first jobs – Cindy Hval

Last month, I wrote about my adventures babysitting a toddler named Chuck and asked readers to share stories about their first jobs.

Kelly Kelly bypassed babysitting in favor of employment at a drive-in theater in Boise, Idaho. While she didn’t take care of a sticky toddler, the situation in which she found herself one night was considerably stickier.

“My cousin and I worked at the snack counter. We wore paper hats and striped button-ups to serve popcorn and Coca-Cola,” she wrote.

Kelly, just 14 at the time, lived in nearby Meridian. Uber didn’t exist in 1977, so she often hitchhiked to and from work.

In the 70s, the 15 miles from Meridian to Boise was a long, empty stretch with nothing but farmland and horses. Late one rainy night, she set out for home, hoping to hitch a ride, but no cars passed.

Finally, she saw a police car approaching. Hitchhiking was illegal, but she was so happy to see it, she stuck out her thumb.

To her shock, the officer drove on by.

“I have no memory of how I got home, yet the memory of that cop car driving by is as fresh as if it didn’t happen almost 50 years ago,” Kelly said. “I never went back to the drive-in and still wonder what kind of person leaves a little girl in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night with their thumb out.”

Like me, Maggie Sullivan’s first babysitting gig proved memorable.

She was 15, and her responsibilities extended over a New Year’s weekend in the late 50s. The parents, eager to escape, offered no instructions other than to take care of a massive pile of dirty laundry in the living room.

“The 12-year-old was well-behaved, but not helpful, the 5-year-old frequently ran through the house yelling ‘diarrhea!’ and I didn’t understand the toddler’s babbling at all,” she recalled.

With little in the cupboards or fridge, she fed the kids cereal and sandwiches for seven meals.

“The worst episode was the toddler running barefoot through the dining room and suddenly screaming and turning red,” Sullivan wrote. “He eventually pointed down, where I found a thumbtack embedded in his foot.”

Her experience worsened when the parents came home drunk, and the dad tried to kiss her when he drove her home.

“Without apologizing, he dug out some bills from his pocket for 50 hours of my work and time. The amount? $6.”

Linda Carroll saw strawberry fields forever at 13. It was 1962, and her family was planning to visit the World’s Fair in Seattle.

Her parents didn’t have a lot, and her mother told her that if she wanted spending money, she’d have to earn it.

She got a job picking strawberries, waking up at 4:15 a.m. to gulp down breakfast so that she could reach the fields near Havana St. and Marietta Ave. by 5 a.m. Her back-breaking efforts netted her $1.25 per flat.

Carroll doesn’t recall how much she made in total, but she does know she spent some of it at the Crescent to buy the latest fashion, a skort – shorts with a short, flared skirt over them.

“The one I chose had narrow strips in a rainbow of colors, and the skirt had tiny crystal pleats,” she wrote. “The perfect item to wear to the Fair in July.”

Walt Pulliam’s first job was a busboy in the Seattle Center food court just a few years after that World’s Fair.

In addition to clearing tables, he was responsible for giving breaks to the young women who operated the Bubbleator.

The Bubbleator was a large, bubble-shaped hydraulic elevator with transparent acrylic glass walls operated from an elevated chair. It was built for the 1962 World’s Fair.

“I sat in a space-age looking captain’s chair with a large panel in front of me that epitomized something out of the worst science fiction movie sets,” he recalled. “Lots of toggles, buttons and switches.”

Of course, none of them actually did anything except for the one that operated the door and the button for the three floors of the building.

However, those switches provided ample opportunity for Pulliam to mess with obnoxious kids.

“I’d direct them to a toggle or button to hold down for closing the door while I operated the actual control,” he said. “Invariably, I would let up on the control just before the door finished closing, which would cause the door to reopen. Everyone would look at the kid and blame him for not being able to simply hold a button down.”

Nicki Boures’ first job was at The Spokesman-Review.

“I started as a ‘foot messenger’ delivering newspaper display ad proofs to the downtown businesses in the morning,” she wrote. “Typically, I’d return to the businesses in the afternoon to retrieve the proofs with any corrections before being printed. Tear sheets of these ads, once printed, were also a part of our delivery day.”

Eventually, she worked as a clerk in the advertising department.

“I probably would have retired from the Spokesman had I not accepted a job in Anchorage, Alaska, at the Anchorage Times.”

Our first jobs teach us valuable life lessons. We learn how to get up early and show up on time. We problem-solve on dark roads, in strawberry fields or in a glass-enclosed elevator.

Those experiences shape our work ethic and give us a glimpse of what the future might hold.

Fourteen years after my debut babysitting gig, I gave birth to the first of four wild boys. At one time or another, every single one of them was just as sticky as Chuck.

I was 10 when a neighbor knocked on our door. She needed someone to watch her toddler son while she took her dog to the vet. My mother volunteered me.

I don’t know what she was thinking!

As the youngest of four, I had zero child care experience, unless you count my Baby Tender Love doll. I showered her with tender love until her drink -and -wet feature malfunctioned. When I gave her a bottle, she wet the back of her head instead of her diaper and I lost interest.

Nevertheless, I made my way across our shared backyards and entered my neighbor’s home to meet Chuck. (I’m not actually sure that’s his name. It might have been Charles. 1975 was a long time ago.)

The tot, clad only in a filthy T-shirt and a sagging diaper, eyed me warily and took a slug of milk from his bottle.

My first task was to help my neighbor give a pill to her giant dog.

“Let’s get him on the kitchen counter,” she said.

I weighed about 60 pounds. The dog weighed considerably more.

You might be horrified to think of a large dog on a kitchen counter, but the counter was more horrific.

It was as filthy as Chuck and actually stickier.

Aware that I was on the clock and earning 50 cents per hour, I did my best to help heft the animal (Great Dane/Mastiff/mini horse?) to the counter and closed my eyes while she jammed something down his throat.

He got down from the countertop unassisted, and Chuck’s mom said, “OK, I’ll get him in the car and be back in an hour. If you need anything, call your mother.”

And off she went without a word of instruction regarding the care and feeding of her child.

I took stock of the situation. The kitchen sink overflowed with dirty dishes. Congealed remnants of macaroni and cheese stuck to bowls. Mushy Lucky Charms floated in milky water, and a pot with a layer of calcified pork and beans attracted a couple of desultory flies.

I had never been in a dirty house.

My mother’s only full-time job was to wage war on dirt. Dishes were washed and dried by hand immediately after every meal. Clothes were washed on Monday and ironed on Tuesday. (I was responsible for pillowcases and my dad’s handkerchiefs). I’m not sure what chores occupied the rest of her week, but I do know the kitchen and bathroom floors were scoured on Saturdays because that’s when I dusted the living room.

I wandered into our neighbor’s living room, and Chuck pointed at the TV. Obligingly, I turned it on and flicked through the four channels, landing on “As the World Turns.”

This was my grandpa’s favorite program, seconded by “The Lawrence Welk Show.” I’d never seen an episode, but I figured if it was good enough for Grandpa, it was good enough for Chuck.

Chuck seemed to agree and sprawled out on the crunchy carpet. I didn’t know carpet could crunch, but this one did.

I chose a spot on the dog-haired covered sofa between piles of what I hoped was clean laundry.

I don’t know why Grandpa liked “The Guiding Light.” It bored me to tears, and Chuck, having finished his bottle, climbed up on my lap.

By this time, his diaper sagged nearly to his ankles, but unlike Baby Tender Love, the back of his head was dry – sticky but dry.

Bravely, I dug through the pile of clothing next to me and uncovered a diaper. Then I called my mom, because I’d never changed a diaper. She told me, “For heaven’s sake, just take off the wet one and put the clean one on, and no, I’m not coming over there to show you how!”

I suspect I’d interrupted her mid- “All My Children.”

Chuck and I figured it out. Then I looked for a book to read to him and found a stack of magazines beneath a collection of mostly empty Olympia beer cans.

Between issues of Star magazine and Soap Opera Digest, I found a copy of Penthouse, which, to my surprise, did not feature decorating tips for fancy apartments.

“Do you have any books, Chuck?” I asked.

No response.

I looked down to see he’d fallen asleep on my lap. I sat still, afraid to move, and that’s where his mom found us a short time later.

She scooped him up and carried him to his crib. Then she gave me $1.50 and told me she’d call me again when she needed a sitter.

I ran back across our yards, stashed my money in my purple kitty change purse, and told Mom that my child care career was over.

“I will never change another diaper!” I vowed.

Of course, as a teen, I had countless babysitting jobs, because my parents made me pay for my own Lip Smackers and Love’s Baby Soft perfume.

However, I didn’t babysit for the neighbors again – they moved that summer.

I hope Chuck grew up to be a fine, less sticky man.

Tag: first jobs

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