1988: I was a highway worker getting paid to lean on a shovel. That’s actually how it’s supposed to work: An inspector marked corrupted patches of the highway. A water-cooled saw cut lines to define the patch. A pile driver smashed the concrete. A backhoe removed the debris. Then my crew graded the bottom.

The grader backhoe digs to depth, and carves out a 6” cavity beneath the adjacent pavement. When he’s done, the crew jumps in the hole with pick and shovel to clean up the corners, lickety-split. It’s supposed to be cushy.

That’s why you’re expected to work 10-14 hours a day with no lunch (you’re supposed to munch from your lunchbox all day, as you watch the backhoe dig). But it doesn’t work that way when the backhoe operator is in a hurry and leaves most of the 6” carve-out for the laborers. He left us behind.

It got over 100º F and stayed there for 2 weeks, with no clouds, nor shade. They posted signs warning drivers to slow down, but nothing made us happier than a semi drafting by at 60 mph, manufacturing a momentary breeze.

I was 25, and prided myself in outworking others. But there was one 18-year-old farm kid from Remington on my crew who could swing a pick like a baseball bat all day. I about killed myself trying to keep up with him at first.

Sometimes, I could outwork him – sort of. After work, I would beeline to Lefty’s Tavern to quaff a quart of Blue Ribbon and shoot pool in air-conditioning. The kid would go home and bale hay. What a freak.

When that job was complete, I went back to the union hall and told the retirees about swinging a pick for 12 hours a day in 107º heat with no shade, breeze, or break. “That ain’t nothin’ boy,” they replied, “When I was your age we had to work 30 hours a day, and it was 207º.” Yeah, right.

One summer like that is good for bragging rights, but only one.

Mike VanOuse
Lafayette