We All Have Work; Let No One Shirk Part 2

Farm hand—Picker

I started my work history as a farm hand. I picked cherries in Orem and raspberries for our neighbor Pete Christiansen. Raspberries are delicate and fall apart easily; especially when they’re warm so we picked the berries at 6:00 am. I don’t remember minding the berry picking but I hated the early hours. Pete Christiansen was a small lady from the Philippines. She had a green thumb and could grow anything. She watered her berries with irrigation water and once chased a water poacher with a large Philippine machete!

Westwood Mink Ranch—Fleshing machine loader

When I was growing up in Highland, Utah mink ranching was a flourishing industry. Mink ranchers raised mink for their fur; mink coats were a coveted luxury purchased and worn by the world’s elite. Political correctness and animal rights advocates diminished mink’s popularity in the US in the 1980s but there is still a healthy mink fur market in China and Russia. Mink ranching is a year-round operation but a rancher’s busiest time is harvest season—November and December—when a mink’s coat is the fullest. I won’t describe the entire process but the animals are killed, skinned, and processed. The pelts (just the skins of the animals) come into the processing sheds to be cleaned, stretched, and dried before they are sent to market to be sold to designers who turn them into coats. This process requires multiple employees so many of Highland’s citizens went to work every year “in the mink.” The timing of the harvest was ideal because most processing finished by the end of December—just in time to buy Christmas presents.

Jeneil and Rick Westwood

My mom worked in the mink for many years, sometimes for Max Fackrell, sometimes for Alma Erickson, sometimes for Paul Williams, and sometimes for Rick Westwood. Susan and I started working for Rick Westwood when we were early teenagers tailing (cleaning the tails) and pulling (removing the pelts from the boards they were stretched onto to dry). Over the years I learned to stretch and pin the pelts and by the time I was sixteen Rick promoted me to flesher-loader. 

When the pelts first come to the processing plants they still have fat and gunk left sticking to the inside of the skin. The pelts need to be loaded onto a fleshing machine where a high powered blade maneuvered by a highly skilled flesher scraped the pelt clean right down to the skin—without tearing the valuable pelt; ranchers fought for skilled fleshers. Only a little less valuable was the loader. A fleshing machine had two round arms. The loader would load a dirty pelt onto the arm and spin it around to the flesher to be cleaned. When the flesher finished cleaning the pelt he spun it back to the loader to be removed. Thus, the loader had to complete two processes, unload and load, in the time the flesher cleaned the pelt. The loader worked fast if he or she wanted to excel at the job—and I excelled! I could keep up with any flesher on Highland.

I made pretty good money for a kid and I worked hard. Working conditions left something to be desired: There was no heat in the processing sheds, flesher-loaders stood the entire shift, mink smelled HORRIBLE (and thus, so did we—when we finished a shift we undressed in the garage). But, the mink oil made our hands soft, the money was good, and the working season short, so there was an upside.

One day I was loading for Johnny Iverson. Johnny served in our bishopric and flew planes for Western Airlines. He worked every mink season to earn extra Christmas money. On this particular day, Johnny was having a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day. He tore a big expensive pelt and then the flesher flipped a huge piece of fat and hit him in the eye, and then it happened again, and then it happened again. After the third occurrence he quietly turned off the machine, muttered to himself, “I’m an airline pilot, what in the world am I doing here?” and he walked out the door leaving me, his loader, standing there with no one to load for. I don’t know if he worked in the mink again but he didn’t come back that year.

I’m thankful I had this experience—I learned to work hard and to take pride in a job well done.

Harman’s Kentucky Fried Chicken—Clerk

When I was in high school progress came to American Fork with our first franchised eating establishment, Kentucky Fried Chicken. We all watched its construction with great anticipation. One day Dad came home and told me he’d been visiting some of the new people in our ward and he’d discovered the new KFC manager, Fred Moody, had just moved into Highland. Dad suggested I put on my Sunday best and go visit Mr. Moody. I worked for Fred Moody at KFC until I left for BYU; he was one of the finest men I every knew. 

Fred wasn’t a church goer. I hated working Sunday’s so one day I asked Fred why he didn’t close Sundays as most businesses did in American Fork. He kindly took me back into his office and showed me the books. KFC made as much money on Sunday as they did the other 6 days combined. Then he said, “Jill, when your good Mormon neighbors stop frequenting my store on Sunday I’ll close.” It was a good lesson for me. I’ve tried most of my life to NOT give stores a reason to open on Sunday.

Trolley Square Ice Cream Store —Waitress

When we first married and moved to Salt Lake I got a job at the Ice Cream Store a restaurant in Trolley Square. We only had one car and John needed to drive it to school. Trolley Square was only 6 blocks from our apartment and an easy walk to work. Trolley Square was brand new in the Fall of 1972 and Ice Cream Store restaurant was one of the first businesses to open. When I worked the breakfast shift most of our customers were the construction workers working to restore the old Trolley barns. One day one of the men complimented me on the coffee saying it was the best he ever tasted. He asked me for my secret. I had to confess that I simply followed the direction on the back of the bag and that I wasn’t a coffee drinker.

Evenings and weekends at the restaurant were busy and fun! One of our most popular offerings was the “kitchen sink,” 20 scoops of ice cream, several toppings, marshmallows, whipped cream, and cherries. If a patron ate the entire sink by his or herself we stood on the stairs, banged the drum, announced the accomplishment to the entire restaurant, and added the patron’s name to our board. If someone was celebrating a birthday we stood on the stairs, banged the drum, and led the whole restaurant in a rendition of "Happy Birthday.” Most of the customers were families and I made great tips. I carried my tips (mostly change) home in a bag and paid for most everything in nickels, dimes, and quarters.

I learned to create a beautiful sundae. I can still make a soft-serve cone that is a work of art. I’m a whipped cream pro. 

About a month after I started working at the restaurant we had a monumental snow storm. The storm was so bad that John couldn’t get home from visiting with his parents—I was pretty scared until he was finally able to call me. I was scheduled to work the breakfast shift but when I woke up there were 24 inches of snow—I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t walk on the sidewalks; they hadn’t been cleared. The streets hadn’t been cleared either because the plows couldn’t get through. A few brave 4-wheel-drives sallied forth so I walked to work in the ruts (in the middle of the street). I finally got to work along with 3 other brave employees. Our boss decided not to open—no customers—but since we were already there he put us to work cleaning—we had a ball!

Rio Rancho Estates—Call center

When I got pregnant with Keith I ceased to be a morning person. I quit my job at the restaurant and went to work at a call center. The name of the company was Rio Rancho Estates. Twenty-six girls (women?) sat in a small room calling a list of phone numbers trying to convince unsuspecting people to come to a free dinner where super high-pressure salesmen intimidated customers into buying real estate in New Mexico. John and I went to one of the presentations and watched a young couple browbeat into investing—it was awful. 

Of the twenty-six employees, twenty-four smoked. I sat and breathed that foul air day-after-day. Keith was the smallest baby I had weighing-in at 6 lbs. 11 oz. I still worry that he was affected by my second-hand smoking.

One day about three months later the police barged into the office, shut down the business for fraud, and sent us all home. I was devastated; I felt like I’d been fired; I cried for days.

On a side note: One of my fellow employees could talk and knit at the same time—she was so good she had the best numbers in the room, and she never dropped a stitch. She knitted Christmas stockings that she sold for $20 a piece (a hefty price in 1973). I saved up and bought four: one for mom, one for dad, one for John, and one for me. I wanted to buy one for Keith (I didn’t know if he was a boy or girl so I wasn’t sure of his name), but I couldn’t come up with the money. This sweet lady offered to teach me to knit a stocking. Every break and every lunch hour she labored to teach me, and she did. I’ve since made over 50 Christmas stockings in the last 40 years. I shared the pattern with Judy and she has made at least that many. I wish I remembered the lady’s name—I’d like to thank her again.

9th East Service—Service station/convenience store attendant

A few days after I was let go from Rio Rancho I walked up to the corner convenience store to get some milk where I noticed a Help Wanted sign in the store window. I asked the clerk about the job and started the next day checking for 4 hours a day. At this point, I was 6 months pregnant and sitting on a stool behind a cash register worked for me. This was a time of great inflation and while I was at the store gas prices topped 50 cents a gallon. Customers were livid and many came into the store to holler at me. Usually, one glance at my pregnant belly quieted them. Our station was a self-serve station at the end of an era of full-serve stations. Many customers sat in their cars and honked their horns expecting me to come and pump their gas. When I waddled out the door they usually got out of their cars and pumped their own gas.

I planned to quit a week before my due date, March 6th, and get ready for our new little arrival. I worked the afternoon of February 27th. A shipment had arrived that morning so I stocked shelves most of my shift and went home with a terrible backache. I lay down but the pain just got worse, by night I finally figured out that I might be in labor. We went to the hospital at about 2 am the next morning; Keith was born just before 8 am. I really enjoyed my short gas station job but the job I had next—motherhood—was my favorite!