Category Archives: -Jon Reed

Wages

2 Replies

– Wages –

By Jon Reed

Once upon a time, companies paid employees by handing them paper checks issued by a payroll department every other Friday afternoon. Not surprisingly, attendance was higher those days, much to the irritation of management. Except, of course, if Michigan’s first day of deer season fell on a November 15th Friday, few employees showed up at all. Paper checks were standard before computers existed and commercial banks had improved electronic abilities. Handing over pay to civilian workers was a little different than the United States military pay system for servicemen at the time.

After enlisting in the United States Air Force, I discovered the difference. At the end of our second week in basic military training, we were lined up to receive our first pay. We had been screamed-at and harangued for so long, we were being handed cash for belonging to the military. Standing under a broiling sun, surrounded by snakes and scorpions, it was quite bizarre for a young man at the time. We were paid something like $30 in greenbacks, although memory fails after so long. It worked out to about 600 hours or five-cents an hour, somewhat less than my salary as an engineer only a few weeks before.

Sergeant Tough Guy sat with an open cash box on a card table. Near his right hand lay a loaded M1911 Colt .45 caliber automatic pistol pointing right at us. I suppose it was meant to prevent foolish people from making a grab for the money. I had no idea whether the gun would go off if the card table collapsed, but I’m sure it would have put a large hole through several trainees with a single round. Oddly, there is no history of anyone robbing a Lackland Air Force basic military training cash box.

Of course, with $30 to spend every two weeks, like everyone else I had no idea what to do with it because there was no place and nothing to spend it on. The Post Exchange only sold toiletry articles, chewing gum, magazines, and souvenir United States Air Force tee-shirts. No one wanted more souvenirs than bad memories of crawling through live-fire training ranges under barbed wire and mines exploding to keep things interesting. No, we had enough souvenirs, thank you. Returning to civilian life after the military, I was glad our company didn’t line us up for our pay every other Friday with a loaded .45 pointed in our direction.

But it changed in the early-seventies when we were informed wages would henceforth be automatically transferred to us in a new Direct Deposit Program without worrying about lost time and paperwork costs. A week before the new program was to begin, my wife and I discussed the changes it would bring. We decided to split our responsibilities so she could manage most of it. Thursday afternoon before the program began, I called home and she said, “We need some cash for the weekend. Can you stop at the bank and get $180? We need two fifties, three twenties, and two tens.”

I was confused, thinking she didn’t understand the program. “Listen, it’s Thursday. We don’t get paid until tomorrow, Friday, the 15th of the month. We don’t have $180, in our account. I’ll go to the bank tomorrow night or Saturday. I can’t go today and try to take out more money than is in our account.”

“Yes, you can. The transfer to our bank takes place tomorrow morning at 12:01 am Friday. The bank cannot register a withdrawal transaction this afternoon until tomorrow and the start of Friday’s business day.” She was growing impatient. “Listen. Just tell them your wife said it’s alright. And could you pick up some clean clothes from the dry-cleaners on Michigan Avenue, afterward?”

I hung up thinking trying to withdraw money that wasn’t there couldn’t work and I would be painfully embarrassed. Besides, I’d never heard of anyone walking out of a bank with more money than they had on deposit unless they were waving a gun and chased by wailing squad cars. And what was with the dry cleaners request? How can anyone pick up dry-cleaner clothes without a ticket?

I pulled up to a teller’s window at 5:30 pm that afternoon and filled out a withdrawal slip. Minutes later, the vacuum canister whooshed away a piece of paper requesting two $50’s, three $20’s, two $10’s, along with my driver’s license. A querulous, disembodied teller’s voice came over the inter-com, embarrassed and confused, as if dealing with early dementia. “I’m sorry, sir, but you don’t seem to have enough money in your family account to cover this transaction.”

I could feel my face blushing but no one was around. This was exactly what I didn’t want to happen. All I could say was, “Well, we’ve just implemented a Direct Deposit Program. My wife said my salary for this pay period will be transferred to the bank at 12:01 am before the Friday business day begins … and that to tell you that it’s alright.”

There was a slight pause while this was assimilated, and I wondered whether the bank’s security personnel or city squad cars would begin arriving with wailing sirens. Instead, a sympathetic voice came back, “Oh. Well then. It’s alright then, isn’t it?” The vacuum tube whooshed and the canister came back with a clunk, complete with $180, bank slip, and driver’s license. “Have a good day, sir.”

I drove away, still wondering about the power of a wife’s permission and direction. Now greatly emboldened, I walked into the dry-cleaners shop ten minutes later and gave my name before mentioning I didn’t have a ticket to pick up our clothes. But my wife had said it was alright. The owner gave me a long look and shrugged, before I paid the bill and he handed over the clothes. As I put them in the trunk, I realized I was set for life; all I had to do from then on was say, “My wife says it’s all right” and I could get away with most anything.

Appendix

5 Replies

After an evening of sushi and wine, I awoke at 1:38 am with a shooting abdominal pain. My wife was at my side in an instant. “Are you alright? Can I get you up?”

“I’ll be all right in a minute,” I grunted. “I think I have food poisoning.” At daybreak, I still had a mild cramp. The following morning was the same.

“Do you think I should see a doctor? I hate calling if there’s nothing wrong.”

“Yes, it wouldn’t hurt. They probably can’t see you for a few days, anyway.”

My internist’s secretary said, “Yes, we can squeeze you in at about 12:15 pm.”

Well, that was easy. In a few hours, I drove over and sat on an examining table to be poked and prodded.

“Well, sir. I think you may have diverticulitis or possibly appendicitis, but a CT scan is in order. I’ll call St. John’s Providence Hospital and set it up if you can drive there now.”

“Yes, sure.” A half-hour later, I was led into a CT, MRI, X-Ray Scanning department. Could I still finish, miss rush hour, and still have dinner? Exam over, a technician handed me a telephone. It was my doctor.

“The exam shows you have acute appendicitis. We’re taking you to Emergency right now for an appendectomy, probably a laparoscopy.” I looked at my watch with a sinking feeling. So much for dinner. After filling out admission papers, I was in a hospital bed for the night, surgery scheduled for 1:30 pm. the following day. Thursday was already shot to hell, so why not Friday too? With countless injections and an IV bag already dripping stuff inside, I would have preferred a medium-rare filet and a well-made martini. An assistant to an assistant arrived to go over details, then another assistant, followed by the surgeon himself with a coterie of followers, hangers-on, and the mildly curious.

Friday morning arrived as expected, and surgery was pulled ahead to 9:30 AM, These guys were serious about getting the job done quickly. Had it been only yesterday, less than 24 hours before, when I asked whether I should call a doctor? Trundled into an operating room, before my wife arrived, someone asked, “Are you comfortable? Well, then, all we’re going to do is ….. “, and I was awake and it was over. Other than my belly still hurting, I wondered a moment if anything had happened at all.

Moved to a post-op unit, my IV fluid bag needed changing every few hours, so rolling its six-wheeled stand to the toilet while still hooked up was interesting. Things were going great until the following day when my insides decided to go on vacation. Ileitis inflammation of the intestines had set in. Accumulating gas and matter had to be removed before any more hamburgers and beer.

There was vague talk of inserting an NG tube, whatever that was, but what did another tube matter? Then I found out it was to be inserted through a nostril, into the back of my throat, and down into my stomach. Think about sliding an oily asparagus spear up your nose and leaving it there a moment. How about an hour? Yes, that gross. I asked how long the nasal-gastric tube process would take.

“Oh, we thought you knew. It has to remain there until nothing comes out, perhaps tomorrow or the next day.”

I was left to lie in agony for the night without the strength to celebrate it might be for only a day or so. I watched the minute hand on the clock creep past every minute of that long night. Sunday dawned without, obviously, any food. How long is it again that a person can go without? This wasn’t a reality show where I could call a timeout if I really had to have a Wendy’s.

The tube connections kept pulling apart and I would find myself lying in a pool of my internal fluids. What fun! My throat was cut and bleeding, my sinuses clogged, my lips chafing into ribbons from dryness. The asparagus spear up my nose now felt the size of a carrot. That afternoon, someone noticed the NG suction container wasn’t getting any stuff in it, which was good, so I was switched to a gravity bag.

Except nothing was going in the bag. It took a while to think about the implications, wondering why I was still hooked up. By seven that night, I decided I couldn’t take another night like the last. I hit the nurse’s call button. “Nurse, if there’s nothing in the bag or going in, please find someone to explain why I still need this god-awful tube stuck up my nose. We might as well argue it out now and not at 1:00 in the morning.”

The surgeon on call for the night finally arrived. Logic prevailed, but I was admonished, “If the bloating returns, we’ll have to reinsert the tube” as if this were all my fault.

“That’s fine with me, by God. I’ll take that chance. Now, please remove this tube so I can go back to recovering and have a chance to sleep tonight.” Do you have any idea how much better a person can sleep without asparagus or carrots up their nose?

By mid-day Monday, I was passing gas, moving bowels, and lapping up hospital soup like crazy, one happy camper. I was finally cleared to leave and my wife drove me home. I was shocked at how careless people were driving. Doesn’t anyone realize how frail the human body is?

A single accident and each person involved might have an NG tube up their nose. Perhaps it should be a requirement to obtain a driver’s license; an NG tube up the nose for a day to see what it’s like. We would all be driving white-knuckled as though on winter glare ice.

Snow Bunny

1 Reply

Learning to downhill ski all began with a $15 high school birthday present. A friend and I had seen a skiing movie and it seemed so easy, gliding down snowy slopes and carving turns. We needed to get our hands on the equipment and teach ourselves how to slide down hills. What could be simpler? We were soon wandering the floors of a downtown sporting goods store.  

New ski equipment was appallingly expensive, but we found used wooden rental skis for sale at $15 a pair. The ski bindings were called Ski-free, with metal cables and springs to hold ski boots in place against a swiveling toe-plate. We would have to guess how to adjust them. In theory, when a ski twisted, sliding downhill, a spring-loaded part rotated to one side and released the ski boot instead of breaking an ankle. We were now snow-bunnies, but needed poles. I found a pair so short the grips only came to my waist, not knowing they were sized for six-year-olds. I couldn’t afford real ski boots, but World War II movies showed soldiers skiing down mountains with heavy packs and weapons. Since they wore combat boots, why not install toe clips on old ill-fitting combat boots I already had? Today, a single ski ticket and lesson cost more than my total outlay. 

Determined to learn to ski as soon as the snow flew, I enrolled in the first Detroit Free Press Beginners Ski School. It was free to anyone who found their way to a now-defunct ski area called Mount Dryden. In the parking lot, just before the 7:00 p.m. lesson was to start, I discovered a binding so loose a critical ball-bearing had fallen out and was lost. I was about to miss my first lesson unless I fixed it. Rummaging in the gravel, I found a tiny round stone and inserted it in place of the ball-bearing. Reassembling the binding, I didn’t realize I had effectively locked it in position. Instead of releasing normally, I would snap an ankle as easily as a Sunday dinner chicken leg if I fell. Carrying my now-almost-lethal skis to the top of the beginner’s slope, I fastened the combat boots on and joined eight other participants.  

The crisp evening was enchanting, snowy slopes sparkling in Mount Dryden’s arc lights. So this was what downhill skiing was like. How wonderful watching real skiers swoop and swoosh past, and we all hoped to be doing the same in an hour. Our official ski instructor glided over and did a double-take inspecting my strange equipment. Since everyone had signed a waiver absolving the Free Press if anything went wrong, he shrugged and slid a short distance below before showing us how to align our skis in a basic ‘snow-plow’ position. We all leaned forward, putting our weight through our boots into our ski edges, but mine didn’t seem to work very well. A snow-plow maneuver is the first and simplest method of controlling speed and direction we were supposed to learn.   

Each of us slid gently forward a few yards before stopping, again forming a line. Everyone with the right equipment had no problem and turned expectant gazes on the last one in line, me, having arrived a few minutes after my parking lot repair. They didn’t have much time to watch because without any structure in my combat boots, I couldn’t transfer any weight into the ski edges. Once I began sliding toward the group, I had no control. Even with the skis in proper position, I couldn’t turn, slow down, or even stop. This may explain why ski schools are no longer conducted at seemingly the top of the tallest hill in a ski complex. I flew past both instructor and open-mouthed group with a yell, accelerating over the edge and down Mount Dryden’s steepest slope.  

It was a hell of a ride and why I never fell half-way down and broke something, I have no idea but I must have been traveling 50 mph at the bottom when I ran out of Mount Dryden’s well-groomed artificial snow. In fact, I ran out of Mount Dryden. Understanding I had probably finished my first and last ski lesson, still traveling at a terrific pace, I flew between the last hay bales and arc lights before exploring Lapeer County’s interesting countryside in total darkness.  

With no way to stop, other than falling and breaking something, I hoped I wouldn’t run into a fence or a tree large enough to break me in two. I sincerely doubt management thought any skiers would find themselves out beyond their property line. Unfortunately, that left a frozen swamp facing me, mostly underbrush, cattails, saplings, and rough-plowed field, to stop an out-of-control snow-bunny. I was far beyond a lot of it when I finally somersaulted in a tumbling heap of skis and poles.   

I lay there, head spinning, ears buzzing. Miraculously, nothing was broken or sprained, just a few bits of torn clothing to show for my adventure. Still wondering what happened, I lay there deciding I must now be a downhill skier since I was now downhill and had begun by wearing skis. So it had been a successful evening after all. I retrieved everything in total darkness and began the climb back to civilization, managing to skirt both ski-instructor and group on the way back.  

When I got to the car, I discovered the locked-together Ski-free binding was, sure enough, still locked together. Perhaps, I decided, I should break down and get some real ski boots and bindings before trying again.

Trombone

5 Replies

Lowrey Elementary School Band Director, Mrs. Johnson, came into our 6th grade homeroom the first week of the new school year, wanting us to learn to play an instrument and join her band. Two friends and I envied a 7th grader beating drum-sticks on school steps, so we wanted to be drummers in the worst way. Mrs. Johnson saw me in her dimly-lit office next to the band room, offering a new world of opportunity. “Well, my dear”, she asked in a kindly voice over her horn-rimmed glasses, “What sort of instrument were you thinking of playing?”

“Well, Ma’am, I want to be a drummer ‘cause I saw a friend beating drumsticks and it sounded good.” The simple truth was best and she seemed unperturbed by a straightforward answer.

“Tell you what. I’ll loan you drumsticks and a pad for practice, but you have the lips to play trombone. I happen to need a trombonist and can lend you a trombone.” She assembled one before my eyes. “Here’s a mouthpiece for you to practice. Put your lips together and buzz into it like this. You’ll get the hang of it and I’ll see you next week.”

Even at my young age, I knew it was a trap. The trombone was longer than I was tall and a lot more expensive than drumsticks, but I couldn’t get out of seeing her the following week because I had to return the sticks, pad, and mouthpiece.

I asked my friends what happened with their visits to Mrs. Johnson. The first was still in a state of shock. “I have to take this cornet home along with the drumsticks and try them both out. She needs cornets, so she lent me this.” I was mystified my friend had given up so easily on drumming. The other was even less satisfied.

“She ran out of drumsticks because you guys took them all. I have a saxophone mouthpiece to try but I get the drumsticks next week. Dad says Charlie Parker is the world’s greatest jazz saxophonist. Who’s he, anyway?” By the time I got home, I figured Mrs. Johnson had all the drummer-trainees she would ever need. The drumsticks would be taken from my grasp, to be delivered to someone else, and I would be snookered into a lifetime of playing trombone if I wasn’t smart enough to find a way out.

Sitting around the kitchen table a few nights later, my mother said, “I had a call from Mrs. Johnson and she says you have a nice embouchure. Tommy Dorsey and Glenn Miller were the greatest American band leaders and trombonists ever, except Glenn Miller blew up in an airplane in World War II.”

I was appalled to discover the trap had been sprung. “Mom, all the mouthpiece does is make “Thrrrp” noises and spit comes out. I don’t have trombone lips; I have braces. Why can’t I play guitar? And what’s embouchure anyway?” Diversionary guitar tactics weren’t going anywhere, despite scary visions of trombonists blowing up in airplanes.

“Mrs. Johnson wants to see you tomorrow. She’s going to lend you one to try out.”

Mrs. Johnson had invaded my life to an awesome extent. Who was this Tommy Dorsey so enthralling my mother? I had serious doubts about satisfying her Tommy Dorsey needs but, within weeks, I was a struggling elementary school trombonist. In a few more years, I was an acceptable junior and then high school trombonist. In my senior year, our orchestra was in the play “Brigadoon” with a cast party after the last performance.

My father let me drive his new 1957 V8-powered Chevrolet to the party, a special privilege. However, a rat-faced band member challenged me to race his dad’s new 6-cylinder Dodge Coronet. We decided to race one block. At a signal, we took off and God was kind that night because we didn’t crash. At the end of the block, I had beaten him handily. In frustration, he gunned his car and turned left, his left front hitting the right front of our brand-new Chevrolet. We both got out, shaking. His father’s car had damage but, try as we might, we couldn’t find anything wrong with the Chevy. Then I realized the trombone had been lying on the back seat and was now on the floor.

Driving home, trembling all the way, I knew there must be some damage to the Chevrolet. If I hadn’t been talked into playing trombone by Mrs. Johnson years before, this never would have happened. Next morning, before I could look at the car, my father said, “It’s the strangest thing. I didn’t tell your mother but a few days ago I hit the right front bumper of our new car on a telephone pole. It pulled it out two inches, a lot of money to fix. But now it’s like it never happened. It’s back in place without a mark on it.”

I croaked, “Wow, dad, that’s amazing. They must have a new kind of steel that reforms into place if it’s hit. I’ve never heard of anything like that.” I went outside and checked the bumper in bright sunlight. There wasn’t a scratch or ding. Back in my bedroom, I found a slight dent in the trombone bell, but no one would ever know except me.

Ice Fishing in 1954

4 Replies

Ice Fishing in 1954 by Jon Reed

Have you ever been ice-fishing? I was thirteen-years-old and couldn’t feel my face in a bitter Lake St. Clair wind as the sky was just turning pink. I was waiting to go ice-fishing, and gusts of wind blew sheets of snow across an expanse of white. My father was inside a bait-shop renting a shanty after our 3:30 am drive to Caseville. I wore a parka over two winter coats, a sweater, several shirts, three pair of pants and socks, and heavy boots. I wouldn’t admit it, but I worried about being miles from shore on a foot of ice over twelve feet of water. A lump of ancient Model T Ford pickup that would take us out sat chuffing a few yards away.

A classmate friend, Eddie, and his father waited inside a big Dodge staying warm. Arriving a half-hour before to rent their own shanty, Eddie was a little slow and yet to figure out we had to sit on the flatbed exposed to the elements. My father came out and we climbed onto the flatbed, handing up thermos bottles of coffee and soup and treble-point fish spears more suitable for Roman gladiator coliseums. We were soon bouncing and roaring our way across Anchor Bay, unable to hear over the open exhaust, flailing tire chains, and wind. After a while, I stood up clinging to the top of the cab for a better view. It was clear for miles and I pulled a scarf over my face for better protection.

Tiny shanties appeared in the distance and we shuddered to a stop near two of them a few minutes later. Typical boxes of 4’ X 8’ plywood, there was room inside for only two people. They were cheaply-constructed because many were lost each year. Inside, a small oil stove would take the chill off. Each shanty was positioned over a pre-cut hole in the ice to fish through after a lid in the floor was removed. Without windows or lights, each shelter provided a clear view into green water below, like staring at a luminescent television screen. Before leaving, our driver said he would return with two more fishermen for the third shanty.

It was odd, watching him drive off, seeing how far away from the shore we were. Caseville was only a line of bare trees miles away. The wind picked up and the shanty stovepipes’ smoke flattened sideways. If there was a problem, we were alone.

Eddie and his father turned toward their hut twenty yards away and my father and I trudged through the snow with them to make sure they were alright. Fishing shanties aren’t necessarily built by the most intelligent people on Anchor Bay, much less to local building codes. They’re slapped together by fishermen, not architects. This particular one had its three foot square hole in the floor just inside the door. After lighting their oil stove a few minutes before, the driver had thrown the lid to one side before removing the overnight skim ice so they could begin fishing. It was an accident waiting to happen.

Too late, no one told my friend to look carefully before entering the hut. Poor Eddie dropped straight down through the hole, with a horrifying yelp, into twelve feet of freezing Anchor Bay. Fortunately, my father was standing just outside and grabbed Eddie’s collar as his head was disappearing in a splash of foam and ice.

“Whoa there, son. We can’t lose you that way. C’mon back here.”

After he had a good grip, he hauled Eddie back out and stood him in the lee of the hut. Eddie was wide-eyed, shaking, his hair turning to icicles as we watched. Eddie’s father stared, gulping soundlessly like a just-caught fish.

If someone falls through ice miles from shore, he’s in a lot of trouble unless he has a quick-thinking father like mine. Rescue from above is impossible. The instant swimmer better have taken a deep breath before going through and able to climb back out in less time than it takes to describe. If he hits his head going down, he’s gone. Rescuers might find him in a couple of months next spring when the ice melts. Eddie would have been dead for sure. As it was, he was lucky to be standing there, much less slowly freezing.

“Are you alright, Eddie? Eddie, can you hear me?” my father asked as Eddie stood there freezing. But Eddie couldn’t get a word out, fast turning blue.

It was obvious his day was done. My father flagged down the Model T returning from checking another shanty, and my friend was bundled inside while his father sat on the pickup bed. That was the last I saw of him for a few weeks. Shaking off images of a dead Eddie floating under a foot of ice, we went back to our shanty to bait minnows and think about a near miss. At the end of the day, we had a bucket full of good eating perch and I had a father who had saved a life.