3

The reason a person fervently holds to a view that is obviously false is often that this person wishes with all his heart and mind that the fantasy were reality.  He or she fears against all hope that if reality were as "bad" as what he denies he sees around him, his life would be worthless and he would be nothing.

True believers in the early fifteenth century feared they would be unimportant and not special if the sun and all the other heavenly bodies did not revolve around our mighty earth.  In the 19th century, many feared their lives would be meaningless and lacking in value if in our ancestry, we could find animals, like monkeys. 

So, since we must remain as valuable, as meaningful, as special, and as significant as we have been thinking we are, we are driven to deny the evident facts that are right there for us to see around us.

4

If everyone is the same as we are, as deserving of respect, then we are not special as we have always thought.

If we have not always been in the majority, but merely in the dominant class or party, then those others are at least as powerful as we are... maybe more so!

If our values and beliefs are only as true as those of others, then we are not superior as we have always thought we were.

If we are not special, in the majority, all-powerful (though compassionate), and morally superior, then, we are not safe.  Someone is out to get us.  We just don't want to think what might happen.  We and everything else are going right to hell.

5

That's my portrait of this man who wrote his angry Letter to the Editor.  What he most hates about our real America today is that he and those he is used to interacting with now have to deal with Blacks, Latinos, Asian-Americans... Muslims for God's sake! 

They don't share this man's culture, his religious practices, his ideas... and they seem to think this is all right (unlike Jews, who know their place).  They even think it's all right for folks to disagree with each other about public issues, out loud.  They think it is fine to let people make bad choices and commit immoralities that would have shocked our parents, and they are even willing to weaken our government by running up a big national debt.  That makes all of us unsafe!

6

There are many Americans who see things as this man does.  How can we make them feel secure enough that they can help the rest of us face the real challenges of tomorrow?


Note:
If you found this article interesting, you might also be interested in this one
http://byronderrick.blogspot.com/2010/03/essay-too-much-government-not-enough.html

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[...shhh! overheard... ]

 

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Political Rant 2

Also Overheard in the Tavern on the Corner

 

“Well, just let me tell you.

“The United States Government, you know?  The government doesn’t have to pay its bills.  No, they don’t.  They just print up as much as they need to spend on all these things.  Retirement income for old people, or food stamps, or paying certain people to go to college, you know?

“That government just keeps on running up the credit account.  That can’t go on.  We can’t stand for it.  It’s flirting with disaster.

“You buy something, you got to pay for it.  That’s what I always heard.  You can’t live on credit, owing other people all the time.  Pay your debts, they always tell me.

“Me, yes.  Me.  I can’t just print up some more money, can I?  Even if it is to help somebody else or to protect my family or even my property.  Can I?

“How is it fair? Tell me that.  I have to pay up, and the U S Government, well they’re the same as me, right?  Get rid of the debt is what I say.  Now!”

“Oops, I guess this card is maxxed out.  Can you cover this one for me, pal?  I’ll go cash this Social Security check.  That should tied us over for a while.”

“So, what was that we were saying?  Yeah, thanks, buddy.  Here's to you!"

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[overheard...]

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Political Rant

Overheard in the Tavern on the Corner

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“They got government aid when they were down, ok?  Okay, that’s ok, that’s what it’s for.  But now – now, they’re used to it.  They depend on it.  They feel they’re entitled to it!

 

“They’d rather – as you might say – get fat, like sitting around, with their hand out!

 

“Taking our government money, that we pay in… for public security, for investment in our economy, to protect our way of life with health and education and all that …

 

“Taking it, instead of getting to work like normal people, getting to work, doing what they need to do to take care of themselves…

 

“Instead of being dependent on others, on our tax money!

 

“And I tell you one thing: I’m fed up with those government subsidies of big, rich business corporations!”

 

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