The Devil and Other Jobs

When I came to Ida Grove the second semester of my sophomore year, I walked in on an apparently volatile situation. An all-school assembly had been scheduled my first day in class and as we filed toward the auditorium, an upper class student stopped us and said, “We are going to do it at 11:05 a.m.” I didn’t have any friends, being so new, and therefore hesitated to ask what was going to happen.

I found out soon enough. The assembly started at 11:00 a.m. and at 11:05, ninety per cent of the student body rose and walked out. It appeared the senior class had a difference about something with the superintendent that was not being resolved and the walkout was in protest over it. I don’t remember the issue now but I suppose I did at the time. Regardless, as a newcomer, I was not about to stay in that auditorium while the majority of kids were united in leaving. We all got suspended of course, but after three days, either a compromise was brought about or the administration relented. At any rate we were re-admitted to school.

That was not a very comforting way to be introduced to my new school, but it did not prove to be a forerunner of further disruptive behavior. As a matter of fact, our class, as well as the ones following us and the one ahead, were generally superior from the standpoint of scholastics and activities. I’ll not include athletics in those groups because the record certainly does not reflect excellence.

As I had in Avoca, I found part-time employment in Ida Grove. It was nearly a repeat of Grandfather’s history as I was taken on as a devil at the newspaper office. My experience as a 12-year-old feeding that small press in Murray should have helped me but performing the same job on a huge newspaper press proved to be more than I could handle. Visualize, if you will, a blank piece of paper the size of your daily newspaper opened up. Take that very flimsy newsprint and guide it into three pins positioned just ahead of the press cylinder, where it is grabbed to be pulled through and pressed against the type forms for printing. That is simple enough -- it you have plenty of time to hit the pins and adjust if you are off.

However, the press runs at a speed to produce 1,500 or so papers per hour. So that means fitting one in place every two or three seconds. Let me tell you, it takes some practice and skill to learn that job and I did not fare well. When you let the paper go through crooked, it tends to tear and go into the ink rollers, thereby creating a mess and a time consuming process to clean up. Later on in my career, I did become proficient in press feeding but only after many frustrating days picking paper out of the rollers.

But for the time-being, I found working in a local grocery store less frustrating and more profitable. I got a job in Pete Besore’s store and after being there awhile I was making $23 week in the summer for a 50-60 hour week. That was more than Mother was making for her two-thirder job, but for only 40 hours, of course.

Pete was a long-time grocer and shuffled around the store like he was on his last legs. But come six o’clock, he would grab his golf bag and out he would go for nine holes before supper.

His son, also called Pete, worked in the store, too. Naturally, he did not have to worry about keeping his job so he was not really an exemplary employee. One Saturday night (we were open until midnight), the elder Pete handed me an extra five outside my pay envelope and walked away. I didn’t say anything -- perhaps because Pete’s wife was the bookkeeper and made out the envelopes -- but the next week, the same thing happened.

I waited for a moment alone with the boss and asked him what was going on. “Well,” he said. “You’ve been doing a good job and I wanted to let you know I appreciate it. Young Pete spends most of his time back on the can reading comic books but I didn’t want Hulga (his wife) to know I was paying you more than him.”