Locomotive to the Past, George Schultz [snow like ashes series txt] 📗

In addition, there were countless bags—of very heavy cement—to be toted, to an infinite number of locations, throughout the entire, massive, mind-warping, undertaking! And, from time to time, our favorite laborer was required to shovel varying amounts of sand—heavy sand—into the noisy, rather-portable, cement mixers! There were, literally, dozens, of those ear-splitting, constantly-churning, little dandies, spread across the, seemingly-unending, acres, of the mind-numbing enterprise!

That procedure—making the cement mixture—came as a bit of a shock! Especially—to someone, from the 21st century! Jason had always been used—for his entire life—to seeing those mobile, giant, whirling, mixers! They had always been affixed, to the back end, of some huge, fast-moving, truck!

The young man had, in fact, cursed those monster latch-ups! Countless times! For consistently “spritzing” out—little “dabs” of the rocky, uneven, far-from-smooth, concrete, onto the road! Usually while the young man had been laboring along, on his “abused”, aging, bike! Many times, in fact, he’d had to suddenly swerve—to avoid probably-imaginary “damage”, from one of those “instant road deposits”! A situation—which, probably, would not have turned out to be nearly as severe, as he’d imagined! But, with the fragile condition of his, on-its-last-legs, bicycle, he dared not take any unnecessary chances!

In the “cement-mixer” world, of 1942, one of the “more talented” workers would, periodically, stop his much-smaller mixer—and look inside. During those occasions, he’d, invariably, reach in—and withdraw a gritty handful, of the unfinished product. Most of the time—after the, two-or-three second critical “inspection”, had been completed—he’d simply toss the sample mixture back, into the machine. Then, crank it back to life. Every now and then, however, he’d add a shovelful—or two—of sand, to the mixture. Every once in awhile, he’d pick up the always-nearby hose—and spray in some water’. Adding the splurge—of deemed-necessary moisture—to the formula, inside the mixer. Highly-unspecialized! Almost archaic! But, seemingly most effective!!

That illuminating first day—was especially exhausting, for Our Boy! It was almost “too much like work”! A, body-wise, challenge—to be physically able, to drive his glorious “new” Dodge, all the way back, to his glorious new digs! On, suddenly-far-away, Ohio Street!

Fortunately, he’d launched a “massive shopping expedition” to The A&P on the preceding Saturday. Also fortunately, as part of the chore, he’d laid in a copious number of hotdogs. It had required practically every remaining ounce of energy—on that Monday—to merely throw two frankfurters, into a kettle of water (which he’d had to lug the three whole, entire, feet—all the way, from the sink). Then, of course, there was the effort it took, to go ahead—and to light the gas flame beneath! Exhausting!

How he was—critically—missing all those dinner “banquets”! Especially while waiting—impatiently—for his two “opulent” frankfurters, to finish cooking! Ahhhh, those, wonderfully-spectacular, suppers—that the sainted Susan had so considerately, and expertly, prepared! While he and Eric had been at work! And all those sumptuous, bacon-and-egg, breakfasts! And—good heavens—those wondrous lunches, that his former landlady had always sent along! The ones—abounding with those nifty Krun Chee potato chips!

For breakfast, on that Monday morning, he’d settled for a couple slices of toast. And a cup of tea! (Throwing a teabag, in a cup of boiling water was infinitely easier than “intricately” building a pot of coffee—and then, having to waste all, but one or two cups, of the brew.)

He’d repeated the Tea-or-Nothing routine, on Monday night—along with the, energy-draining, frankfurters. That had been the “beverage part” of his luxurious dining repast! (Not so “opulent”—once he’d discovered, that he’d forgotten to buy hotdog rolls, while at the grocery store!)

Tuesday morning, it had been a major undertaking—to merely “haul himself” out of bed! He was (what else?) running late! Lunch would have to consist of the two Hostess Cupcakes (“Two For A Nickel”) that he’d snatched, out of the Coldspot refrigerator—on the way out! Well, those—and the two, goes-without-saying, nickel bags—of his precious Krun-Chee chips!

He was—definitely—going to have to see, to getting into radio! Soon!

Over the span of that never-ending first week, Jason discovered a whole raft of new—and different—people! Some of them were much different—from those he’d associated with, on West Chicago! Exceptionally different!

The government (he didn’t know which branch—and really didn’t care) had provided this immense (and diverse) crew—with a huge, bare-bones, makeshift, wooden, building. The barren structure would serve—as a shelter. (Although the massive workforce, would seldom work—when the weather was highly inclement).

The austere structure served—primarily—as a place, where workers could (and did) eat their “brown bag” lunches. (Jason did discover, a vast assortment of highly-decorative lunchboxes—amongst the multitude, of his fellow workers.)

Half-hour lunch periods—for this massive throng—were staggered. Four such time slots—all occurring between 11:00AM and 1:00PM.

Employees of the various, separate, companies tended to band together—at lunchtime. At first, anyway. But, as the days had lurched by, this group tended to, slowly, be infiltrated, by that group! Before long, each of the four lunch gatherings was becoming more and more “ecumenical”. Jason supposed this to be a good thing.

March 15th—the Sunday after Jason had (finally) completed his first week, on the “Herman Gardens Thing”—he and Valerie took in their third hockey game. A contest pitting the Red Wings—against the mighty, always-powerful, Montreal Canadiens.

This time, they’d found themselves, once again, in the balcony, of the sacred Olympia. Only, on this occasion, they were seated—directly across from the Red Wings bench. So, not only had they been required, to walk up “The Seven-Trillion Steps” (Jason’s “evaluation”). But—to get to their fourth row seats—they’d had to trek, all the way around the end zone. The only path, to the opposite-side’s assortment, of flip up/down, chairs. But, at least the final portion, of their “expedition” was level! Not uphill! The descent—down to the fourth row was, pretty much, the “saving grace”.

The Canadiens were the exceptionally-dominant NHL squad—virtually throughout the entire forties decade! But, Jason knew—for a fact—that the mighty aggregation, from Montreal, would not win The Stanley Cup, in 1942!

Grandpa Piepczyk had become an inveterate hockey fan—but, not until the mid-forties. Still, he’d known that—in the1942 Stanley Cup Finals—the Red Wings had won