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Nostalgia August 2014

Senior Moments

That Unforgettable First Payday

By Edward A. Joseph

I gave my answer even before learning of the impressive pay rate of 50 cents an hour — impressive, that is, for an 11 year old in 1954.

For most of us, thinking back to our first payday brings back lifelike memories, often with the exhilarating feeling that we were taking an important step towards growing up, blissfully ignorant that actually being grown up is often not that exhilarating.

I was 11 years old when I had my first “payday.” I had previously tried unsuccessfully to get a newspaper route, so when my friend, Brian, asked me if I was interested in a gardening job he could no longer do, my answer was an enthusiastic “Yes!”

I gave my answer even before learning of the impressive pay rate of 50 cents an hour — impressive, that is, for an 11 year old in 1954.

I was nervous as I knocked on my hoped-for employer’s door. When the door opened, I saw a large, stern-looking woman wearing glasses and using a cane. My knees felt weak as I introduced myself.

“Hello, I’m Brian’s friend. He told me you needed someone to work in your garden.”

She looked at me and said, “Are you sure you’re strong enough to work in a garden?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m stronger than I look,” I answered.

Even at 11, I knew a doubtful look when I saw one.

She didn’t say anything for a few seconds and my stomach dropped, but she finally said, “OK, I’m sure Brian told you what the pay is and what you will be doing. Be here tomorrow at four o’clock and don’t be late.”

My employer — time having erased her name from my memory — expected a diligent employee, and to ensure this diligence, she watched me like a hawk as she directed my work using her cane as a pointer while sitting in a comfortable-looking chair.

While I used a pick to break up the soil on my first day of work, the sun’s heat did its thing as sweat leaked into my eyes. Time seemed to move more slowly than when I played baseball or went for a swim. In between the thwacks of my pick, I could occasionally hear the ticking of a cooking timer on a nearby table that measured my hour’s work.

She was a no-nonsense employer. She expected an honest hour’s work for her 50-cent piece. All through that summer, once a week, I would go over to house and do a variety of tasks — mostly weeding — that a flourishing garden requires, and each time I would receive my pay at the end of the hour.

But that first payday was the best. The bell on the cooking timer had gone off a few minutes before, and my employer had summoned me to where she sat, her large Panama hat protecting her from the sun. The feel of that gleaming 50-cent piece falling into my hand is as vivid to me today as it was on that unforgettable day almost 60 years ago.

 

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