the Fifth Labor
When I was around fifteen I was, as all fifteen year olds, sharp as a tack. I knew everything, and i was tickled to tell you all about it.
Dad was probably annoyed as hell, but I was unperturbed. Then, one day, dad came home and said “I have a job for you, if you want to make a couple dollars”. I was always looking for something to do to make some cash, and with my brains, I could do anything, right? Anyway, on a cold saturday dad drops me off at a friend’s farm and I find that the job is mucking out horse stalls.
Not having a friendly watersprite, I pick up a potato fork and start digging.
Now, this guy has just purchased this farm, and he wants to keep horses in these stalls. They were previously occupied by sheep. And ducks. And at one time had been used as a coop. I can tell, you see, because of the geologic layers of shit.
About two hours into the first stall I discover it has a concrete floor, but it’s damned near three feet down. A ten by twelve stall, theee feet deep in shit. At the bottom, the chicken shit has been subjected to the nastiness and pressure for so long, that the moisture has all leached out of it and it’s the consistency of pudding. At some point I have to stop using the fork and move on to a coal shovel, and it’s so liquid that you have to very carefully carry the shovelful of liquid shit to the wheelbarrow. I must have made two hundred wheelbarrow trips to a spot behind the barn.
When I managed to get the first stall to bare concrete I hosed it down with a hose and moved on to the next stall.
I had been mildly sick to my stomach al during the first stall, but by the time I stuck that fork into the shit in the second stall I was wrecked. I fell to my knees and vomited, puking up stuff I don’t even remember eating. Unable to even bring myself to wipe my vomit-encrusted face on my filthy clothes, I just let it drip and shoveled and shoveled and wheeled and wheeled.
At the end of the third stall it was almost dark. I hosed out the floor, and left three stalls at least moderately ready for animals aghain, and I had a pile of shit about a quarter mile away that would fertilize roses for a hundred years. I had had the dry heaves so many times that my stomach felt like it was in my throat. My clothes stank and I was filthy. The farmer hooked up a hose from the house to warm water, and I washed off outside, putting on a pair of blue and white striped railroad bibs which I have to this day.
I sat in the farmhouse and drank bitter coffee until I warmed up, then the farmer drove me home.
It never dawned on me dad was teaching me a valuable lesson.
13 comments Og | Uncategorized
Og, I really like the stories from your childhood. I may have to do some too :)
Keep ’em up!
Your comment was denied for questionable content.
I was trying to be nice, really.
what’s with the “questionable content” thing?
Double, I have no idea. I know sometimes it kicks stuff out for ellipses. Keep trying, I’m sorry.
Mail me the post at mhardig-at-aol-dot-com, and I’ll insert it.
Mucking stalls and puking your guts up isn’t a bad way for a young kid full of himself to spend the day.
Dad’s are pretty sharp sometimes.
How true is that, dick? I hope I’m ever half as smart as dad was.
I worked through high school as a kennel assistant to a small animal vet. Not quite the horse-shit territory. But then, I had to deal with the customers — the kind with teeth and claws.
Oh, and the animals, too.
M
Og, that was a not-so-subtle hint from your old man that if you didn’t do well in school you’d wind up shoveling shit for a living.
I wound up working a summer on the town highway department. Cutting brush filled with poison ivy & oak; filling potholes with nice hot coal patch in 90ยบ+ heat; or operating a jackhammer for 3-4 hours at a whack (okay, that part was pretty cool) will give you a good perspective on just how HARD real manual labor is.
Next summer I worked for my cousin who owned his own landscaping business. Talk about frying pan into the fire!
You got it Jay. Being humbled and being shown the value of using your brain to work was a good lesson.
Neanderpundit. Taking Sh*tblogging to a whole new level.
It took a long time for me to figure out how to be humble–and I didn’t grasp the actual lesson until I was pregnant and forced to take a crash course in maturity. ;-)
But the seeds were sown many years earlier, as a restaurant “pearl-diver”. The only time a dish washer is acknowledged is if the dishes are less than spotless, and the only thanks I got for a job well done was more filthy dishes. I think every teenager ought to spend at least three to five years working in a service like that. Perhaps then they might give real thought to the fact that the only reason their lives are as comfortable as they are is because of the hundreds of folks behind the curtain, who keep the gearworks of industry running smoothly.
To this day, I NEVER leave a well-run establishment without paying my respects to the staff.
–TwoDragons
Thanks for another trip down memory lane. Grew up on a farm and experienced the joys of cleaning out a large farrowing shed. Had to take my shirt, shoes , socks, and jeans off before entering the house – only to go straight to the bathtub.
I’m still amazed at what city folk regard as hard work :)
Another excellent read. Hence the reason I keep coming back…
Happy Valentine’s Day.