Me, a Carhop

There comes a time in every teen's life when she wants a real job. Not a baby-sitting job. Not a house-cleaning job. But a job that pays money (and deducts taxes). A job that results in a steady stream of disposable income.

At almost sixteen years old, in Jermyn during the late summer of 1968, there wasn't a large selection of part-time jobs that attracted my interest. An advertisement for a carhop position at a local restaurant--- the San-Aw--got my attention. I applied for the job even though I had no idea what a carhop was. I was determined to be the best carhop the San-Aw ever had.

The owner, Al (Alexander Wanas), conducted my interview in the restaurant's dining area. Because I liked being outdoors and I liked people, I felt those traits already qualified me for the position. Al explained how every employee took a turn filling the napkins and condiments on the tables, checking supplies and cleaning the restrooms, and wiping the machines and tables. In time, I'd learn to serve coffee to dining room customers and run the milkshake machine and cash register because now and then it'd be busier inside than outside.

In warm weather, we wore white shorts or a short white skirt, and a navy blue-and-white striped vest. A white shirt under the vest and long pants were for cooler weather. The most important rule for the carhops was "Don't let a customer drive away with the tray." The cost of a missing tray would be deducted from your paycheck..

The restaurant patio provided a view of the curb service parking lot so we sat on the patio during any breaks or slow time (mostly to keep track of our trays). We'd only return to the car if the customer flashed the lights.

At some point during my first evening on the job, I went inside to use the bathroom. When I returned to the patio, Linda ran up to me shouting, "Number Eight just pulled away with your tray." Didn't we watch out for each other's trays? I began searching around the paved area in the dark, hoping the tray had been tossed into the surrounding shrubbery. No luck. I walked back to the patio and sobbed.

Linda and Mary Jane laughed and pointed to a chair where my tray sat. "It's a kind of game we play, an initiation sort-of. We take bets on whether the new girl will cry." Mary Jane put two dimes into Linda's outstretched hand.

"Fun-nee," I said. I immediately liked my carhop pals.

Al turned the Curb Service Open sign off if the rain was heavy. Customers would patiently sit in their cars and listen to music or make out until the rain lightened up. Some nights the summer's brief rain showers were the only times we could enjoy our allotted meal.

Every part of working at the San-Aw was fun. At the end of the night, we'd turn up the volume on the jukebox and prepare the restaurant for the next day. When Al completed mopping, we'd 'skate' on towels to dry the floor.

It was my first experience interacting with people outside of school, my Mayfield friends, and The Lane residents. ​It seemed we were never in a hurry to go home at the end of the night shift. We'd tell stories and jokes and listen to Al's plan for a future addition, another dining area with a bar and a wall of mirrors. Al shared his methods for memorizing customers' names and how to impress the patrons by memorizing their orders (the items were written on the tab once we were out of eyesight).

Al kept his harmonica tucked inside his shirt pocket and we'd hear him play "happy birthday" when a customer mentioned it was a birthday.

By the time the following summer rolled around, I had saved some money despite purchasing at least a hundred 45rpm records and a brown suede jacket with fringed sleeves. I would stay on the carhop schedule throughout the upcoming school year.

Money in my pocket as an eleventh grader with a driver's learning permit gave me a feeling of independence.

Section is from an early draft of Calico Lane.

A Rectangular Piece of Heaven

In 1958 my parents decided it was time to move from the Mayfield apartment in Baba's house and into a home of their own. Mom said Auntie Heley rushed to our rescue if she heard our cries. Whenever Baba kept an eye on us while Mom finished chores, Baba gave us cookies, and then we weren't hungry for supper. Uncle Bill gave us sour pickles; our scrunched-up faces made him laugh. Jayne and Janet were allowed to play with the little spice jars in the cabinet; their eyes became red and watery. We dug in the gardens with small shovels from Uncle Steshie. Uncle Washo lifted us to reach the juicy grapes on the vine. We returned to Mom, either crying or dirty or with belly aches or rashes. Baba and my uncles never said 'no' to us.

Mom's goal for her house's location was to get as far away from Mayfield's Kiehart homestead as humanly possible. The adjacent town of Jermyn would do just fine. In 1958 there weren't many vacant lots available. Mom suggested Dad build closer to the school in the 'uptown' section of Jermyn. After a moment's thought, my practical dad said, "The girls won't be in school for long; if we build near the church over The Lane, we can walk to the services."

Dad put the word out that he was looking for a building lot. His nephew told him about a rectangular corner lot he had just surveyed. Dad drove by the lot and then to the courthouse to inquire.

Five hundred dollars was the cost for the little piece of land. At a time when three cans of pork and beans cost 25 cents, and a three-pound package of ground beef sold for 89 cents, Dad's weekly gross wages were barely $50 a week. By doing without, my parents had been able to save a whopping $480 over ten years. Dad had steady work at the factory (but no overtime), and Mom earned a little by sewing at home. My parents were great penny pinchers.

That night at the kitchen table, they talked about their dilemma: How could they raise $20 before someone would purchase the lot?

The same evening, a church member came to our apartment selling 50/50 raffle tickets for ten cents each. Mom bought three tickets (one in each of her daughters' names). Mom said she felt guilty spending a hard-earned 30 cents on gambling; she felt less blameworthy when the ticket in Jayne's name won. Mom's winnings would be exactly twenty dollars. The next day, Dad bought the lot on the corner of Walnut and Lackawanna. After ten years of marriage and three children, they were on their way!

Years earlier, Dad assisted a friend with some work on a little house in Mayfield. Dad drew plans based on that house and bought some basic books on foundations and framing and pretty much learned as he went. Post-WWII men rallied around each other in Jermyn; many were eager to help with a building project. I often went to the site and watched Dad, my uncles, and my dad's friends work.

The men dug the holes for the basement and garage by hand; the cinder block foundation was carefully laid brick by brick. Uncle Washo, Dad's oldest brother, balanced me on the cinder blocks; the excitement built. Mom and Dad wanted a house of their own and so I wanted it too, even though it was hard to imagine living in a place away from Baba. Later, Dad pointed to a framed-in room and announced it would be my bedroom. I walked around the freshly cut lumber – the smell of which continues to bring happy memories. Whenever the wind picked up, the sawdust swirled around like snow.

Dad meticulously kept a log of all the men who helped build our house. According to his notes, the men clocked 2,241 man-hours during the construction. They worked some evenings and most Saturdays. Dad also recorded the cost of every window, door, and load of lumber in addition to hours worked by each man (Dad made it a point to repay in kind as time went on). Mom told me they never had to borrow money from the bank. Once in awhile, family would loan money which was paid back with current interest rate).

​It took about 18 months to get the house into a somewhat habitable condition. A dirt floor basement, no cabinet or closet doors, no garage bay door, no front porch, no interior trim, no sidewalks or driveway. The list of NO's went on.

In 1960 when we moved in, Dad estimated the house's value at $6,000. To my parents, it was their million-dollar mansion sitting on a rectangular piece of heaven.

Photos taken long after the 1960 'move in' period.

Babas

We called both our grandmothers, Baba, which, in the Russian tradition, is a name that shows respect for the oldest woman in the family. Both my parents held family in the highest regard and from an early age I learned to respect my extended family.

If you were lucky enough to live in close proximity to your Baba, you would experience the visits of the ‘away’ aunts, uncles, and cousins whenever they would come to Jermyn for a visit.

As children we lived five short blocks from my Baba Fedorchak, and less than a mile from my Baba Kiehart. I was one of the lucky ones.

Photo circa 1968: Mom (Irene) , Baba Fedorchak, me, Jayne, Janet and Baba Kiehart

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