For you weightlifters: a case of 12 bottles of hard cider, 750ml each, weighs in at around 40lbs. Today we bottled a hair over 200 cases, and I packed and stacked about half of those, so let’s call it a 4,000lb day of lifting. Should I be proud?
No, I didn’t think so. I guess I won’t be winning any bodybuilding contests anytime soon…
This, in essence, is the life of small business. The great deciders and conceptualizers, the people with the great ideas and the business plan (you do have a plan, right?), also happen to be the ones who pull off 16 hour days of lifting and carrying and stacking, while soaked to the skin in a 40F bottling room. Since I’m neither a great decider nor a business planner, I get to do the same physical labor without the same reward. And by reward, I mean the threat of knowing that your personal life’s savings and second mortgage are tied into the business, and if one little thing goes wrong you’ll end up homeless.
Good lord, I sound like I’m trying to kill off entrepreneurship.
In any case, I’ve been working at Bellwether Hard Cider Co. for several years now, and I’m getting awfully involved in the business. Surprising? Yeah, it was to me. But there is something uniquely invigorating about being part of a tiny team of people, all working their butts off to scratch out a piece of the market. No slackers, no drones, and certainly no boredom. I would never call it a high-speed low-drag operation, but it’s a fucking blast.
Of course, it helps that I’m making a product that I actually believe in. It’s hard to be motivated when your job is to make and sell crap. Cider, though… damn I love that stuff. It’s good booze, and it’s an old American tradition.
Hard cider making in the US was demolished during Prohibition, which makes it a long time in coming back. Incidentally, the economy went biblically pear-shaped less than ten years after the feds banned alcohol… coincidence? In the New England/Northeast states, hard cider was particularly targeted by law enforcement, probably because it was so easy to make that everyone could (and did) ferment a few barrels every year. So, the fed.gov did what any moralizing government entity would do: deceive and destroy.
The destruction side was fairly simple. Booze was confiscated and poured out, cider presses and fermentation tanks were smashed, and apple orchards were razed. Wait, WTF? Orchards, those tree-fields that supply edible fruit to the people? Yep. In order to keep people from drinking (prohibition = bad idea), the feds sent in crews to cut down the apple trees (destroying food crops = fucking terrible idea). In the years I’ve worked at Bellwether, I’ve had a handful of people who remember watching the destruction with their own eyes.
One old man was part of the logging crews. He told me of his part in the destruction, still ashamed after all these years, especially once the Depression was in full swing and he realized that those old apple trees he had chopped down could have fed a lot of people…
The deception side of the war on hard cider was equally cruel. In the years before the ban on alcohol was enacted, newspapers started running stories about the health problems associated with drinking hard cider. The source of those stories? Not doctors, but temperance believers and their supporters in government. After hundreds of years of making and drinking cider, the feds had apparently discovered that cider would make a man blind, lazy, and impotent. I thought the impotence was a nice touch (oh noes, not the testicles!). There was also an apparent outbreak of a disease known as “cider palsy”, in which cider drinkers would develop brain damage and tremors. Blame it on their alcoholism? Naw, it must be the apples.
Hence prohibition, and the clear-cutting of the orchards.
The rural people in the Finger Lakes, of course, told the feds to get off their lawns, after which they continued to make cider. But the urban markets had dried up, mainly due to the supposed medical problems from cider drinking. So the farmers and the folk had a look-around, decided that they had an abundance of fruit, hills, rainfall, and bodies of water. You know what goes well with all of those? Distilling!
Oddly enough, the land and climate haven’t changed much in the last hundred years. So, even though the ban on making your own distilled spirits is still in place, you can sometimes hear of the pot stills hidden in the hills and woods, passed down through the generations since prohibition.
Good job, feddies. You cocked it up, as usual.
Hard cider is still easy to make, of course. And it’s legal. So now I make a ton of the stuff (yes, I know, many tons), along with the business owners and a couple other hardcore cider lovers. It’s hard work and long hours, just like any other small business. But everybody gets to do a bit of everything, and I’m part of that everybody, so I’m learning a hell of a lot. It’s fun, I get paid, and I bust my ass to make the business grow.
I also get free booze. You can be jealous now.
Showing posts with label Working Stiff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Working Stiff. Show all posts
Monday, November 10, 2008
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Things Your Child Will Do.
One of my co-workers in the cider making business was questioned by a group of mothers today. Specifically, they wanted to know why the Cayuga Wine Trail, as a rule, does not allow bus tours of college students into the various wineries and the solo cidery. Those perfectly raised, Ivy-League educated young ladies and gentlemen? Ahem. Surely, they can’t be the same as those students who show up on the buses at noon having brought a keg aboard at 10am with two hours of steady drinking under their belts. Or those smartly dressed young men who casually urinate onto the wheel of a family’s minivan in the parking lot. Or those charming young women who rut like animals in the unmown grass on the north side of the building, assuming that nobody can see them.
No, surely those can’t be your children.
Oi.
Here, then, is my short list garnered from my extensive experience on the (relatively) sober side of the bar, holding the attention and the confidence of innumerable students, of The Things Your Child Will Do:
You child will drink in college. And like it.
Your daughter will lie underneath some immature jerk-ass and have sex with him. And she will like it.
Your son will weigh down on top of some slut and have sex with her. And he will like it.
You child will have friends who casually use drugs that would land them in prison for years. Your kid will try some. And like it.
Your child will see somebody on a motorcycle and feel jealous.
Your child will listen to somebody whose political or social views you find repulsive. And they will think, “Huh, that makes sense”.
Your child will have several friends who drive drunk on a weekly basis. And your kid will stay friends with those people.
Your child will drive drunk. And do it again a week later.
Your child will go into a tattoo shop with a friend and feel jealous.
Your child will decide to become tattooed. And like it.
Your child will switch majors. Their new major will likely make them very, very poor.
You child will drink cheap beer.
Your child will have sexual fantasies about someone of another race.
Your child will have sexual fantasies in class.
Your child will listen to rap music. And like it.
Your child will listen to classical music. And like it.
Your child will consider, somberly and seriously, joining the military. And maybe join.
Your child will listen to the same music you listened to when you were their age.
Your child will fall in love. And love it.
Your son will find several people for whom he would proudly die.
Your daughter will find several men who would proudly die for her.
Your son will contemplate murder. And be okay with it.
Your daughter will contemplate murder to save her children. And be okay with it.
Your child, son or daughter, will seriously consider having children.
Your child will consider suicide. And not tell anyone.
Your child’s friend will commit suicide. And your child will think, “if only they had told me…”.
Your child, if in college, will look at somebody who did not go to college and feel jealous.
Your child, if not in college, will look at somebody who did go and feel jealous.
Your child will make bad decisions. And regret them.
Your child will make hard decisions. And stand by them.
Your child will come home on break and realize that you, too, have sex.
Your child will say something and think, “I sound like my parents…”.
Your child will say something and you will think, “they sound like me…”.
Your child will put on weight.
Your child will fail a test. And maybe a class.
Your child will ask you for advice. And follow it.
Your child will understand some hard decision you have made. And brutally defend you for it.
Your child will learn to respect some of your hard choices. And not tell you.
Your child will learn to despise some of your hard choices. And not tell you.
Your child will despise some of you. And respect you.
Your child will grow up. And realize it.
Your child will support you.
Your child will become an adult. And you will be rightfully proud.
Your child will become an adult. And they will rightfully thank you.
Thank you, mom.
Thank you, dad.
No, surely those can’t be your children.
Oi.
Here, then, is my short list garnered from my extensive experience on the (relatively) sober side of the bar, holding the attention and the confidence of innumerable students, of The Things Your Child Will Do:
You child will drink in college. And like it.
Your daughter will lie underneath some immature jerk-ass and have sex with him. And she will like it.
Your son will weigh down on top of some slut and have sex with her. And he will like it.
You child will have friends who casually use drugs that would land them in prison for years. Your kid will try some. And like it.
Your child will see somebody on a motorcycle and feel jealous.
Your child will listen to somebody whose political or social views you find repulsive. And they will think, “Huh, that makes sense”.
Your child will have several friends who drive drunk on a weekly basis. And your kid will stay friends with those people.
Your child will drive drunk. And do it again a week later.
Your child will go into a tattoo shop with a friend and feel jealous.
Your child will decide to become tattooed. And like it.
Your child will switch majors. Their new major will likely make them very, very poor.
You child will drink cheap beer.
Your child will have sexual fantasies about someone of another race.
Your child will have sexual fantasies in class.
Your child will listen to rap music. And like it.
Your child will listen to classical music. And like it.
Your child will consider, somberly and seriously, joining the military. And maybe join.
Your child will listen to the same music you listened to when you were their age.
Your child will fall in love. And love it.
Your son will find several people for whom he would proudly die.
Your daughter will find several men who would proudly die for her.
Your son will contemplate murder. And be okay with it.
Your daughter will contemplate murder to save her children. And be okay with it.
Your child, son or daughter, will seriously consider having children.
Your child will consider suicide. And not tell anyone.
Your child’s friend will commit suicide. And your child will think, “if only they had told me…”.
Your child, if in college, will look at somebody who did not go to college and feel jealous.
Your child, if not in college, will look at somebody who did go and feel jealous.
Your child will make bad decisions. And regret them.
Your child will make hard decisions. And stand by them.
Your child will come home on break and realize that you, too, have sex.
Your child will say something and think, “I sound like my parents…”.
Your child will say something and you will think, “they sound like me…”.
Your child will put on weight.
Your child will fail a test. And maybe a class.
Your child will ask you for advice. And follow it.
Your child will understand some hard decision you have made. And brutally defend you for it.
Your child will learn to respect some of your hard choices. And not tell you.
Your child will learn to despise some of your hard choices. And not tell you.
Your child will despise some of you. And respect you.
Your child will grow up. And realize it.
Your child will support you.
Your child will become an adult. And you will be rightfully proud.
Your child will become an adult. And they will rightfully thank you.
Thank you, mom.
Thank you, dad.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Retail Hell: Car Parts
In two sentences:
“No, the rear discs from your ’87 Firebird won’t bolt onto the hubs of your CJ-5.”
“Take the neon tubes out of your pant leg and stop trying to steal stuff!”
Oh, the seventh circle of hell is truly found within the doors of Autoplace (name changed to protect my sorry butt). This store, plunked as it was on the outskirts of Tinytown, served a population of two tribes: the white trash and the British car enthusiasts. The worst part about the Brit-car drivers was that they would 1) need the most obscure parts for their restorations, such as a 7mm hard brake line that gently flares out to fit a 9mm union at one end (and yes, we carried it), and 2) were perpetually lounging in the store with their elbows on the counter, telling the least probable stories that I’ve ever heard.
For instance, I once heard two tales of heroic driving and near-death experiences involving a Triumph TR-3 and a Corvette C5 Z-06 dueling on a twisty local road, with the Triumph taking the lead at the end by the tightest margin. While I don’t doubt the ability of a well driven TR-3 to beat a C5 around a tight course, I do doubt the ability of that particular TR-3, namely because I saw it barely run once, and it was in no shape to race a Huffy, much less a C5. That, and the second time I heard the story, the owner claimed to have lost to the Corvette because of a school bus coming up with road in the opposite lane and cutting off his last passing opportunity. Can’t splatter the kiddies over the countryside, don’tcha know.
Well, you can. But you probably shouldn’t.
The worst part about our white trash customers, on the other hand, was that they existed at all. These folks ranged from the merely stupid (which is aggravating but understandable) to the downright abusive. My first day on the job, actually, involved one fat old bastard buying new chrome lug nuts for his Pontiac Bonneville, cross-threading them, and then coming back into the store to holler at everyone working there for ruining his wheel studs.
And then there was the man who, having discovered a pinhole leak in his forward brake lines, pinched them off and drove eight miles to the Autoplace with only the rear drums on his pickup truck working.
Or the man who, as mentioned above, wanted to swap the rear discs from his Firebird to the front hubs of his CJ-5. When I looked up the parts (not that I needed to) and informed him that they wouldn't fit, he then inquired as to whether he could drill new holes in the discs to fit the bolt pattern on the Jeep, to which I replied that no, it would be dangerous without the proper tools. He showed up the following Monday evening with a need for a new rear disc, because he tried drilling anyway and ruined the disc and bored through the meat of his thumb. Which he showed us.
Other people were far more entertaining, the college students especially. Parents, if you’re going to go to the trouble of getting your kid into a premier Ivy League school, and the expense of buying them a brand new car, puh-leeeese spend five minutes teaching them how to take care of their machine. Or your son or daughter might end up being the source of limitless blogging material.
For instance: One Saturday morning we heard a Civic with the most awful rod knock come banging into the parking lot. I went out to investigate, being the helpful sort (she was cute). Our conversation went something like this.
Folks, welcome to my world. This one event stuck in my memory because (she was cute) Eric and I got chewed out by the manager for laughing so hard in the parking lot that we cried, and Eric sat down in a puddle of antifreeze. Poor Civic Driver got an education on engine lubrication, after which she called her father and asked him to pay $4000 for a new engine.
Teach your kids. You get to spend time with them, and it’s cheaper in the end.
It wasn’t just the lady students who caught severe cases of ignorance from their parents. We had our fair share of entitled young turks come through to display their various boneheaded moments in the parking lot.
One Ivy League freshman in his brand new M3 showed up asking for “performance” spark plugs. Which I sold him, for $8.99 each. I figured (wrongly) that he would be happy with his newly released fifty horses, and that there was no way to screw up a spark plug change. Thirty seconds after returning the spark plug wrench, though, this freshman got in his brand new, gift-from-daddy-for-quitting-cocaine BMW M3, started the car, and immediately revved it to the redline. At which point the number 2 cylinder spark plug, which he had neglected to tighten, divorced itself from the cylinder head at high speed and artfully dented the lovely aluminum hood.
I recommended a good BMW repair shop, and found him the number in the phone book.
The more observant employees of Autoplace also caught shoplifters from time to time. While baggy pants are great for holding all your loot, I do tend to notice if you walk into the store without a problem, and then walk out again dragging your pin-straight leg. Yes, those neon tubes that you can stick under your car are cool, and if you really want to you can shove them down your pant leg. But I would appreciate it if you paid for them
“No, the rear discs from your ’87 Firebird won’t bolt onto the hubs of your CJ-5.”
“Take the neon tubes out of your pant leg and stop trying to steal stuff!”
Oh, the seventh circle of hell is truly found within the doors of Autoplace (name changed to protect my sorry butt). This store, plunked as it was on the outskirts of Tinytown, served a population of two tribes: the white trash and the British car enthusiasts. The worst part about the Brit-car drivers was that they would 1) need the most obscure parts for their restorations, such as a 7mm hard brake line that gently flares out to fit a 9mm union at one end (and yes, we carried it), and 2) were perpetually lounging in the store with their elbows on the counter, telling the least probable stories that I’ve ever heard.
For instance, I once heard two tales of heroic driving and near-death experiences involving a Triumph TR-3 and a Corvette C5 Z-06 dueling on a twisty local road, with the Triumph taking the lead at the end by the tightest margin. While I don’t doubt the ability of a well driven TR-3 to beat a C5 around a tight course, I do doubt the ability of that particular TR-3, namely because I saw it barely run once, and it was in no shape to race a Huffy, much less a C5. That, and the second time I heard the story, the owner claimed to have lost to the Corvette because of a school bus coming up with road in the opposite lane and cutting off his last passing opportunity. Can’t splatter the kiddies over the countryside, don’tcha know.
Well, you can. But you probably shouldn’t.
The worst part about our white trash customers, on the other hand, was that they existed at all. These folks ranged from the merely stupid (which is aggravating but understandable) to the downright abusive. My first day on the job, actually, involved one fat old bastard buying new chrome lug nuts for his Pontiac Bonneville, cross-threading them, and then coming back into the store to holler at everyone working there for ruining his wheel studs.
And then there was the man who, having discovered a pinhole leak in his forward brake lines, pinched them off and drove eight miles to the Autoplace with only the rear drums on his pickup truck working.
Or the man who, as mentioned above, wanted to swap the rear discs from his Firebird to the front hubs of his CJ-5. When I looked up the parts (not that I needed to) and informed him that they wouldn't fit, he then inquired as to whether he could drill new holes in the discs to fit the bolt pattern on the Jeep, to which I replied that no, it would be dangerous without the proper tools. He showed up the following Monday evening with a need for a new rear disc, because he tried drilling anyway and ruined the disc and bored through the meat of his thumb. Which he showed us.
Other people were far more entertaining, the college students especially. Parents, if you’re going to go to the trouble of getting your kid into a premier Ivy League school, and the expense of buying them a brand new car, puh-leeeese spend five minutes teaching them how to take care of their machine. Or your son or daughter might end up being the source of limitless blogging material.
For instance: One Saturday morning we heard a Civic with the most awful rod knock come banging into the parking lot. I went out to investigate, being the helpful sort (she was cute). Our conversation went something like this.
Civic Driver: “I think there’s something wrong with my car.”
Retaxis: “Yeah, I could tell. Has it been making that noise for long?”
CD: “A couple of days.”
R: “When was the last time you had the oil changed?”
CD: (Shrugs) “The light on the dashboard has been on for a while. My boyfriend says it’s the oil light.”
R: “And how long has the idiot light been on?”
CD: “Four weeks.”
Folks, welcome to my world. This one event stuck in my memory because (she was cute) Eric and I got chewed out by the manager for laughing so hard in the parking lot that we cried, and Eric sat down in a puddle of antifreeze. Poor Civic Driver got an education on engine lubrication, after which she called her father and asked him to pay $4000 for a new engine.
Teach your kids. You get to spend time with them, and it’s cheaper in the end.
It wasn’t just the lady students who caught severe cases of ignorance from their parents. We had our fair share of entitled young turks come through to display their various boneheaded moments in the parking lot.
One Ivy League freshman in his brand new M3 showed up asking for “performance” spark plugs. Which I sold him, for $8.99 each. I figured (wrongly) that he would be happy with his newly released fifty horses, and that there was no way to screw up a spark plug change. Thirty seconds after returning the spark plug wrench, though, this freshman got in his brand new, gift-from-daddy-for-quitting-cocaine BMW M3, started the car, and immediately revved it to the redline. At which point the number 2 cylinder spark plug, which he had neglected to tighten, divorced itself from the cylinder head at high speed and artfully dented the lovely aluminum hood.
I recommended a good BMW repair shop, and found him the number in the phone book.
The more observant employees of Autoplace also caught shoplifters from time to time. While baggy pants are great for holding all your loot, I do tend to notice if you walk into the store without a problem, and then walk out again dragging your pin-straight leg. Yes, those neon tubes that you can stick under your car are cool, and if you really want to you can shove them down your pant leg. But I would appreciate it if you paid for them
Working Stiff
I have had several jobs since I turned 16 and discovered that cars and girlfriends cost more money than an allowance can afford. Some of these were good, fun, rewarding jobs: Coach, Cider Maker, Engineering Intern. Others, which some of you will nod at knowingly, were essentially unholy hell: Day Camp Counselor, Clothes Salesman, and Car Parts Salesman.
I don’t really count my translation and editing work as a job, because I do it more on a “oh, hey, I need cash” basis than on anything approaching a regular schedule.
As for the trio of jobs that I generously label as “not so good”, let me first say this: I am glad that I had those jobs, and I am equally glad that they are over. I don’t mean to insult anybody who does any of those for a living and loves it. In fact, I’m eternally grateful to you all for doing those jobs so that I don’t have to. I learned a lot selling car parts to rednecks and shirts to women of a certain age, and I can’t bring myself to be a jerk to any sales associate, cashier, or waiter because I’ve been there and dealt with the bullshit. But, damn, I was a horrible salesman.
The sales gigs came about because I needed something part-time while I was in school and I was singularly unqualified to do anything more interesting than minimum wage retail work. Most of you are familiar with this situation. It’s what my grandparents would have described as a “character building experience”.
And they would have been right, too, so far that as soon as I built up enough character to quit, I did.
I don’t really count my translation and editing work as a job, because I do it more on a “oh, hey, I need cash” basis than on anything approaching a regular schedule.
As for the trio of jobs that I generously label as “not so good”, let me first say this: I am glad that I had those jobs, and I am equally glad that they are over. I don’t mean to insult anybody who does any of those for a living and loves it. In fact, I’m eternally grateful to you all for doing those jobs so that I don’t have to. I learned a lot selling car parts to rednecks and shirts to women of a certain age, and I can’t bring myself to be a jerk to any sales associate, cashier, or waiter because I’ve been there and dealt with the bullshit. But, damn, I was a horrible salesman.
The sales gigs came about because I needed something part-time while I was in school and I was singularly unqualified to do anything more interesting than minimum wage retail work. Most of you are familiar with this situation. It’s what my grandparents would have described as a “character building experience”.
And they would have been right, too, so far that as soon as I built up enough character to quit, I did.
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