My father, Tony Zimmerman, possessed a strong work ethic that filtered down to me. He taught algebra and history in Tucson, Arizona, and he had a few avocations to support a family of five children. A jack-of-all-trades, contrary to the old adage, he was master of those he tackled. To supplement his teaching income he had summer jobs, such as testing milk for a dairy and in construction. He also kept about a hundred stands of bees.

barnes-blog-1The honey business was a family affair throughout the entire year. I helped Dad assemble bee frames and embed wax sheets in them. When we finished, I ran my hands over the perfect, hexagonal holes in the new wax, taking in its clean aroma.

After worker bees gathered their spring harvest of golden catclaw and mesquite honey, my father extracted it and poured it into a five-gallon can. Mom slowly warmed it on the kitchen stove, filling the house with a sweet aroma. After they strained the honey again and poured it into pint and quart jars, at the kitchen table we children glued pretty labels to them.

In the years that I attended Chapman College on Vermont Avenue in Los Angeles, I earned about half of my expenses and my father paid the rest. In my freshman year I ran copies of an alumni newsletter through an Addressograph machine in a musty basement. I also helped my roommate Frances and her older sister Laura operate a laundry service for the men’s dormitory. That year and the next I babysat for neighborhood residents.

barnes-blog-2All four years of college I waited on tables in the coed dining room, managed by Tiny Piper, Chapman alumnus, who also owned a cafeteria on Catalina Island. Each summer I sailed to the island with college pals to work as a cashier at Tiny Piper’s Cafeteria, staying in a dorm with a proper dorm mother. In our leisure time we sunbathed on the beach, hiked on the island, and danced at the Avalon Ballroom.

In my junior year an author employed me to type a book he was writing. For a brief time I had another job in the same neighborhood as a maid. When I asked the lady of the house if I could practice my singing while I worked, she dismissed me. Or maybe she didn’t like the way I polished her silverware.

In my senior year I had a scholarship as a soprano in a quartet. We sang in Los Angeles churches, and one evening when we were returning from Pasadena, we had an accident on the freeway. No one was seriously hurt, but I ended up with a black eye and couldn’t appear in public for a while. Sadly, the group was disbanded and my scholarship terminated.

barnes-blog-3That same year a friend with a weekly paper route paid me to help him. On Saturday mornings we delivered newspapers, enjoying the perks of sunshine and fresh air.

Mailer, waitress, laundress, secretary, baby sitter, housekeeper, typist, cashier, singer, and papergirl. Thanks to my father, I didn’t find these tasks demeaning, having been taught there was no disgrace in work. My industrious English-Irish and Swiss-German ancestors were farmers, merchants, teachers, preachers, and even governors. Perhaps there was a successful horse thief or two among them.

Story by author Mary Ellen Barnes
Historical fiction, memoir, Arizona history
maryellenbarnes.com

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