What was your oddest job?
Larry Moennig, president of First State Bank of Purdy, grew up on a rural Pierce City farm that grew hay and crops. He was used to hard work. “I’d buck bales of hay until the job was done,” Moennig recalled. “That’s just what you did on the farm. One year, it was toward the end of summer. I was either a teenager or in my early 20s. The harvest haying was done, and I needed a job to finish the summer. I applied to G&R Machine in Pierce City to see if they had any work I could do for four to six weeks.” G&R Machine, owned by Glen Garrett and Bill Roller of Purdy, manufactured custom metal parts. Much of their business came from orders from the U.S. Military. Moennig received a job offer, for either the second or third shift, later in the day than young people are used to working. Nonetheless, it was employment and he needed it. “I went in for the first day,” Moennig recalled. “The ‘G’ in G&R—Glen Garrett—showed me the job.” The project was making magnesium shells for military fire bombs. Each metal casing went through a two-step process on two separate machines, going through the hands of two people, reaming the piece in two separate processes. The second person, which was Moennig, depended on the pace set by the first person. “Glen stood at his machine, ran his part then threw it in a box for me,” Moennig recalled. “He was very fast. I was a farm boy. I was not going to let anyone show me up. We worked for two hours. Neither of us got ahead of the other. We were very busy. He worked very hard, then he went on to another job. Another guy came after him and kept working with me. He wasn’t nearly as fast. “I felt Glen was testing me out. I felt I earned the job after two hours. I
56 | September 2018
showed I could do whatever he asked. I worked there for six weeks. I relayed much of my work ethic to my parents, who showed me you go to work no matter what, hot, dry or whatever.” Years later Moennig had a chance to work for Garrett again at the bank. It was years after that before Moennig recounted the story of their first meeting to Garrett, who had by then forgotten it. “I look back on it now as a valuable lesson,” Moennig said. “The moral of the story is show up every day. Do what you’re asked to do and mind your own business. That’s a very valid philosophy.”
As author of this piece, I, Murray Bishoff, will end this story with a personal recollection. When I worked at Prevue Magazine in Reading, Penn., in the mid-1980s, the city introduced a clean-up day, much like the one Monett offers. I worked in a three-story 1890s-vintage row house that was packed with paper products sold by mail order, and other sundries that had nowhere else to go. My boss told me I could haul what I could to the curb for disposal. For a while I had had my eye on an old hot water heater stored in the basement, standing near the heater currently in use. I had no idea why it was there, and considered it prime material for the clean-up. So that Friday evening, with pick-up on Saturday morning, I put a bear hug around this rusted old water heater and prepared to drag it from one end of the basement to the other, about 150 feet or so, and up the front staircase to the street. I didn’t know the heater was propped on three legs that fell to the floor as soon as I picked it up. I also didn’t know it was still full of water, which splashed in my face. In the process of trying to move it and turn, my
glasses flew off. So there I was, practically blind, no one else around, surrounded by stacks of paper inventory that could all be ruined if that heater spilled, unable to set the metal cylinder down because the legs were gone and unable to hold it up because of the enormous weight. I recall pausing, desperately contemplating my limited options. Then I heaved the cylinder against an adjacent stack of boxes and managed to prop it up. I couldn’t let go of it to find a bucket because it wouldn’t stand on its own. I finally decided to take my chances, secured my grip and somehow managed to drag it upright about 10 feet to a floor drain. Once there, I gradually tipped the heater until I got it on its side and drained out all the water, dark brown from rust. After I got the beast on the floor, I went back and rooted around until I could find my glasses. Few times in my life have I been more pleased than when I finally laid the empty heater down on the sidewalk outside. I seem to recall it wasn’t light, even when empty. I tried to explain to my boss what I’d gone through the next day, but he didn’t seem to grasp my peril. He was more curious why I chose to haul the heater away in the first place. But I knew. My only regret was not being on the sidewalk to watch the city workers hoist my burden off to the oblivion it so richly deserved.
Marray Bishoff