Some fathers and grandfathers like to pull out childhood memories of walking five miles in knee-deep snow (or hard rain) to get to school. Any present dilemmas are miniscule in comparison, but I must admit that laboring as an ironworker hanging mullions (window panels), and all the trepidation it incurred, really does entitle me to gloat at how much harder we had it back in the '50s.
While waiting for a reprographics project downtown, I glanced out the big window in the waiting area and saw ironworkers on a new building straddling beams and girders (red iron) doing the same job I did years ago.
The difference was these folks were wearing elbow and knee pads, hard hats (which just got in the way 50 years ago) and safety belts tied to the vertical beams above, thwarting any more than a 2 foot fall.
I watched one ironworker use a cell phone to signal the crane operator to lower a huge panel. Someone else pulled it in place to be welded. It was then that I discovered one of them was a woman.
That never would have happened 50 years ago. Not that it was a bad thing; it just didn't exist in my day: "The woman's place was in the home!" Of course, there was a noteworthy exception during World War II: the "Rosie the Riveter" phenomenon! What would we have done without her?
As I watched this female worker pull a panel and guide it into place while being strapped to the beam above, I realized how she was doing her job was 150 percent safer compared with the days of yesteryear.
When I reported to my job at Fentron Industries, I was to assist a fellow ironworker hang a container wall on the exterior of a building eight stories high. A cable strung from a truck to a spool, weighted down with sand bags, was cradled between two 4x4s and hung on the far end. The beams extended about four feet over the building's edge. The cable would sometimes creak, a sound that was truly unwelcome when dangling below. Another coworker held a line tied to the panel to keep it from binding on the building.
One of my jobs as an apprentice (more affectionately known as a punk) when reporting to the jobsite was to fill a 50-gallon drum with wood and light a fire creating warmth for the workers on cold and rainy mornings. After meeting everyone, a big burly dude said, "So, you're the new iron monkey. You're lucky; you get to sit all day." They all laughed.
At first, it reminded me of my grade school years when kids teased me about the patches in my jeans, and so I was poised to defend my honor. But I also recalled the usually guaranteed second place finish in most fistfights. After recalculating the size of this guy, I decided to join in the laughter.
The horn blew and we crammed into the too-small elevator, the operator yelling that if we wanted to keep any body parts, to keep them inside the rails. At warp speed we reached the roof, where I was instructed to walk down a few floors to where my sitting job awaited: A boson's chair.
My job: to guide the panel using vise-grips while it was welded in place. I stepped in and sat on the board with my left hand held tight to the cable above. I remember my grandfather Walter "Wolf" Larson who was on the board of directors at the International Ironworkers of America, who was instrumental in getting me the job saying, "One hand for the company, one hand for your life!"
I tried my best to look out and not down, keeping my mind on the task at hand. No draglines for us, and no safety lines either, for they'd just get all tangled. And no hard hats, or you couldn't get in and out of the panel. Knee and elbow pads? That's what Band-Aids were for. As I was lowered to the panel, my heartbeat was probably heard for miles waiting for the cable drum to spool up then fall four inches, bouncing me in the chair along with it. That was a new sensation. One seldom got bored working iron.
Safe and sophisticated Do you suppose any of those ironworkers I saw this day could swing in a boson's chair? There were no cell phones way back when; it was all done with hand signals and yelling. Today all that is needed is a person on a phone to the crane operator and a signal to the welder.
I worked all around the Seattle area on buildings of all sizes for three years. After two years in the Army, I was anxious to get back to my old life, but I found it difficult to get back onto a beam as an ironworker.
A friend of mine would say, "Some can't walk in the clouds". I felt better about it then.
One thing is for sure: ironworkers are one hell of a bunch of brave men and women. If ever anyone fell into the hole and lost their lives, the rest of us walk off the job for a day or more. When I look at the buildings in Seattle still standing today, I am amazed and proud to have had a hand in their construction.
Richard Carl Lehman may be reached via mptimes@nwlink.com.
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