Spirit Pouch (9 page)

“Thanks,” I say, rolling over and sitting next to William.  I reach down and rub my sore feet.  The wagon rolls through a rut and bounces over a protruding rock.  “So, how far is it to the pavement?” I ask as we bounce again.

“Pavement?”

“You know, the main road.  When do we get off this trail?”

“This
is
the main road.  It’s called Nevada Street.  It joins up with Lawrence Street in Central City.  Lawrence Street goes on down to Black Hawk, but we will get off at the brickyard way before that.”

I lean out to the side to see the road ahead.  It curves gently northward into the valley before us, and in the distance Nevada Street disappears from view, totally hidden by tall, green meadow grass.  I turn and look up the valley behind us. My eyes follow the wagon wheel ruts westward into the distance toward Nevadaville.  Green meadow grass drapes the valley on both sides of the road like a sheet over old furniture, interrupted irregularly by huge mounds of bare earth, and dotted by hundreds of log cabins and log huts, which make up Dogtown.

“What happened to all the trees?” I ask accusingly, as if the total lack of trees in the valley for as far as I can see in any direction is William’s fault.  I am already beginning to figure it out, but am not believing my own conclusion when William answers.

“They were cut down to make houses and buildings.”

“Holy cow!” I exclaim taking another look at the surrounding mountain tops and valley.  “The whole mountain is shaved bald.  Like a giant lawnmower just came through!”

“A giant what?”

“A grass cutter.”  I look at his uncomprehending face.  “Never mind.  I’m just astounded that every single tree is cut down!”

“Yeah,” William says.  “It makes building a house really hard.  You have to go two valleys over to get logs.”

I look at William again.  For a split second I think he is making a joke, but he is not.  He is dead serious.  I can hardly believe that he is more worried about building a house than he is about destroying the entire forest!  I am not exactly an environmentalist-tree-hugger myself, but hey, I had earned the Environmental Science merit badge, and I think it is obvious to everyone that cutting down every single tree will have a devastating effect on wildlife.  But I can see in William’s eyes that he does not understand all that.

“It’s just that, back home in Arizona, we are taught to respect the environment.  To not damage the land.  We don’t wipe out whole forests, even for construction.”

“I didn’t think Arizona had any trees,” William chuckles.

I smile at the thought.  There
is
a lot of desert in Arizona and in some places only scrubby creosote bushes will even grow.  In Arizona’s defense I say, “Northern Arizona has the largest stand of Ponderosa Pine in the world.
[17]
  Arizona has trees.” 
At least until the recent Rodeo and Chediski forest fires
, I think.

“I was just kidding,” William laughs.  “Hey, here is where we get off.”  He grabs his lunch bundle and leaps over the side of the wagon and lands running.  I think of my already sore feet hitting that hard and rocky ground and decide on a much more conservative approach.

At the rear of the wagon, with my lunch bundle in tow, I roll to my stomach and push myself gently over the edge as far as I can.  Then, with a hard push, I launch myself off the back of the wagon.  Even so, the ground comes up to meet the soles of my feet with incredible speed.  I land running and even gracefully come to a full stop without crashing.  The remaining men on the wagon smile as they jostle on down the bumpy road toward Lawrence Street.

“Jared, come on,” William says as he trots up to where I am still standing.  “We’ve got to go this way.”  He points off toward the east.

Together we head east at a fast walk down a seldomly used road that seems to be just a mere trail.

“What’s the name of this road?” I ask.  It is not much of a road.  In fact, it is not much of a trail, and I truly wonder if it has a name.  I also wonder just how familiar William is with this area.

“It’s probably called Roworth Street,” William says.  Mr. Roworth owns some buildings and some land around here, and this street goes right past the brick yard.”
[18]

“So, are we almost there?” I quiz, trying not to sound like an impatient child on a long trip.”

“Yes, but we need to hurry so we are not late.  Mr. Roworth likes us to be punctual.”

“He sounds like Old Mrs. Harris,” I say glancing at my Casio.  “It’s two minutes to seven.”  I step up my pace as much as my bare feet will allow.

“There’s the brickyard,” William says, as we come over a small rise.  He points to a group of men standing in a bare field about two blocks away.

“That’s the brickyard?” I ask, with a little disappointment in my voice.  I am not sure exactly what I am expecting.  I guess in my mind I have imagined an area with a wall or a fence, and maybe a front gate with a brick archway over it with the company name welded in wrought iron.  I suppose a sales office and a couple of forklifts to move pallets of brick would have completed the picture.  But a flat field with a hole in the ground does not seem to meet my expectations.

“Yep, that’s the brickyard,” William says.  “Come on.  I’ll introduce you to Mr. Roworth.”

“You’re late, William,” Mr. Roworth states, snapping closed the cover of his pocket watch and letting it slide back down into his vest pocket.

“Yes, sir,” William answers with humility.  “But I brought a friend who can work, that is if you are in need of a hard working boy.”

Mr. Roworth turns to look at me and our eyes meet.  Then he looks me over as though he is about to make a purchase and does not want to get stuck with a lemon.  When his eyes reach my stocking feet he frowns, “Where are your boots, son?”

“I don’t have any, sir,” I answer, trying to show respect.  I have never called anyone ‘sir’ in my life, but it sounds good now, considering that Mr. Roworth is the boss and I want to work.

“Then I’m sorry, but …”

“That’s why I’m here, sir,” I interrupt quickly.  “I will work hard and with my first pay I intend to buy shoes … ah … boots.”

Mr. Roworth takes a deep breath and cocks his head to the side as he looks me over one more time.

“You’ll have to work with Jack in the pit,” he finally says.

“The pit, sir?”  I have no idea what the pit is, but it sounds bad.

“No one said it would be glamorous,” he replies frowning.  “Starting pay is one dollar and fifty cents per day if you are a hard worker.”

“Yes, sir,” I say working up a smile, but already dreading the unknown pit.

Mr. Roworth raises an eyebrow and points across the field.  “The pit is that way.  Tell Jack that you are new, and that he is supposed to show you what to do.”

I obediently set out across the field in the direction indicated by Mr. Roworth’s finger, stepping mostly on grass clumps where I can.  I only have to walk a couple of minutes before I come upon the pit, but it is enough time to consider that one dollar and fifty cents isn’t much for a day’s work.  In fact, it is a long way from minimum wage. 
Maybe there is no minimum wage in Colorado,
I think. 
Or maybe minimum wage doesn’t apply to starting pay.

It is not much of a pit.  I have seen sand and gravel pits in Tucson and usually that means a huge, bare hole in the ground, with maybe a front end loader sitting in the bottom with a dump truck, several piles of sand, gravel, and rock that had been sifted or crushed to a specific size.  What I come upon here is more like a small depression in the center of a large area that has been cleared of all grass and topsoil.  In the center is the pit, basically a mud hole.

“Are you Jack?” I call to the young man standing near the pit.  He has mud up to his knees and elbows and is holding a shovel.  I can only see a wisp of sand colored, or maybe it is mud colored, hair poking out from under his tattered straw hat.

“Yeah,” he says looking up at me.  “But if Mr. Roworth sent you over here for some tempered clay from the pug, tell him that this mix isn’t ready yet.”  Jack takes a deep breath and adds, “And tell him if he wants it sooner to send me some help.”

“I’m supposed to be your help,” I say timidly.  “My name is Jared.”

“Well, it’s about time,” Jack says, slipping a couple of swear words in for emphasis.  “This entire area has to be pugged in two weeks.

“Well, I’m on the clock, so tell me what I’m supposed to do,” I say cheerfully.

Jack’s face momentarily looks confused and I guess that here in Colorado they do not use the term ‘on the clock’.  I am just going to explain the term when Jack says, “All right, take your shoes and socks off and roll up your pant legs, or take your pants off.  You are going to do most of the tempering while I keep the mix at the proper consistency.

I slip my socks off and roll up my jeans almost to my knees.  I do really well to roll them up that far because denim does not stretch.  The cuffs fit tightly against my legs and I hope that they will seal the mud out.

“Come into the center of the pit and I will show you how to work the clay,” Jack says, entering the pit himself.

I step into the pit and my feet try to slide out from under me as they slip on the reddish-brown sticky slick clay.  Finally my feet touch bottom as I sink half way to my knees.  The clay is extremely thick and reminds me of the ceramic clay that I used in my seventh grade art class.

Jack reaches down and picks up a handful of clay.  “Jared, stick your hands in and feel the clay.”  He squishes it between his fingers and lets it ooze out in sticky strings.

I plunge both of my hands deep into the clay and let the cold slime stick to my skin.

“This mixture is almost done.  Feel the texture and the thickness.”

Now that Jack mentions it, I can feel the fine grit of the sand suspended in sticky squishy slime.  I can feel the resistance of the clay as I press it through my fingers.

“Remember how that feels because we have to make the next batch just like it.”

“What are we going to do with this batch?” I ask.

“We will scoop it out in buckets and deliver it to the molding table.  That’s where they shape the clay and form it into bricks.”

“So, how many bricks have we made so far?”

“None,” Jack answers.  “We started making bricks two days ago, but the clot molder did not like the consistency of the clay.  Mr. Roworth said to add more sand.  That would have been easy, but we had to haul the sand from the streambed.  So this is the first batch of the season.”  Jack looks at me and smiles, “So let’s get started.”

“What do I do first?”

“Go over to the molding table,” Jack points toward the east, “and bring back as many buckets as you can carry.  Then your job will be to fill the buckets with tempered clay and carry them back to the molding table.  Every time you take a full bucket, bring back the empty ones.”

“Okay,” I say.  “I can do that.”  I walk to the edge of the pit and lift my foot out, making a slurping, sucking sound as it escapes the clammy clutches of the clay.  I wipe as much gooey paste off my feet and hands as possible and set out for the molding table.  In a moment I see two laborers, bent over and busy.  One has a hammer and is pounding on a small wooden box.

“Excuse me,” I say.  “I’m looking for buckets.  We are about ready to bring over some tempered clay to the molding table.”  I try to sound official, using the new terminology I have just learned.  I think that I look official enough, with mud pasted up to my elbows and halfway up my legs.  I guess it works because both men look up from their work.

“Hi, Jared,” William says with a smile.  “The buckets are right over there.”  He points to the other side of a large, solid looking, wooden table, where about thirty metal buckets sit upside down in stacks.  “We are almost done with these extra brick molds, so your timing is perfect.”

I pick up ten buckets and head back to the pit.  When I get back to the tempering pit, Jack has already started digging a second pit.

“I want you to start filling those buckets,” he says.  “And as you fill them, check the mixture.  No rocks and no unmixed clods go into the buckets.”

It is not long before I have ten buckets filled with tempered clay.  I pick up two and carry them to the molding table.  The bucket handles dig into my hands, and my shoulders ache from the weight.

“Where do you want these?” I ask, relieved to set the buckets down for a moment.  I rub my hands where the metal handles of the buckets have pressed what seems like permanent grooves into my fingers.

“Set them next to the table,” William answers.  “I’ll tell Lewis that he has clay.  He’s the clot molder.  Bruce, our brick molder, and Lewis work together.”

I set the buckets down.  “I’ll have more in a few minutes,” I inform him.  I pick up some more empty buckets and head back to the pit.

I return to the molding table ten minutes later with two more full buckets and this time Lewis is there.  I watch him lift a glob of tempered clay from the bucket and shape it into a soft brick, then hand it over to Bruce.  Bruce rolls it in sand and dashes it into one of the wooden molds that have been sanded inside to keep the clay from sticking.  He presses the clay into the mold with his hands and a little bit squishes out of the top.  With a flat stick that has been soaking in a bucket of water, he scrapes off the excess, returning it to Lewis.