enough to detassel corn. Oh, to reach the required height to be accepted by
Fuller's so I could earn my own spending money (and maybe be taller than the
girls my age), at last.
First, I had to obtain a Social Security number. Now, that was a big deal in
1954. I made sure I had 'Jerry' on the card. I detested Jerome. Little did
I foresee the hassle that I would have many years later trying to get the
legal thing straightened out with Uncle Sam.
What a privilege to wait on Hodnett's Corner for the truck to pick me up so
I could dress in clothing, fit for winter, to protect me from corn leaf cuts,
pollen down the back of my neck, mud inches thick on my boots, and a
skin-burning sun. Yeah, I walked the rows. I think I only rode once or twice.
Anyway, the most vivid detasseling story I have is Jim Cave's adventure into
manliness. If the boy crews were lucky enough to work in the same field as a
girl crew, and the boy crew were even more fortunate to take a break at the
end of the rows when the girls arrived at the same time...then it was a
signal for the boys to show off.
Cave whipped out a plug of tobacco from his shirt pocket while all watched.
He was so excited he had a coed audience, that he inserted the entire plug
into his face and somehow moved his puffed out cheeks into a chewing motion.
As the mess in his mouth began to expand, the boy's side wondered how much
longer before the inevitable expulsion and the girls, sensing something not
good was about to be seen, hurriedly prepared to go back to the wet,
insect-infested corn stalks.
Noticing the quick preparation by the girl crew, Cave chewed faster to get an
impressive wad to prove his manhood. As he inhaled to muster a most man-like
scene, he quite underestimated the size of his mouth and size of the contents.
As physics prevailed (in order to launch, as it were) in the amount of air
needed to accomplish the deed, he sucked most of his hard chewed labor into
his stomach.
The boys were in shock, the girls were already in the corn and Cave was
yelling for water. Now, this was not a real smart request, because he
immediately got his wish granted.
Let's review. What happens when you mix tobacco and water? I believe that boy wretched for
several hours.
As I recall , he did not return to detasseling for a couple of days.
JG (June, 2001)
* * * * *
Mudjacking
(A story addressed to Carson Culleton's son, Chris)
Chris,
The political story is another story leading to this
one, but I must put the
cart before the horse to get this one on paper. You gave me inspiration to
clean up and add detail to this story:
During the late 1950's, Carson, myself, and a lot of
guys had summer jobs
with the State of Illinois, working on road clean up crews...cutting grass
with hand sickles or long scythes, redirecting roadside ditches with shovels
after heavy summer down pours and mudjacking.
For a number of geological reasons the highway top
surface would sink at a
certain location....many times at the approach to a railroad track that
crossed that portion of roadway. It was the State's responsibility to bring
the highway up to 'grade' or level with the tracks. In comes the mudjack,
which is a device consisting a gasoline engine which in turn forces a
mixture
of clay, water, and some sand through a two inch hose into two inch holes
drilled at strategic sections of the sunken road.
Road crew history has it that the rookie crew members
would be the first
candidates for this job. Usually it was the strongest guy or a guy who
thought
he was the strongest know it all. Pretty straight forward...hold this hose
in
the dinky little hole until it fills up and then move the hose to the next
hole, so on, so on, until the road rises up to the required grade....easy
job..hole fills up...move...
My memory vividly sees the impish grin on Carson's face when the road
foreman would announce at the morning pre-workday meeting that today was
mudjacking day. Man, Carson would smile all the way to the work site while
us veterans would be silently wondering to ourselves of his choice rookie
operator au jour. You see the garage foreman, Ed Masterson, knew of
Carson's
game and he always appointed Carson as the 'instructor'.
Carson knew this procedure and he knew the ins and outs (so to speak) of how
to accomplish this method. I do know Carson and Ed had a motive. I know it
was great sport and I know Carson liked the limelight. Hell, it gave us all
levity and an esprit de corps.....naw...it was good ole boy stuff pure and
simple.
After giving the new operator most of the
instructions on how to
fill the holes, Carson would position himself well out of mud flinging range
behind the air compressor with his hand on the main control valve and wait
for the filling to begin. The rest of us were, of course, busying ourselves
with shovels and brooms moving a few rocks and a little loose dirt, a safe
distance away from the action but well within spectator distance. With a
down
hand motion signal to the hose holder victim, Carson would adjust the
roaring
compressor to commence filling the hose. The hole filled within seconds
catching the guy completely off guard because he couldn't hear the hole
filling up over the damn compressor noise. His clothing goes muddy first and
then the work area around him while he ties to catch the out of control
withering hose. Carson wouldn't let the poor guy go too long as it gets
messy real fast. Hell, the stuff gets all over the place in a few seconds
and
guess who gets to clean up the surrounding mess.. yes us!!! ..but it is
worth
the few seconds of panic expression on the new guy's face. The laugh for
us......
Ok, philosophical time.. Sure it was funny to us...'the
guys'...,but this is
important to you, Chris......Carson was testing the guy...could he take it?
That's what was the attraction to Carson: he was a leader. He was the first
to help the guy, to help him get settled down, and to help clean him up.
All
the while Carson is testing the guy..could he take it?... can he work with
the rest of us. Oh, yeah, by this time the rest of us are very busy
cleaning
up the mess because we have to get this job finished for the State of
Illinois.
Jerry Gibson, Winter, 2002
* * * * *
Traveling with the LCHS Tennis Team
in 1959
My apologies to all named and
especially Mr. Royce Lovelace and family. If I did not have any respect for
such a fine educator and tennis mentor, I would not relate this:
The traveling tennis squad consisted of six players.
Whether that was Big 12 rules or all that we could fit into Royce's (again,
no disrespect but we all unofficially referred to him as such) Chevrolet
station wagon. The road trips to Bloomington, Springfield, Decatur and
surrounding conference schools were painfully long mainly because Royce
wanted to set a perfect example by practicing EVERY driver's training law
written, since he was the LCHS driving instructor.
I must note the mechanical data of this period
automobile which doubled as the driver's training vehicle: straight six
cylinder engine propelled by a clutch-actived three speed column mechanical
shift. Speed and propelled may be oxymoron's, here, because Royce did not
exceed the posted limits.
After each match, we players were tried and bored. In
order to obtain comedic relief, we resorted to a teenage antic of pestering
Coach Lovelace. I am going out on a limb here and say this was one team
member's idea but all contributed to the 'gag.'
Seating arrangement was designed by Dan Dutz who was
the number one player and had shot gun front seat. The number 2,3,4, members
Luther Dearborn, Gerry Dehner, and Thom Zimmerman sat three across in the
second row seats. The back of the station wagon belonged to the number six
player, Steve Schreiber, who had to lie in curled position around the
rackets and equipment in the far back compartment. The number five player
(me) was in the front row suicide seat where the exposed rearview mirror was
at the vulnerable forehead level. In those days rank had its privilege.
In his every effort to set a prime example as an
instructor and educator to us as future drivers, Royce would shift the wagon
with PRECISE engine speed, clutch engagement, and gear shift movement
through EVERY gear EVERY maddening start up. So instead of encouraging him
to move a little faster to get us home quicker, in our teenage mind's it was
better to make a joke of his efforts.
With a lot of encouragement from row two passengers and
the idea seeded by mister shotgun rider, Dutz and I would subtly move heads
when Royce shifted which would make him think he had not shifted smoothly.
So the long story shifts down: Mr. R shifted the vehicle in a perfectly
acceptable diving school manner and we passengers made it seem like he was
not so proficient.
I really think he caught on and let us play our silly
game, because, after a time the snickers from row two were not subdued.
However, I still believe the performances from row one were outstanding.
Jerry Gibson (2-2005)
Leigh's note: the following are from the 1958 Lincolnite:
Working at the Illinois State Fair in 1959
This doesn't pertain to this
article, but who will forget the waving neon figures, the service station
attendant and the waitress on top of the Tiz-Rite at the four corners?
Since you asked about the brief stint I had helping out
in a carnival, I must include some Logan County, Illinois, background before
I get to the point. Lincoln is the county seat and is located 25 miles
northeast of Springfield on what is now I-55 which once was the famous Route
66. Before that it was Route 4.
This easy access route to the state capital made
it possible for a lot of folks in Lincoln to procure employment compliments
of the taxpayers. The one catch was that you had to have a profound
affiliation with either the Democratic or Republican Parties, as a good
portion of the jobs were 'political.' For whatever reason my dad and
his brothers had always declared Republican in the primaries and so our
family was established on that side of the political fence.
During my high school years the Secretary
of State was Republican, and one of the responsibilities of that office was
the 400-plus acre Illinois State Fair grounds.
In late July 1959, I was at the usual early
evening hangout, Dial's Texaco, (just one block down the alley and a quarter
block from my house) when the Republican County Chairman, Joe Sapp, stopped
in to buy gas from his Republican friend, Harry Dial. He usually came
in to say a few words and look over the teens gathered there to make sure
they told their fathers that Joe was circulating. As he surveyed the
teen group this particular evening, he announced he had some job openings at
the Illinois State fair grounds, 'Anybody free for those couple of weeks?'
We weren't as dumb as we looked so we asked
him what was available. Turns out there were several openings for night
grounds cleaning crews and a few for ticket takers on the Midway on both the
day and evening shifts. Most of us were broke and so he had plenty of takers
and we settled in dividing up the jobs. It was really a very orderly process
because we were all life long friends and there wasn't any bickering over
who took what. Surprisingly, the groundskeepers went first and that
was ok with me because I didn't have any transportation. I did have a better
chance at the day job of ticket taker so I got that with a guy by the name
of Tom Werth. His dad was a big-time farmer and I figured I could get a ride
with him. I knew there was no chance I would have a ride as we only had one
car, a 1954 Packard, which was, unfortunately, a lemon.
I worked with Tom on his
grandfather's farm painting a barn and white fence, which must have been two
hundred miles long, the previous fall. Since we knew each other fairly
well, I was confident this adventure was going to be a breeze.
We had to report to
Springfield a few days prior to the fair opening day to get our assignments,
orientations, and badges. Tom drove. On the way back from Springfield, Tom
got a speeding ticket and as punishment, his dad took away his driving
privileges and told him it was his responsibility to find a way to work.
This is where the 'breeze' ended and ten days of 'headwinds' began for us to
arrive at our job sites on time.
Since we were the only
two from the area on this shift and this assignment, we were reduced to the
Greyhound Bus lines. The only bus left Lincoln for Springfield just before
6:00 am., daily, from the Maid-Rite all-night restaurant. This was about the
only traveling luck we had during the ten-day running of the fair.
Our job assignments were
ticket takers for the carnival rides and shows on the Midway which was
located in a natural land indentation on the grounds referred by all as
'Happy Hollow'. Neat name but during the hot humid days of mid August,
all of this stuff was trapped with the heat from ride generators, grease pit
carnival food stands, and over- heated human beings waiting in long lines to
board rides. Oh, yes, and if it rained, and more than often than not August
rains are downpours, and the topographical lay meant that all the run off
water ended up as 'Lake Happy Hollow'. Maybe it should have been 'Electric
Lake' because of all the cables running from the generators to the rides.
Each day the
"Call" or opening was staggered; sometimes 9:00 am; one day it was 11:00 am;
and so Tom and I had time to get some sort of breakfast and find our friends
for their stories from their nightly clean up jobs, until time for us to
report for our assignments.
At least the
bus drivers were always helpful by making a special stop near a gate for us,
with our sad story, of course. We always managed to catch the evening bus
but I don't know how.
So our job
was to deposit the sold ticket stubs into a locked ticket box, which was
given to us at the beginning of each shift. That box stayed with the ride or
sideshow through the next ticket takers' shift and then it was turned in
when the carnival closed. The purpose of this tabulation was to insure
that the agreement between the carnival operators and the State of Illinois
received equal half share of the receipts. The fox was watching the hen
house.
Now then, for
all of the hours of listening to mixed sounds of 'Come see the Three Legged
Man', 'Jo-Jo the Dog Face Boy', (who I did without asking, thank you);
'Miniature Horses so small you will not believe it you MUST see them with
YOUR own eyes'; 'They are Rolling Thunder! Motorcycle Daredevils riding on
walls of Death!' over and over and over, the same blaring, scratchy,
repetitious voices coming out speakers not far from our sun-drenched ticket
taking posts; plus there were few breaks from this din as the utility men
who were assigned to relieve us usually got stiffed by a lot of the guys
they relieved, we were paid the handsome net wage of: eighty (80) bucks.
The benefits, you
ask? The female scenery was like a smorgasbord to a high school kid.
We all gave free rides to our ticket taking buddies, which was more than
cool, the experience was a lesson in, "don't work in a carnival", although,
I almost did, since I had plenty of offers from 'Carnies', I was a lousy
student, I had a hankering to see what the world outside of Illinois was
like and I got to write about this teenage experience.
Jerry Gibson (spring 2005)
Email Jerry for comments, questions, and suggestions for more:
j42Gibson@aol.com
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