In this land of opportunity it
once was possible to move up
the child labor ladder.
First was watching a cow or two
and bringing them to the barn for milking.
A good hand earned five cents a day
and a quart of fresh milk.
From that position upward to paper boy
for the out of town papers.
Not many customers so the bag was
light and the walk long.
The snow talked back when stepped on
early on a winter morn.
And if you had a good day collecting
a dollar a week was possible.
But such work was for children
like mowing your grandfather's
lawn for a quarter.
The real world of child's work
was the filling station.
Seventeen cents a gallon
regular gas was hand pumped
into a gallon marked glass tank.
The amber gasoline caught the sun
setting over Prospect Point
and became a piece of
amber beauty not appreciated
by the oil checker,
tire checker and windshield wiper
with a greasy nose.
Checking the fan belt was a way to churn
a bit of business for the boss.
Sometime after learning to make the station
some money and the time of shaving
a lad could make it up to "grease monkey."
That was a great job and the salary
of thirty cents an hour; almost
the salary of some men.
Draining the oil into a drum
was no problem
after the drain plug was finally removed
with a wrench that didn't fit.
Getting that plug off
meant several skinned knuckles
and a chance to practice the pretty speech
learned from the body and fender men.
Skinned hands healed over greasy fingers
and at the prom hands
are kept in pockets as much as possible.
Then promotion to mechanic's helper.
And then off to college to spend a life
with clean, unskinned knuckles.