I grab a couple of handfuls of hay from a small pile outside of the corral and duck under the wooden fence. I realize what a dangerous task this is, not because the cow is so much bigger than me, but because inside the corral there is less grass, and many more cow pies. I shudder to think just how awful it will be to step in a cow pie with stocking feet.
Carrying two large handfuls of hay and tiptoeing across the corral toward the post, I feel like a cross between a pom-pom girl and a ballerina.
I drop the hay and carefully back away a few steps. William lifts the rope that is coiled and hanging on the pole and swings a loop over the cow’s head as it ducks to eat the hay. In the same motion he wraps the loose end twice around the pole and tucks the end under, making a perfect clove hitch.
I know how to tie one of those knots, I think as flashbacks from scout camp remind me of the Pioneering merit badge. But even though I know how to tie a clove hitch, and twelve other knots, I have never seen a clove hitch used for something real. Of course, in the back of my mind, my subconscious still debates whether all of this, William, his family, the cow, are actually real. But I am giving in. I do not understand why I am in this real place, but it does seem real enough.
I watch William slide a bucket underneath the cow. He pats her gently, “That a girl,” he coos soothingly as he kneels down by the bucket and reaches toward her utter. “Easy does it, Spot.”
“Spot!” I blurt out with a loud laugh.
The cow looks at me and steps to the side, tugging on the rope and kicking the bucket three feet away.
William stands up and pats her side, “Whoa, whoa. Its okay,” he soothes. He turns toward me. “Her name is Spot,” he says quietly.
“But …” I want to say that Spot is a dog’s name, but William holds up his hand, signaling me to be quiet.
“When you milk a cow, you have to talk softly,” he explains. “Otherwise she kicks your bucket over and you get nothing for your work.”
I can suddenly think of a dozen questions like, “You don’t drink this stuff before it is pasteurized, do you?” or “How do you know when you’re done milking?” but William stops me again with his hand.
“Tell you what, Jared. You just watch me do the milking and tomorrow I’ll let you try.” Patting Spot’s back, William up rights the bucket and sets it back in place underneath the utter. In a minute William has a gentle, steady rhythm of warm milk flowing into the bucket as he alternately works his hands, pinching off the teat and then gently squeezing it to extrude the white liquid.
The morning is quiet and the early sunshine feels good on my arms and face as I lean on the corral and listen to the steady squirt of milk hitting the pail. I watch a horse drawn wagon roll by, stopping only once for a man to jump onto the back.
Across the field of grass a woman steps out of a small log cabin that really looks more like a one room hut, and shakes a cloth, then goes back inside. What a great morning! I think. The sky is clear and the air is crisp and clean. I can look in any direction and my view seems limited only by the mountains themselves, or by the numerous log houses nearby and dotting the entire valley floor. It is odd, in a strange way, to be in the mountains and see so clearly. Pleasant, but odd just the same.
“Okay, Jared,” William says softly as he stands up and hefts the pail of milk. “Take the rope off her neck and let her go.” William wrestles the milk pail over the corral fence while I slide the rope off Spot’s fat neck and coil it lazily over the wooden pole.
“How much did she give?” I ask, trying to sound business like.
“About three gallons.
[16]” William lifts the pail again and heads for the front porch. “She used to give more,” he explains, “but she hasn’t had a calf for awhile and is beginning to dry up.”
“How much do you need?” I laugh. “Your family couldn’t possibly drink three gallons a day!”
This time William laughs. “Of course not. But we can nearly drink one. Mom likes her boys to be well fed.”
“What do you do with the rest of it?” I ask.
“Mom sells it during the day. There aren’t too many dairy cows around here, so Spot’s milk brings a pretty good price. When she can’t sell it, Mom makes butter and skims the cream. That’s when her cooking gets really great.”
I open the front door and William carries the pail into the kitchen.
“Thank you, boys,” Elizabeth smiles. She hands each of us a small white cloth bundle tied with string. “You boys better scoot, or Mr. Roworth will hire someone else.” She kisses William on the cheek.
“Oh, Mom,” he complains. “Jared is here.”
Elizabeth leans over and William kisses her quickly. “Jared,” she says.
“Yes, ma’am?”
Elizabeth leans over and kisses me on the forehead. “Work hard, you boys. And be safe.”
“Okay, Mom,” William says as he steps out the door.
“And come right home. You have evening chores, remember.”
“I thought we would look at some boots for Jared. Then we will come right home.”
“All right, but not a minute more.”
“Bye, Mom.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, and follow William out the door before I got kissed again or something.
“You are lucky to have such nice parents,” I say after we have walked a short distance through knee high grass and turned eastward onto what looks like an off-road Jeep trail. The wheel ruts are filled with a soft dusty powder which transforms into cold, sticky mud at every dip. My feet do not mind the powdery cushion, though regularly a sharp stone or protruding stick will jab the tender soles of my already sore feet.
“What do you mean?” William asks. “Aren’t your parents nice?”
“Sure they are, … I think.”
William glances at me.
“What I mean is that my mom is nice. I mean, she’s like the best. But I don’t really know my dad. He died when I was seven. So, you are lucky to have both parents. And besides that, they’re nice.”
“I guess you are right,” William says. “I just never thought about it like that.”
I stop and rub my foot where a razor-sharp rock has tried to impale me.
“Your feet are sore, huh?” William asks with compassion.
“Yeah. They are getting worn out fast. Even the soft dirt is rough on my toes.”
“William looks down the trail the way we have come, and I follow his gaze into the distance. “See that wagon?” He says.
I nod, pulling my wet sock up tightly onto my foot.
“That’s old man Taylor’s wagon,” William explains. “He won’t stop for children, but he will stop for that man walking just up ahead. We can jump on with him. Can you walk fast enough to catch up with that man?”
“I can make it if you can,” I say, trying to sound confident. I am not sure my feet will make it, though. They are pretty sore. But if hurrying a little now will save some walking later, then I am all for it.
“Let’s go then,” William says with a smile.
We catch up to the man ahead of us just as old man Taylor’s wagon reaches us, but to do so we had to walk at a pace that was nearly a trot.
When Mr. Taylor stops his wagon, William and the man with whom we are walking, jump onto the back and sit down. It is now my turn, but not being trained in the art of wagon hopping, I stumble and drop my lunch bundle onto the ground, where it rolls over twice and stops.
With what I think is a sophisticated swoop, I snatch up my lunch and move toward the wagon, but old man Taylor has already started his horse and wagon moving down the road.
“William!” I call. I catch his eye and toss him my lunch, a quick, clean shot straight toward his chest. Yes, basketball practice after mutual actually pays off. I leap forward and lunge half way onto the back of the wagon before it reaches full speed. William and another gentleman passenger pull me on board.
“Thanks,” I say, rolling over and sitting next to Willia
m. I reach down and rub my sore feet. The wagon rolls through a rut and bounces over a protruding rock. “So, how far is it to the pavement?” I ask as we bounce again.
“Pavement?”
“You know, the main road. When do we get off this trail?”
“This is the main road. It’s called Nevada Street. It joins up with Lawrence Street in Central City. Lawrence Street goes on down to Black Hawk, but we will get off at the brickyard way before that.”
I lean out to the side to see the road ahead. It curves gently northward into the valley before us, and in the distance Nevada Street disappears from view, totally hidden by tall, green meadow grass. I turn and look up the valley behind us. My eyes follow the wagon wheel ruts westward into the distance toward Nevadaville. Green meadow grass drapes the valley on both sides of the road like a sheet over old furniture, interrupted irregularly by huge mounds of bare earth, and dotted by hundreds of log cabins and log huts, which make up Dogtown.
“What happened to all the trees?” I ask accusingly, as if the total lack of trees in the valley for as far as I can see in any direction is William’s fault. I am already beginning to figure it out, but am not believing my own conclusion when William answers.
“They were cut down to make houses and buildings.”
“Holy cow!” I exclaim taking another look at the surrounding mountain tops and valley. “The whole mountain is shaved bald. Like a giant lawnmower just came through!”
“A giant what?”
“A grass cutter.” I look at his uncomprehending face. “Never mind. I’m just astounded that every single tree is cut down!”
“Yeah,” William says. “It makes building a house really hard. You have to go two valleys over to get logs.”
I look at William again. For a split second I think he is making a joke, but he is not. He is dead serious. I can hardly believe that he is more worried about building a house than he is about destroying the entire forest! I am not exactly an environmentalist-tree-hugger myself, but hey, I had earned the Environmental Science merit badge, and I think it is obvious to everyone that cutting down every single tree will have a devastating effect on wildlife. But I can see in William’s eyes that he does not understand all that.
“It’s just that, back home in Arizona, we are taught to respect the environment. To not damage the land. We don’t wipe out whole forests, even for construction.”
“I didn’t think Arizona had any trees,” William chuckles.
I smile at the thought. There is a lot of desert in Arizona and in some places only scrubby creosote bushes will even grow. In Arizona’s defense I say, “Northern Arizona has the largest stand of Ponderosa Pine in the world.
[17] Arizona has trees.” At least until the recent Rodeo and Chediski forest fires, I think.
“I was just kidding,” William laughs. “Hey, here is where we get off.” He grabs his lunch bundle and leaps over the side of the wagon and lands running. I think of my already sore feet hitting that hard and rocky ground and decide on a much more conservative approach.
At the rear of the wagon, with my lunch bundle in tow, I roll to my stomach and push myself gently over the edge as far as I can. Then, with a hard push, I launch myself off the back of the wagon. Even so, the ground comes up to meet the soles of my feet with incredible speed. I land running and even gracefully come to a full stop without crashing. The remaining men on the wagon smile as they jostle on down the bumpy road toward Lawrence Street.
“Jared, come on,” William says as he trots up to where I am still standing. “We’ve got to go this way.” He points off toward the east.
Together we head east at a fast walk down a seldomly used road that seems to be just a mere trail.
“What’s the name of this road?” I ask. It is not much of a road. In fact, it is not much of a trail, and I truly wonder if it has a name. I also wonder just how familiar William is with this area.
“It’s probably called Roworth Street,” William says. Mr. Roworth owns some buildings and some land around here, and this street goes right past the brick yard.”
[18]
“So, are we almost there?” I quiz, trying not to sound like an impatient child on a long trip.”
“Yes, but we need to hurry so we are not late. Mr. Roworth likes us to be punctual.”
“He sounds like Old Mrs. Harris,” I say glancing at my Casio. “It’s two minutes to seven.” I step up my pace as much as my bare feet will allow.
“There’s the brickyard,” William says, as we come over a small rise. He points to a group of men standing in a bare field about two blocks away.
“That’s the brickyard?” I ask, with a little disappointment in my voice. I am not sure exactly what I am expecting. I guess in my mind I have imagined an area with a wall or a fence, and maybe a front gate with a brick archway over it with the company name welded in wrought iron. I suppose a sales office and a couple of forklifts to move pallets of brick would have completed the picture. But a flat field with a hole in the ground does not seem to meet my expectations.
“Yep, that’s the brickyard,” William says. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to Mr. Roworth.”
“You’re late, William,” Mr. Roworth states, snapping closed the cover of his pocket watch and letting it slide back down into his vest pocket.
“Yes, sir,” William answers with humility. “But I brought a friend who can work, that is if you are in need of a hard working boy.”
Mr. Roworth turns to look at me and our eyes meet. Then he looks me over as though he is about to make a purchase and does not want to get stuck with a lemon. When his eyes reach my stocking feet he frowns, “Where are your boots, son?”
“I don’t have any, sir,” I answer, trying to show respect. I have never called anyone ‘sir’ in my life, but it sounds good now, considering that Mr. Roworth is the boss and I want to work.
“Then I’m sorry, but …”
“That’s why I’m here, sir,” I interrupt quickly. “I will work hard and with my first pay I intend to buy shoes … ah … boots.”
Mr. Roworth takes a deep breath and cocks his head to the side as he looks me over one more time.
“You’ll have to work with Jack in the pit,” he finally says.
“The pit, sir?” I have no idea what the pit is, but it sounds bad.
“No one said it would be glamorous,” he replies frowning. “Starting pay is one dollar and fifty cents per day if you are a hard worker.”
“Yes, sir,” I say working up a smile, but already dreading the unknown pit.
Mr. Roworth raises an eyebrow and points across the field. “The pit is that way. Tell Jack that you are new, and that he is supposed to show you what to do.”
I obediently set out across the field in the direction indicated by Mr. Roworth’s finger, stepping mostly on grass clumps where I can. I only have to walk a couple of minutes before I come upon the pit, but it is enough time to consider that one dollar and fifty cents isn’t much for a day’s work. In fact, it is a long way from minimum wage. Maybe there is no minimum wage in Colorado, I think. Or maybe minimum wage doesn’t apply to starting pay.
It is not much of a pit. I have seen sand and gravel pits in Tucson and usually that means a huge, bare hole in the ground, with maybe a front end loader sitting in the bottom with a dump truck, several piles of sand, gravel, and rock that had been sifted or crushed to a specific size. What I come upon here is more like a small depression in the center of a large area that has been cleared of all grass and topsoil. In the center is the pit, basically a mud hole.
“Are you Jack?” I call to the young man standing near the pit. He has mud up to his knees and elbows and is holding a shovel. I can only see a wisp of sand colored, or maybe it is mud colored, hair poking out from under his tattered straw hat.
“Yeah,” he says looking up at me. “But if Mr. Roworth sent you over here for some tempered clay from the pug, tell him that this mix isn’t ready yet.” Jack takes a deep breath an
d adds, “And tell him if he wants it sooner to send me some help.”
“I’m supposed to be your help,” I say timidly. “My name is Jared.”
“Well, it’s about time,” Jack says, slipping a couple of swear words in for emphasis. “This entire area has to be pugged in two weeks.
“Well, I’m on the clock, so tell me what I’m supposed to do,” I say cheerfully.
Jack’s face momentarily looks confused and I guess that here in Colorado they do not use the term ‘on the clock’. I am just going to explain the term when Jack says, “All right, take your shoes and socks off and roll up your pant legs, or take your pants off. You are going to do most of the tempering while I keep the mix at the proper consistency.
I slip my socks off and roll up my jeans almost to my knees. I do really well to roll them up that far because denim does not stretch. The cuffs fit tightly against my legs and I hope that they will seal the mud out.
“Come into the center of the pit and I will show you how to work the clay,” Jack says, entering the pit himself.
I step into the pit and my feet try to slide out from under me as they slip on the reddish-brown sticky slick clay. Finally my feet touch bottom as I sink half way to my knees. The clay is extremely thick and reminds me of the ceramic clay that I used in my seventh grade art class.
Jack reaches down and picks up a handful of clay. “Jared, stick your hands in and feel the clay.” He squishes it between his fingers and lets it ooze out in sticky strings.
I plunge both of my hands deep into the clay and let the cold slime stick to my skin.
“This mixture is almost done. Feel the texture and the thickness.”
Now that Jack mentions it, I can feel the fine grit of the sand suspended in sticky squishy slime. I can feel the resistance of the clay as I press it through my fingers.
“Remember how that feels because we have to make the next batch just like it.”
“What are we going to do with this batch?” I ask.
“We will scoop it out in buckets and deliver it to the molding table. That’s where they shape the clay and form it into bricks.”
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