Bud Grossmann’s Words of the Week for the Week of September 4, 2011 Published as Family History in a Gramma Letter dated September 2, 1997. © 1997 by Bud Grossmann. All Rights Reserved.   Boat & Fog, 1979 © 1979 by Bud Grossmann IN PURSUIT OF A PAYCHECK Tuesday, September 2, 1997 Dear Gramma,       In my first job—the first time I received payment for bona fide services rendered to someone outside my family—I was acting as a subcontractor, transporting equipment for a landscaping operation. I was eight years old and living with my parents in Japan. A neighbor boy—a high school student who cut lawns—had more gear than he could carry in one trip to his next job site. He asked me to push a mower down the sidewalk while he lugged his hedge clippers and rake. When we arrived, the young entrepreneur placed in my hand a 50¥ coin—the equivalent of fourteen cents, American—and sent me on my way. The coin had plenty of buying power; I was suddenly wealthy!       In the years that followed, I worked in the States as a caterer’s assistant, cucumber farmer, busboy, paperboy, pineapple cannery worker, stockclerk in Toyland, shoe salesman, school janitor, shipping clerk in an auto parts factory, taxi driver, driver trainer, dispatcher, accident investigator, youth counselor, substitute school teacher, photographer, casual laborer, camera repair service order clerk, groundskeeper, writer, publisher, teachers’ aide, bank teller, college administrative staff aide, Kelly Girl, law clerk, security guard, lawyer, property manager, real estate broker, and travel agent. I found something to like in every job, but I do believe my favorite employment was on the grounds crew at Fort Wayne State Hospital & Training Center during the summer before I finished college. I no longer remember my official title, but “photosynthetic processes controller” was what I later called it on my résumé.       That particular job provided the joys of a farmer’s life without the risks or the heartache. My half-dozen colleagues and I began each work day contemplating the glory of a sunrise; then we put in eight hours in the great outdoors. We never worried that our crops might fail—what could go wrong with grass and dandelions?       I enjoyed the monotonous, butt-bruising bounce of the tractor and the mind-dulling drone of its engine and mower blades. Round and round I went, in ever-shrinking circles on the park-like expanses surrounding the institution’s boxy, brick buildings. I found the wordless work a pleasant contrast to the cacophony of college lectures, inquiries, and debates; I was one school term away from my B.A.       One morning near the end of summer, our crew loaded push mowers, chain saws, and brush cutters into our department’s three rattletrap pickups. We then drove fifty miles to a state-owned campground—an annex to the hospital, you could say—on a lake surrounded by oaks and pines. Campers and camp staff had departed. Buildings were boarded up; rowboats were resting—bottoms up—upon the shore.       By working assiduously through the morning and into the noon hour, we put the grounds in decent shape. My co-workers and I brought out our bag lunches and cold drinks and began calculating when we would have to leave to get to Fort Wayne in time to clock out for the day. While some of the guys stretched out in the shade for a nap, I found a rowboat that seemed seaworthy, took off my boots and shirt, and went out onto the water.       A couple hundred yards from shore, I brought in the oars. High above, an airplane appeared as a silver speck leading a thin strand of vapor across the blue. People were going places. Did I envy them? I’d soon be going somewhere, too.       I set my eyeglasses in the boat’s bow, stripped off my jeans and boxers, and dove into the yellow-green water. With the question of my vocational future ringing in my ears, I swam down, down, down, deep into the lake, but I never got to the bottom of it.                       Love,                       Buddy         ARCHIVES         Click for a list of other Words of the Week I would welcome your thoughts on this page (or any of my others).  Write to me at the following address.  Please be sure to spell Grossmann with two n’s and mention what page you are writing about. Thanks!  BUD GROSSMANN Top of this page | HOME | Fine Photography | Picture of the Day | Writings | | Words of the Week | Mom & Pop Prop. Mgt. | FAQ |

This page was updated Sat, Sep 3, 2011, 6:01PM CDT