Dad walked into the East Moline Works of International Harvester one Monday morning carrying his black lunch bucket with the silver latches—the kind with the domed lid that held his Thermos of coffee in the top.
He didn’t work there. His last job had ended, and he was looking for a new one. He told Mom he would be back when he found one.
International Harvester was a big employer in our area. Getting a job there could easily become the start of a career.
Dad walked into the plant manager’s office. When it was his turn to be called inside, the plant manager offered him a seat and asked him why he was there.
“I’m looking for a job,” Dad said. “I’ll do any job, no matter what it is. I’ll sweep floors if that is all you have.”
The manager listened, then shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything for you. We aren’t hiring.”
Dad stood and thanked him, then left the office—but he didn’t leave the plant. He took a seat in a chair just outside the manager’s office.
When the day shift ended at 3:30 pm, Dad left to find something to eat. At night, he slept in the car. He returned at 7 am the next morning when the day shift began, lunch bucket in hand.
He continued this routine for most of the week.
Dad said the plant manager began giving him odd looks as he went in and out of his office. Later that week, he stopped and asked Dad, “You’re still here?”
“Yes, and I’m going to be here until you give me a job.”
Dad said the manager shook his head and walked away.
The next day, the manager approached him with a broom in his hand.
He handed it to Dad and simply said, “Start sweeping.”
Before the day was over, Dad had his ID badge and was an official employee.
Dad swept floors for a few days but was soon promoted to machinist, a job he held for over twenty years. He fed sheets of metal into a machine, making parts for combines and other equipment.
As he neared retirement age, Dad developed some health issues, so they gave him a job as a fork truck driver.
Eventually, Mom and Dad relocated to East Moline so Dad wouldn’t have the nearly 75 mile round trip to and from work every day. They were fortunate to locate a home just outside the entrance to the plant.
When I was in my late thirties, International Harvester hosted an open house, inviting the families of their employees to attend.
Dad said they cleaned for days to get the plant ready.
Our whole family attended. Dad showed us around and explained what his job was. It was amazing how many processes those sheets of steel went through before they became finished pieces of farm machinery.
It made Dad’s stories about the different jobs he performed in the space of a day easier to understand.
I was impressed. The machinery Dad was helping to build was so much bigger and more complex than the simple machinery he had back on the farm.
The open house answered questions I had wondered about for years.
“What was it like where Dad worked?”
“What did he do there?”
Of course, he had shared what it was like, but that isn’t the same as seeing it for myself.
The next day, I wrote a letter to the plant manager thanking him for allowing me to see what I had always wondered about as a child.
He didn’t answer me, but I didn’t expect him to.
However, I was surprised the next time I saw Dad. He grinned, and handed me a copy of the company newsletter.
They had printed my letter verbatim thanking them for the open house and telling them about the questions it had put to rest for me!
I was so surprised! And it was obvious that Dad was proud something I wrote was chosen for the company newsletter.
Dad retired at age sixty-six, after a career that spanned thirty years.
The lunch bucket was retired, too.
A short time later, he stopped by to visit with his foreman. They shared a good laugh when his foreman told him they had given his job to two younger men—because one couldn’t keep up.
I can picture him laughing with a twinkle in his eye when his foreman told him that, because it happened every time he told the story afterward.
That was my Dad. He was an exceptionally hard worker, always focused on the job at hand, and doing it to the very best of his ability.
When I was growing up, I didn’t think too much about why he worked, other than the fact that it was just something that fathers did.
Now I realize he did it all for us—to give our family a nice home, plenty to eat, and the kind of loving home life we enjoyed growing up.
I know it couldn’t have been easy, but he did it anyway. For us. For thirty years.
Because that is just who he was.
Through My Eyes, Gently 