JUNE 17, 2020 – On our drive yesterday in the full splendor of early summer, we passed a column of dump trucks lumbering in the opposite lane toward a road construction zone behind us. The trucks reminded me of the summer when I drove one.
I was between college and law school and looking for extra scratch for the coming academic year. I took a job in the maintenance department of the Anoka Municipal Golf Course. Pay was good, work was outdoors, and I could bike there.
Initially, my job was to change the sprinklers every hour from dusk to dawn. I drove a Cushman cart to make the rounds. The speedometer read to 40 mph, but Dale, the mechanic, told me he’d set the governor for a top speed of 20. “You wouldn’t believe the rascals we have working here,” he said.
I soon knew much about the nocturnal habits of air-borne insects . . . all 500,000 species. Within five minutes of my first round, I learned to keep my mouth closed—and to bring ski goggles the next night. On that second night, I learned a further lesson: scrape insects off ski goggles before mash completely obscures vision.
After three weeks I got promoted to the dayshift, which put me on easy street. Our main mission was to clear debris from the golf course. Essentially, we were the outdoor janitorial staff. It was no-brainer work, but the fun part was driving some very cool vehicles—the Cushman carts plus a small fleet of miniature Japanese-made pick-up trucks that looked like overgrown Matchbox vehicles. And then there was the dump truck, which was parked off to the side outside the maintenance shed. More about that in the installments that follow.
During the dayshift I got to know my fellow crew members.
“Morrie” was the laidback boss. I doubt he’d ever been out of the county—overland, that is—except to fish up north. When I asked about the “AOPA” sticker on his old Buick, I learned that Morrie’s main purpose in life was flying his Piper Cub—from a grass airstrip outside Anoka. Every day at 10:00 in a caravan led by Morrie’s Buick, our whole crew would land at a nearby ancient strip mall. For an hour we’d crowd into a greasy spoon for pancakes, coffee, and banter.
Next was “Dale,” the aforementioned mechanic; in his late 40s probably, he looked much older, thanks to chain-smoking. He was dead serious about his work, which he’d mastered. He also kept the “rascals” in line when Morrie wasn’t paying attention, which was most of the time. Another thing I remember about Dale was his one sentence driver’s ed course, spoken sternly after a “rascal” had rammed one of the Japanese Matchbox trucks into a tree. “When you’re driving,” he said, with his cigarette jumping up and down with his lips, “your eyes should always be on the move—rotating from straight ahead to rearview mirror to speedometer, then back to the road ahead—keeps you alert.”
(Cont.)
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
