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A Voice from the Past
February 12, 2003

Each of us hear voices from our past.  Individuals we interact with living our everyday lives, that influence us later.  We have no idea their wisdom will stand the test of time.  It is only in our own reflection of the past, can we say, "you know Mr. So and So was right when he said that."  Often the influence comes not from words, but in how that individual lived his life.

They can be teachers, coaches, friends, and co workers.  In other words, almost anyone.

During my ride through the Heartland last fall, I had the opportunity to think and reflect on many items.  The weather was cool, and the roads empty and straight.  The endless rows of corn stretched as far as I could see, watching them flick by relaxed my thoughts.  My mind wandered aimlessly from topic to topic as the ST purred along.  A long ride stimulates my mental faculties like nothing else.   It is the purest form of therapy.

With retirement looming in the near future, I spent more time than usual thinking about the place I worked before the fire department, and how that experience formed the symbiosis, for later.  I would try to push my mind to other things, but over and over it came back to those days at Alaga Whitfield.  I wanted to focus on the new life ahead of me, but my cranium would have none of it.  I tried to entertain thoughts of endless off days in the near future, and how I would spend them, but a few miles later I was back to 1977 and the pickle plant.

My immediate supervisor at Alaga was a dark skinned, firmly cut, middle aged black man, named W.T.  At the time he was in his mid 40s, but did not look a day over 30.  I was awed by his agility at climbing the 12 foot high pickle barrels.  Up and down all day he could go.  I was amazed he could walk the large complex for hours and never tire.  From early May to Labor Day we worked 7 days a week, many weeks I put in 80 hours.  He never missed a day.  In the 5 years I worked there ( the last 3 full time),  the man never called in sick once.  He could work months without a single day off.  He drove 40 miles to work one way.  He was never tardy despite the fact we had to clock in by 6am.  In the winter we worked an hour in the dark, waiting for the sun to rise.  I recall walking through the plant, out the back doors, and down the ramps to the outside at 5:55am, and seeing the light on in the tiny office, signifying WT was already there, sorting things for the day's work to come.  We worked outside in the elements, thus avoiding the mindless, repetitive tasks of our counterparts inside.  That was a positive point.

WT and I had our differences.  He helped me get the foremans job, despite the fact I was so young, but we clashed often. For example, I thought he let too many guys off on Friday's after lunch, and said so.   I thought there were many things we did inefficiently, but I never could get him to lets us change.  He had 25 years with the company, noway was he listening to me.  When he was on vacation 3 weeks in December, we got off work an hour earlier then normal, because I was able to implement some of my ideas.   I felt particularly wronged by him in a disciplinary case against me by the plant manager.  Something went wrong, and someone had to pay, and it was me, even though I was not the guy in charge.  I was pissed at WT for hanging me out, and not defending me.  That incident was one of the main reasons I left, it pushed me to the fact I wanted to be a firefighter, not a factory worker. 

It took me a long time to recognize the contributions he made to work psyche. 

I left Alaga with a bad taste in my mouth.  WT was on vacation when I put my notice in, and I was gone when he came back.  I was only able to give a weeks notice, because I had to be sure I passed the fire department agility test, before telling management I was leaving.  How embarrassing it would have been to say I was leaving for the fire department, only to come back and say I failed the agility test, and needed my job back.

I was riding through Indiana thinking about all that.  I wanted to make things right between WT and I, because in retrospect, he helped me, I was too young to recognize it at the time.  I made a mental note to track him down when I returned to Alabama.  

It was because of WT I had so much sick time in the books.  It was not in me to call in sick, unless I was really bad off.  In 24+ years of service to the city I can count on 1 hand the days I missed sick.  I added another year of service to my retirement because I came to work everyday.  I was never late for a tour of duty, and my evaluations reflected that.  Every job assigned to me I carried out to the end, because of the pickle plant and WT.  At the time I cursed him, for making us carry out such seemingly pointless jobs.  It was passed to me, if I wanted my guys to be at work on time, then I damn sure better be there before them.  Noway I could be late at Alaga, because I KNEW he would be there to note it.

Alabama was canopied in a cold winter in 2002-03.  We have had 40+ nights of below freezing temps, but the days warm up nicely and I'm able to ride.  It was time to carry out my pledge to find WT.

It was beautiful winter day in Alabama on Feb 12.  Sunny and 65 degrees.  I gassed the ST up, then went for a burger at the Steak and Shake near I-65.  As I ate lunch, I plotted the strategy for finding WT.  The last I heard, he had retired from Alaga several years ago with 40 years of service.  How does a guy do 40 years at a job like that?  Can I find him, and if I do, would he remember me? Would he think I'm crazy to show up at his door after 24 years?  What if he remembered, but does not care to chat?  If the latter is the case, that will be ok, for then I can say I did all I could. 

I knew WT lived in the small community of Ada, located about 40 miles south of Montgomery on US 331.  I passed through it many times on frequent trips to the beach, and when I did, I thought about him.

After lunch I got on I-65 South and went to Montgomery, exiting at the Southern Blvd.  I made my way through the decaying west side of the city, and soon found myself leaving it on US 331.  It felt good to be riding again after a 5 day lay off.  How do the brothers up north go so many months without riding?

The highway is quiet, and I quickly find myself at the BP station in the Ada Community.  Ada is a small place, only a few houses and farms.  I figure everyone knows everyone.  My strategy to find WT?  Just ask someone.  I bought a Mountain Dew and went outside to wait for the first black person to drive up.  I did not have to wait long.  Soon, a black lady with a corrections officer uniform on, drives up and gets out to pump gas.

"excuse me m'am, do you know a elderly black guy that goes by the name WT?"

"yeah"

"he is still alive?"

"yes, and doing quite well"

"do you know where he lives?  I use to work with him many years ago at the pickle plant, I would like to see him again"

"go to that road yonder, and follow it for 2-3 miles.  You will come to a brown house, turn left there to a dirt road, his trailer is 3-4 fourth on the left, its kind of gold colored"

"thanks"

I follow her directions and I'm surprised how pleasant this road is.  Quiet and rural, with hills and a few curves.  Spanish Moss hangs thick in the trees, reminding me of the Everglades.  I notice smoke in the distance from a grass fire or control burn.

I find the turn off and take the dirt road.  Several big puddles are in the middle of the road, and I have to maneuver around them.  From there, it was just a short ride to the trailer of my long ago boss.

There are no trees in the front yard, and I park the ST near the edge of the road, and walk to the front door.  Pinned dogs in the back bark and yelp. Their howls surely letting the occupants know they have company.

I skip going up the steps and knock on the door from the ground, thinking it maybe less threatening to folks inside.  An elderly black lady opens the door.

"m'am I'm looking for WT, I use to work with him at the pickle plant."  She looks down at me apprehensively, " He is not here, out feeding cows over yonder", as she pointed to a nearby barn.  "Reckon it'd be alright to go visit him for minute?"  "Don't see why not.  Who'd ya saw you were?"  "Name is Guy"

I walk across the field and about halfway there I see him.  He keeps working as he sees me approach.  He would look up then drop back down to his business.  

When I got close enough for detail I could see he has not changed much.  In his 70s now, but still looking fit, he would make any 50 something man jealous.  He does not recognize me.  The last time he saw me I was 23, with dark brown hair, and a baby face.  Now a gray haired middle age man stands before him,and he has no clue to who I am.

I stuck my hand out and said, "Its me WT, Guy, Guy Boutin from the pickle plant days."  "YES! YES!! how are you???? What brings you here?  NOW I know WHO you are!"  I shot back, "Yeah, 24 years has a way of makin ya forget details."  His white teeth grinning in the outline of his dark face.

We sat down on a hay bale in the old barn.  He use to talk about his cows when we had down time on the job.  " I see some things never change, you're still ridin motorsickles."  "Well yeah, its in my blood."  His voice still sounded the same, but his features looked older, but no doubt, I would have recognized him anywhere.

"So what brings you this way?"  I answered him straightforwardly, " well, I've been meaning for sometime to come see ya, and I just got around to it.  I just came to thank you for all you did for me back in those days.  I learned many things from you, that helped me have a successful career in the fire department.  I will soon be retiring, and wanted you to know that.  We had our troubles, but they are not important now.  I'm sorry I did not return tp say good bye while you still worked there."

He looked at me with appreciation and spoke.  "I'm a old man now, and I forget things, but I often thought how ya might have turned out.  I'm glad to see ya did good, and if I was any help in some small way, I'm flattered."

We spoke at length about the old days.  About how hard the work was, and how it seemed everyone was ganging up on our department, it was just us against them.  After 30 minutes I said, "look, I'll let ya get back to your work."  He strolled with me back to the ST, and we kidded each other as I stuck my earplugs in, and put my helmet on.  He was grinning broadly, and I could tell my visit brightened his day.  I was happy I came.

I got back on the ST and punched the starter button.  With the ST quietly idling, I took one last look into his weathered face and nodded,  he padded my back, and I dropped into gear and rolled out, and in a few minutes I was back on the highway heading for Prattville.

I could not help but think it was the last time I was ever going to see WT.  I felt good I was able to deliver my message before it was too late.  But who knows, that joker may out live me.

The ride home went quickly, even though I took the long way.  I drifted along the familiar highways, and thought how riding influences me to do things I would otherwise never do.  The ST is like my silent partner, taking me places, and at the same time keeping my life in order.  Its as if he whispered to me back in the corn rows of Iowa, "hey you need to go see WT when we get back to Bama."

I turned into my neighborhood, and see the black Accord in the driveway, signaling my wife was home from work.  I pulled in the garage and stepped into the smell of supper cooking.  I found a kitchen chair and began removing my boots and Roadcrafter.  My wife quizzed me, "where ya been?"  "ah, no place really, just out killing time, and making a few things right along the way."  She glanced back at me, all serious looking, "so how'd ya do that?  Never mind, I'm sure I won't understand."  "Probably not baby," as I smiled and clicked on the TV.