First and foremost, a big thank you to all who offered well wishes on my birthday this past July 14. I have now been given special membership to the 60-plus club, and couldn’t be more excited, trust me. Passing this milestone ranks right up there with, well, another stone I hope to be passing soon.
As the midway point of summer speeds past us with all the ferocity of a 70-year old uncomfortably skinny, leather-clad fan rushing toward a hard rock tribute band’s parked tour bus, clomping in her awkward boots, with a long, thin, burning cigarette dangling from her poorly mismatched lipstick, and wrestling with her giant purse that no doubt carries a change of, something or other…I’m sorry, where was I? Oh, summer!
I got to thinking about some of the summer jobs I held as a youth, back in those hot, otherwise potentially boring summer days growing up in Ottawa. Yes, I know you’re not supposed to work until you’re what, 16? Pfft! I wasn’t going to wait that long. This guy had baseball cards, and Wacky Packages to purchase. (Anyone interested in a rookie Pete Rose card, or a Slacker Jack sticker?)
Don’t misunderstand, I still had time for the public pool and playing in various ballgames, running, and tennis, but I loved working, holding down as many jobs as possible, and earning that bling.
Of course, when talking summer jobs, you start with mowing the neighbor’s yard. Our neighbor was a doctor, and his bout of childhood polio rendered his legs in such a manner that prevented him from pushing a lawn mower. He was an awesome neighbor, and his challenge turned out to be a financial windfall for me.
I charged $8 every time I beautified his lawn, and he often gave me a $10 bill and told me to keep the change. He also trusted me enough to decide when it needed cut again. If I’m being honest, I probably cut it a few more times than necessary. I figured the more I mowed, the less I would have to rake, and no yard artist likes to rake.
But that gig wasn’t everything. Back in the day, Ottawa had a healthy summer adult softball league, and most of their games took place on a field behind our town’s bowling alley. Well someone has to keep score, so I plied my art of negotiating with the league’s organizer and was able to land a rosy 50 cents for each game, putting the score up on the large scoreboard located down the line and just left of third base.
There were weekends where Saturdays saw four or five games, and Sundays were good for three or four. The field had lights, so often times the games went into the night. It was a lot of money to earn in a limited time, and while this job offered no health insurance, no matching 401K, and no paid sick leave, for each game I worked I was allowed a free can of pop, which back then, before I became a Dewist, meant a Dr. Pepper. But it didn’t stop there. I was also allowed a bag of chips, which was always Doritos.
Then, sadly came the day where the league organizer, who must have had a burr in her behind that day, decided the can of pop and chips were too much of a benefit, and I would now need to pay for them. I’m certainly not a mathematician, but any numbskull could figure that means my 50 cent earnings per game would be eaten up, literally, and drank up. If I were to continue enjoying these treats I would now be paying even more than I was making, landing me a net loss for my time and score-keeping skillset.
I mean really, I had to pay attention to the entire game, more than anybody else there. I pointed that out, and the organizer suggested it was probably time to get myself another job anyway. My first gentle firing, certainly not my last. So I walked away with my coffee can not quite as full of quarters as I hoped it would be, but still enough to feed my habit. (Anyone need a Johnny Bench MVP card, or a Kentucky Fried Fingers sticker?)
My Saturday mornings found me at Schwartz’s bakery, getting in around 5 a.m. to make the glazed donuts, as the very old Schwartz brothers would begin their mornings already in a grumpy mood, which would only escalate so that by noon they would often hurl handfuls of uncooked dough at each other, and not in a playful way. I was happy to be done by 2.
By law I believe every young man had to work at a grocery store, and I was certainly no exception, so Gordon Diehl, owner of Diehl’s grocery store, hired me, and I often worked a Saturday shift between Schwartz’s and the softball games. My boss was so impressed with my work ethic on my first day that he gave me a raise during my very first shift, from $1.35 to $1.50 per hour! How am I going to spend all this money? (Anyone in the market for a Tony Perez card, or a Dork Peppermint Potty sticker?)
Steve Burnette is an occasional contributor to the paper when space is needed to fill. He also serves as the executive director of the historic Murphy Theatre in downtown Wilmington, Ohio, and serves on the Board of Directors of the Ohio Arts Professionals Network.
