High schools are out for the summer.

Some lucky teenagers have joined the work force for July and August. I say “lucky” because jobs are hard enough to find for adults who have lost their situations. The Gazette recently ran a story about kids and their hard searches for financial gain during the summer.
It’s nice just to have a spot on the payroll these days, and kids are fortunate to have spots at hamburger grills or behind steering wheels.

I remember both jobs fondly.

I landed my first full-time summer job in 1973, shortly after graduating from fabled Aquinas Institute in Rochester, N.Y. I had two jobs that year, one better than the other.

The first gig was at the Red Barn. This fast-food franchise restaurant competed with McDonald’s and Burger King. While those two joints sold the Quarter Pounder and Whopper, respectively, the Red Barn’s claim to fame was the Barnbuster — the usual over-sized hamburger patty, lettuce, tomato, Russian salad dressing, onions. Our “Big Barney” competed with McDonald’s “Big Mac” and the Carroll’s “Club Burger,” as all three were double-decker sandwiches.

I remained in thrall as a counterman for about a week, stuffing bags with “Barnbusters” and french fries, trying hard to make the right change and praying no crook would hold us up. It was my second restaurant job — I had spent Friday nights in the kitchen of the Golden Rooster on Lyell Avenue, washing dishes and sipping 7-Ups from 6 until 10 p.m. I earned $12.50 a night, plus a late dinner with the staff courtesy of John the cook.

I ended my nights with the Red Barn to accept a more lucrative position with the City of Rochester. Our local neighborhood park — Maplewood — was hiring, and I was given the job of pool watchman.
It was kind of a mistake. Maplewood didn’t have a pool, just a pond popular only with fish. Still, as I was on the roster as a watchman, I earned $3 an hour to shoot baskets, watch delinquents, listen to the radio and hang out with other counselors.
It was almost the best summer job of all time ... but I had to wait a year for that gig.

In 1974, when I returned from my first year at noble St. Bonaventure University, I joined the Eastman Kodak Co.

My father worked at Kodak — just about everyone in Rochester did — and was able to secure a position for me in the company’s truck-repair garage. Kodak had a fleet of vehicles; assorted filters, brake cylinders, transmission parts were always required for fix-ups.

The 19-year-old college kid in the garage drove the parts pick-up truck. I spent most of the day driving to assorted supply garages, signing my name as Mr. Eastman’s representative and loading my forest green truck with goods for mechanics to screw around with. I had a portable radio with me, and racked up about 100 miles just about every day.

There was no lunch break, no coffee break, just me and my truck with Grand Funk and the James Gang along for the ride. It was one of my favorite summers, as days at work passed quickly.

Kodak so appreciated the job I did, they hired a parts pick-up guy full-time.
I spent the next couple years with the company fetching reflectors, U-bolts or filters from the garage’s stock bins. I painted propane tanks, cleared oil sludge from narrow “trenches” at the end of repair bays or steam-cleaned trailers used to haul Kodak goods. I only rarely got the chance to drive the parts pick-up route.

After graduating from college in 1977, I found cashier jobs at the Red Barn were easier to find than writing jobs at newspapers.

I settled for another summer job, cutting down brush and small trees that had grown in front of billboards. These signs were often located in rural sections of the Rochester area, but the outdoor advertising company insisted people get clear looks — unencumbered by nature — of Genesee beer, Marlboro cigarettes and other products.

The funniest thing about my career destroying nature was one of my college journalism professors telephoning home one afternoon. He wondered how my journalism plans were proceeding, and my brother Tim answered with a straight face: “He’s working in advertising right now, Dr. Evans,” he said.

That ended in late August. I returned to municipal servitude and a job at City Hall, as kind of a private reporter for city council members — I went to meetings they could not attend, and reported gripes and concerns from the citizenry. Because the office had a brand-new computerized typewriter, I was able to type (after work) a dozen letters every night to newspapers in the Northeast. In February of 1978, I landed an interview with the Glens Falls Post-Star, and managing editor Irv Dean gave me my first job as a journalist. Irv now works for the old Gazette, as night city editor.

Washing dishes, packing hamburgers, driving a truck and cutting down trees are now deep in my past.

There are still days I miss my truck; but afternoons on the road with the windows down, the radio going and no cares in the world, are best enjoyed by teenagers.