This morning's coffee, not at Bob's, but on my deck. The cup comes from the Linden Street Coffee Shop
Today is the 128th celebration of Labor Day in the United States, a day when we celebrate the spirit and strength and of the trade and labor groups and workers. It caused me to think about the idea of work and workers and one of the places that captures that spirit is just up the road called “Bob’s Barn”.
The little towns I know have their own version of Bob’s Barn. It’s an informal meeting place, often for local farmers. And while farmers are known to meet at coffee shops, it’s not always a cafe, restaurant, or coffee dive. Often, it’s a feed store, crawling with barn cats; a tire shop fragrant with grease and solvent; or a simple building where time has created a tradition. Many times’ is a few worn out chairs, a coffee pot, and a refrigerator stocked with pop (or soda) and candy bars. Everything is sold on the honor system.
Bob’s Barn is actually it’s second home. The first home I came to know was the building that housed the gas station when Bob was still selling gas and working as a mechanic. Saturday mornings, when I would go into town to buy gas for the truck and fill a few cans to get through the weekend’s work, I always noticed many of the same men, parked in chairs or standing in the service bay, passing the time in conversation.
Two year’s ago, when we had a spike in gasoline prices, Bob’s tanks ran out at the top of the market, so he bought very expensive gas. As prices fell at other station’s, Bob’s gas price remained high (around $3.50 a gallon) and everyone complained. Not everyone supports local businesses enough to keep them profitable in tough times. He owned a skid steer and dump truck at that point, and Bob, who was ready to move on, decided to sell off the remaining gas and close the station.
“What do you want to do?” I asked.
“Dirt work” he replied.
One of the local elderly women stopped by the station as the news spread and said , “Bob, I don’t know what we’re gonna do if you aren’t selling gas in town?”
To which Bob replied, “It won’t make a bit of difference to you, you haven’t bought gas from me in three years.”
So Bob, and the morning crew, moved down the road to a metal building Bob kept his projects in and around the corner from his house. They meet there nearly every morning, some of the guys even have their own key. I know many of them by name, and most by their faces. If I’d grown up here, I would know everything about them as they seem to know about each other.
I usually stop on Saturday mornings to spend an hour or so, catching up on the stories and sharing a few of my own. “Frosty” will usually greet me with “Well, it must be Saturday, Fritz is here.” The other men, too, have nick names.
If you want to celebrate Labor Day, spend time with these guys. Most are farmers, and most have learned the trades and skills in a combination of informal schooling and a few classes here and there. If there is something that needs to be done, chances are one or more of these guys has done it. And not just done it once, but many times, which means they can tell you the right way and the not-so-best practice. It seems each of these guys has a story about a time a trailer was too heavy, a hill to steep, and the pond or river at the bottom of the hill. Usually the story ended the same: is where their work-turned-roller-coaster-slide ended leaving their truck or tractor submerged.
Their successes far out number the failures, the failures just make better stories.
If Bob “holds court”, he is far from king on his thrown. Much of the time, he is working, turning a wrench, cutting iron, or putting one of his skid steers, bull dozers, or trucks back together. The work he does takes a toll on equipment.
The others are taking time to stay connected as a community before continuing their morning work. One farmer, who now works with his adult son, usually stops in for a candy bar between 9:00 and 9:30. More often than not, as he’s talking with us, his cell phone will ring. It will be his son, wondering where is dad is and why he isn’t working. Usually, dad says, “I’m on my BREAK.” and the call ends there.
So for all the work we do, it’s important that we take a lesson from Bob’s Barn and celebrate Labor Day. Take your break with pride.
No related posts.
Fritz,
I enjoyed your peice of writing. For me growing up on a small farm and rasing beef cattle in a cow and calf program there was a few things I could identify with. The place we gathered was Ruple’s Grocery; a feed and seed and general store all wraped into one. The big difference is that gas was running abour .22 cents per gallon. The other big difference is not so much mentioned in your story, but came to mine as I read and reminiced about the days in the West Middle Community and being a young boy on a farm, was the respect and love that existed between the farmers sitting around that old pot bellied stove. The hate and contempt that seems to be so common place today between the black and the white races didn’t seem to be there then. In that circle around that old stove were both races. I often wonder how much the media had to do with fanning the flames of prejudice out of control. Oh yes there were a few individuals that had prejudices, but for the most part we were a close knited neighborhood. Most of my play mates were black. That is just the way it was in the lower section of South Carolina, because in the country, blacks were the majority not the ninority. But these blacks respected themselves and didn’t have a chip on their shoulder nor held ever white in a contemptable attitude. Nor did all whites hold that horrible contemptable attitude.
Often what we write stirs much deeper than we indended. You just keep writing. You are good with your diction and heart.
C. Michael Davis (Author of “Don’t Pet the Dragon”)
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