Hauling Secrets

2-29-80

Dear Lee Chin,

I can’t believe I got through this day. I had a book report due and I didn’t even have the first draft written last night. I also had an outline for a thesis due, which I didn’t turn in, and I had a detention! I’m glad I lived through it all. Mrs. Warren bitched at me this morning so I bitched right back at her. Boy, did I feel good. However I kinda feel guilty, maybe I should apologize to her. Nah! You see we were grading these quizzes & she had said a million times what each question was worth but I didn’t hear so I asked her and she said “They’re worth 5, you’d know that if you’d been listening, Ms Clark!” so I said “Well I’m sorry, Ms Warren!” and she said “That’s Mrs. Warren!” That’s the thing I like about Mrs. Warren, she let’s you sass back at her. I mean if she’s rude to me I can be rude right back. Any other teacher would have had me flogged for that! […]

Gus is the mechanic at the MRF. 6 foot 1, 250 pounds, white, perma-stubble, earings, a few crude navy-style tattoos. And a uniform that says ‘Gus’, though once he referred to himself as “the Gusmeister” and it stuck.

After we weigh in at the MRF, we have to pull around the building to get to the unloading area, and sometimes Gus will be there in the yard working on a loader or some other piece of equipment that’s been broken. When I’m not in a hurry, I roll down the window to talk to Gus for a minute. Sometimes he flags me down. Or sometimes when he sees I’m coming he just raises his arms to his sides as if to ask “What do you have for me today?”

See, once I asked Gus if he was looking for anything and he said a snowblower. I got a junky one the very next week and set it aside for him while I was dumping my load. Gus took it home and fixed it with his mechanical savvy, and ever since then, he always asks or holds up his hands like that. It’s the joke we can always rely on when I’m driving by in a hurry.

Once when I pulled up, Gus was standing there talking to another MRF worker, this tall skinny black man who I’ve never met, and he turned around to the man and said something like “Didn’t I hear that a monkey escaped from the zoo? They’re looking for you….” and so on. The black man laughed and muttered something back. I didn’t quite know how to react besides to shake my head in combination disbelief and disapproval. Somehow there’s something less insidious about this playful, direct form of racism, coming from a person who works with Black and Hispanic people all day, than the kind of racism that hides in academic discourse or middle-class pleasantries.

Anyway, that’s Gus for you. This is the first in what I hope will be a series of posts introducing the people I come into contact with regularly while hauling. If there are any readers left here after my shameful absence, I hope you enjoy. Names have been changed, of course, so if you were ever a partner of mine, please try not to use anyone’s real name in the comments. Thanks.

There are different variations of this game, depending on the specifics of each dumping scenario. But the basic version has the passenger starting from inside the truck while the driver pushes the button that starts lowering the box from its fully inclined position. The passenger then gets out and attempts to shut and latch the rear doors of the box and get back into the truck and shut the door before the box gets all the way down to its level position. (The squealing sound that accompanies the box’s reaching its level position makes this easy to judge.) There are safety issues with this game, and we do not recommend it for new haulers.

I’ve dreamed about it for years.  I’ve probably joked about it with all of my hauling partners.  In our darkest hours, in the middle of the hardest jobs, we’ve all longed for it.  And finally, last week, it came…

That is a picture taken from the top of a truck loaded entirely with styrofoam.  The lightest full load I’ve ever hauled.

I didn’t say the easiest.  We had to throw off some of the wood that had been anchoring the pile of 8 x 4 foot sheets to the ground.  And I got stung in the cheek by one of the bees that had been nesting in it.  In my dreams it was always a single cube of styrofoam cut to the exact dimensions of our trucks, so I could just lift it and load the truck full in one fell swoop.  But this was close enough.  Now I can say that I’ve done it.

The other day we did a job in a woman’s basement. She was clearing it out in order to make room for the stuff from the rest of the house, which she planned to rent. Only thing is, the piles of stuff in the rest of the house were pretty much indistinguishable from the piles in the basement. All junk, broken and dusty. And even in the basement, she had some things tagged with stickers to go, right next to identically worthless things she wanted to stay.

This kind of thing happens all the time. A person’s selectivity seems arbitrary to us, since we cannot know what meanings they give to certain objects. Sometimes we come back later and end up taking everything in stages that are more comfortable for the person to deal with. But usually we just come and go wondering why the hell we took some things and not others.

Anyway, the whole time we were doing this job, a painted portrait was staring at us down in the cobwebby basement:

I can’t say who this person was, but I know for certain that the painting is a genuine attempt by an artist to paint a portrait of an actual person. Not a joke, or a playful rendering. An actual portrait. (I know because I saw other representations of this girl as an adult.)

We were a little bit afraid to ask too forcibly about which things stayed and went. The girl’s eyes followed us around the room to make sure we didn’t take anything we weren’t supposed to. And luckily for the sanity of guests in my living room, the painting itself stayed.

Before I leave for a 10-day vacation, I thought I’d post a Pornface that truly requires at least 10 days of contemplation:

I swear this was from a porn magazine. Her native garb and vacant stare are supposed to be sexy somehow.

The other day Django and I did a job where the landlord had thrown all of a previous tenant’s possessions into the backyard. When we arrived, the new tenant came out to greet us and asked if we were there to get rid of the trash in the back. We were.

Only it wasn’t all trash. (Though you wouldn’t know it from the way it was all heaped in a pile.) There in a pile of old frames was a typewritten letter from the Air Force Headquarters of the U.S. Army, dated September 22, 1945. The main body of the letter read thusly:

In accordance with Par. 1d, letter Hq USAF CBI, file 200.6 dated 3 June 1944, subject: “War Department Awards Policy”, the following is the citation for the Bronze Star Medal awarded to 1st Lt., Roger McGregor, Signal Corp by Par. 2, General Order 355, this headquarters, dated 13 September 1945:

“For meritorious service from 1 April 1944 to 1 February 1945. This officer established and maintained a series of ground observation posts in forward areas, which were instrumental in preventing enemy aircraft from penetrating allied territory without being detected and reported to intercepting forces. To establish some of these advance air warning stations he frequently pushed deep into uncharted, enemy-held territory, and often narrowly escaped contact with Japanese patrols. His daring, stamina, and superior qualities of leadership enabled this officer to guide and direct his men in their hazardous undertakings. His accomplishments were substantial contributions to the success achieved by his organization.”

In the frame next to the letter was the actual bronze star, hanging by its little ribbon.

Then, in another frame, a handwritten letter:

Dear Mr. & Mrs. McGregor,

This is a belated reply to your reply to your letter concerning your son James. I would have liked to have writted sooner but being hospitalized, I found it difficult to do so.

I know that any poor words of mind can never lighten the burden of your sorrow. Only our Blessed Lord can do that. But in your grief you can be so very proud of James – pround to have been privileged to be the father and mother of one so close to God and his Blessed Mother.

God gave him to you knowing well that in your loving care he would grow and flower into that great Christian gentleman that he was. Now your work is over and God has reclaimed the great gift he gave you. If there is anything that will ease the ache in your hearts it will be the knowledge that God must love you both so very much to have entrusted such a one to you. May God bless you both.

I knew James for more than two years, lived in the same tent with him, slept and ate with him. As a priest I could never have asked for a better companion. He is loved not only be my but also by his men. They will never forget him.

I jumped from James’ plane often. Always immediately after him. It was a rare privilege. Many a laugh we had whether it was he who pulled me out or I who pushed him out. Now it is all over. But my fondest recollection of James is he and his battalion commander, Major Kellem, serving the last Mass we had for taking off for France. (James often served my Mass). The men often talked of it afterwards. The sight of them serving the mass, receiving Holy Communion, the last Blessing, was a sight that filled the men with a calmness and a fearlessness that comes from knowing we are in the presence of God.

James saved my life that night. I was injured on the Jump. He dragged me to safety. A few hours later he was dead. I shall always remember hi at Mass. It is the best way I know how to express my gratitude. I did not bury him, but two days later I blessed his grave.

I know you both are heartbroked at your loss. You always will be. If there is one who can and will ease the ache in your heart, it is the Mother of Sorrows. She also lost her son. May she comfort you in your grief. I shall remember you and yours in my Masses.

Sincerely in Christ,
Chaplain Mark O’Connor

I held on to these two letters for a few days, intending to post them here. Then, on my day off, I got an unexpected call from Bossman telling me he’s got someone on the phone claiming to have lost some valuable family heirlooms in a cleanout his landlord did. At first I didn’t think anything of it, but then Bossman said, passing along the pleas of the person in front of him at the office, “Something about a bronze star?” Apparently this guy was the nephew of the war hero from the letters. I knew that I had to return them.

And when I did, I recieved a third letter:

Smidge,
Thanks for your kindness and consideration! I am (was) the family historian. The barn was loaded with historical family things. My family is devastated by our loss. Your thoughtfulness will be well received by our family.
John McGregor

If I ever feel sketchy about looking through people’s discards and posting about their treasures here, I can think about this and remind myself that a little curiosity mixed with obsessive hoarding/archiving can be a good thing.

One of my favorite finds was 13 pages of letters written by a Union soldier during the Civil War. I spent a few days squinting at the thin, brown paper to transcribe them all.

Some of the papers are actual letters addressed to the soldier’s wife or his “companion”; others seem to be personal records with dates & places and short notes of what happened when & where. Some sheets of paper have both letter and record combined. (I can imagine paper being somewhat scarce then.)

Below are some excerpts of my transcriptions. I’ve added punctuation and corrected some misspellings and grammatical errors to aid in understanding the content of the text. Other “errors” I’ve left intact to preserve some of the idiosyncratic charm of the writing. I put “errors” in quotes because you have to remember that spelling was not nearly so standard back then as it is now. The handwriting of the originals is hard to read at parts. Words or phrases that I’m not sure about are enclosed in brackets or followed by a question mark. I’ve tried my best to put all the following passages in chronological order, from Jan 24 1862 to July 2 1864, after which time we can only assume this soldier finished his service to his country - or died in it.

There are so many little treasures in this text, but I’ve tried to keep the commentary to a minimum, so you can enjoy it the way I have.

“Jan 24-30 of 1862, Boling Green”:

I have not forgotten you nor thy children, this is from your husband in the Company D 39th Reg Ind of the US Army of the Ohio commanded by Genl Rosecrans[?]. Our old Genl Willick is back and commanding our Brigade

Later on the page he says he “got my likeness taken” and “sent my likeness to my wife”.

Then, “in camp 6 Mil SE of Nash Tenn, Nov the 21st 1862″

…in the evening of the 23 a contraband woman of 18 years came and told us how that her master had given information to a Rebel soldier about our lines and number. She came with us to camp and of course is free, and her master a prisoner.

“Contraband woman” was a common term for a woman slave who fled North across battle lines during the Civil War. You can hear the naivety of the young soldier in his brief “of course she is free”. Of course it was never that simple. Continue Reading »

Glove Golf is usually played in a parking lot or driveway while waiting for a customer to arrive when there’s not enough time for something productive to be done. Each crew member stands and throws his glove into the air, above a certain agreed-upon height. Wherever it lands, he must count the number of normal steps it takes to get there and add that number to his score. Take turns and the one who has the lowest score when you stop wins.

It’s a rare occasion when we get tips from customers. Movers get tipped more regularly, even though it’s often us haulers who are doing the more onerous work.

I can’t tell you how many times we’ve heard from a client, after swiftly maneuvering a couch up a two-turn stairway, “Wow, it took the movers twenty minutes to do that. And they scratched up the walls!” Then no tip. And sometimes we’ll be at a job the same time as the movers and they’ll tell us they’re sorry we have to deal with the ‘leftovers’ but they’re glad it’s not them.

But this is about more than us. Think about your everyday household waste. Every week someone comes and takes away the stuff you don’t want to deal with. That is kind of amazing. Like postal delivery, it’s this extremely important service that people often take for granted.

I say don’t take it for granted. Some people still give their mail carriers a little holiday bonus. Why not show your garbage collectors that you appreciate what they do too? We always appreciate tips. Plus, your hauler, like your mail carrier, is a good person to have on your side.

Join the brown ribbon campaign to tip haulers. Copy one of the images below (or make your own; sorry, i’m no graphic designer) and post them on your website. Together we can make sure haulers everywhere know they’re appreciated.