Asphalt on Gravel

The paving of the road was another drawn-​out process. When I graduated from high school in 1969, I was lucky to get a summer job flagging with the road crew. I worked long days, and the pay was good. When I see the flaggers of today, decked out in their colour-​co-ordinated fluorescent coats and rain pants, hard hats and steel-​toed boots, I envy their work-​preparedness. The extent of my provided gear was a flimsy fluorescent vest and a stop sign. I wore cheap runners, my brother’s heavy sweater on cold days and no hat, hard or otherwise. A typical teenager of the day, I was ill-​prepared for long hours spent standing in the sun or rain.

There wasn’t much traffic back then, but the job was never boring. I recall looking up from the bottom of Hydro Hill when a roller machine went over the side. Luckily, the young fellow running it jumped off before it crashed down into the trees. On another occasion, one of the gravel truck drivers backed into the side of my father’s 1963 Chevy Impala, which he had generously permitted me to drive to work, and which I had parked in what I thought was an out-of-the-​way spot. I was nervous driving home from work that day, but Dad handled it with his usual even temperament.

Lots of overtime bolstered my university bankroll. I enjoyed chatting with the truck drivers and road crew, and tuning in to the nature that surrounded me. Pat North and I still reminisce about the good money and fun times of flagging on the road that summer.