One summer I was working with a High School boy.  He was sharp and quick witted, but only worked with us during the summer while school was out.

One day some carpenters were razzing us about not yet having the power on in the building.  My apprentice said; “You better treat us nice, or we can leave and leave you without any power at all.  You will have to go find a piece of wire somewhere and see if there is any electricity left in it.  You could probably use that to run your saw.”

I suggested that they get a bucket and drain the electricity into it in order to carry it into the building for use.  Later on I found that to be a standard joke.  If someone says they have been shocked by wire that was (supposed to be) de-energized, you tell them it was probably because there was a little power left in the wire.

Another job I was sent to work on was on a house where people of both genders lived, but where none of them were married.  This was in the ‘60s and such things just weren’t done in those days.

The housekeeper was a lady that was employed as a school teacher during the day, but was the live-in house keeper by night.  At one point one of the men in the house told me as he was leaving, that the housekeeper would be over about 4 P.M.  This caused me some nervousness because I wasn’t sure what type of person she would be.  In any case I wanted to be out of there before 4 P.M.

I was standing on a ladder installing an outside fixture and working as rapidly (and nervously) as I knew how.  I was in such a hurry that my pliers slipped and banged me on my front teeth.  It gave me a fat lip.

When I got done I went around the house picking up scraps of wire casing and other leavings, trying to clean up after myself as quickly as possible.

I was back by the bedrooms, bent over, picking up some scrap.  When I straightened up there was someone standing and looking at me, not saying a word.  I yelled out loud before I realized I was looking at a full-length mirror on one of the bedroom doors.

It took ten years off of my life.

However, I think it might have put a charge in my bucket.

Have you ever noticed how much your life is affected by what your nose knows?  Everyday aromas, when detected in the correct amount and location, bring back good memories and are able to enliven and beautify your day.

There are the smells associated with flowers after a rain, early morning perfumes, food, fresh mown hay, rain on dust, etc.

And then there are the other kinds.

Walk past a slaughter house or a rendering plant or a pig farm…on a hot day.  Or take a stroll past a stockyard where the animals are walking around knee deep in … effluent product.  Or dig a conduit trench across a stockyard.

One day I was called upon to work on a meat packing plant.  They had a smoke house that needed to be wired.  The wood used for smoking the meat has a nice aroma.  But it wasn’t enough to completely overcome the other smells associated with a meat packing plant, slaughter house and rendering plant.

For making bologna, wieners and sausage, at that time, they would use cleaned animal gut.  Getting the gut from the butchered animal to a cleaned condition produced a not so agreeable odor.

In the slaughtering house there was a separate room with an open blood pit.  As animals were slaughtered the blood would pour into the open pit.  Every so often someone would turn on the steam to cook the blood into a curd.  When I had to walk around that pit I was very careful not to slip or drop any tools into it.

There was also a rendering plant on the grounds.  At the rendering plant they took what was left of the animals and crushed the pieces, bones and all, into a fertilizer.

I noticed they did not place these buildings in close proximity to one another.  There was a good reason for that decision.

Somehow I was always tasked with the jobs in this area.  I guess they thought a “farm boy” could take the odors in stride.

At that particular plant I noticed that there were a large number of Native Americans employed there.  I was impressed with anyone that could work in those conditions, day after day, summer and winter.

A few times my boss’s son was sent to work with me at this plant.  His mother would complain that, for some reason, he wouldn’t eat wieners anymore.

I never invited her to accompany us to that job site.

Having grown up on the farm, I still have a farmer’s instincts.  A couple times I went out to help a farmer friend harvest.  It brought back fond memories.

I kept a few goats for some time and raised our children on goat’s milk.  Becky’s dad preferred cows.  And he knew horses.  We had some horses for awhile and he helped our boys learn how to train and ride them.

We always had chickens for eggs and meat.  One of my daughters liked sheep so we had sheep for awhile.  And we had a few ducks, and dogs, and lots of cats.  One of my daughters is deathly afraid of chickens.  One of our boys broke an arm when he fell off of the old gray mare.

One of our farmer friends taught me how to make wine out of chokecherries.  One time I had not skimmed the wine properly and it went sour.  This was in the fall of the year.  I had a buck goat staked out in the garden area, cleaning up the leavings.  I put the sour wine (approximately 2 gallons) in a bucket and placed it in the garden area within reach of the buck.

The buck stuck his nose in it up to his eyes and drank steady till he had drank every drop without stopping.  He lifted his head just enough to clear the bucket and stood there; spraddle-legged, not making a sound.  I took the empty bucket and went back in the house.

I came out two hours later and there he stood just as when I left him.  I don’t think he waggled an ear.  That was one happy buck.

I have seen a female goat drop a kid in a snow bank when it was below zero and the kid survived.  Goats are survivors.

Eventually the old gray mare we had died.  I did like any farmer would do.  I dug a hole in the garden and dropped her in it, feet up.  I hadn’t dug the hole deep enough.  Rigor mortis had set in, so I had to get down in the hole with her and bend her legs at the knee so we wouldn’t have four hooves sticking out of the ground in the middle of the garden.

You know what happens to old farmers?  They get old and bent and lame and shaky and weak.  There came the day my Dr. said I wasn’t to lift over forty pounds, so I had to get rid of my animals.  That wasn’t an easy job.

Being an electrician is much easier work.