Working at the Mary-Etta
Kids who grow up in a family-run business start working at a young age. I suppose we were not much different from farm kids, or any kids whose parents teach them how to cook, do laundry, or mow the lawn. The jobs may be a little different, but the work ethic is the same.
I was nine when we moved to the Mary-Etta. At first, when we weren't in school, Laura, Dan, and I followed Mom around as she worked. If she was filling in for an absent maid, I helped her make beds. If she was helping serve a meal to a large group of people, we stayed in the kitchen and put a dinner roll or sprig of parsley on each plate. I remember helping Dad empty the change from the pop machine and fill it with pop bottles. Once, Dad handed me a broom so I could help sweep the lobby, but my technique didn't quite meet his standards, so he never asked me to sweep the lobby again. (That job probably fell to Dan, who also helped shovel the snow that covered the sidewalks every winter.)
By the time I was twelve, I was working regularly at the Mary-Etta Cafe. My first summer job (non-paying, of course) was waiting tables in the cafe during coffee breaks. At that time, in the late 1960s, many business people left their offices or other workplaces for a few minutes every afternoon to go out for coffee and a piece of homemade pie or a dish of ice cream. At the Mary-Etta Cafe, the coffee break rush lasted for about forty-five minutes, from around 2:45 until 3:30 every weekday. Mom and Dad didn't feel like they could hire an extra waitress to work for less than an hour a day, so I was elected. Of all the jobs I ever did at the hotel, waiting tables in the cafe was the one I liked the least. It wasn't a hard job, but I was so shy that I wasn't comfortable walking up to people I didn't know to take their orders. Besides that, working coffee breaks cut into my afternoon, because I couldn't head for the pool until after 3:30. (Dan always waited for me; we rode our bikes to the pool together almost every afternoon.) Perhaps I would have liked waiting tables better if I had earned any tips, but there seemed to be an unwritten rule that the bosses' kids didn't need tips. No matter how hard I worked, and even if I remembered to smile, that rule remained in effect until I left for college.
At about the same time, I started busing and waiting tables for noon service club meetings, such as Rotary and Kiwanis clubs, and for large evening banquets, too. I didn't mind that job nearly as much, because I didn't have to talk to anyone I didn't know, other than to ask "May I take your plate?" or "Would you like more coffee?" Have you ever noticed how waitresses for large events seem to fade into the background? That suited me just fine, because I could do my job quietly without drawing attention to myself. Sometimes, I even earned a little tip money when I worked in the party rooms, because the tip was split evenly among all of the staff.
My favorite job at the hotel was working at the front desk. I starting filling in for a few minutes at a time, and gradually worked longer hours. I never worked a regular shift, but I was often available to work when someone called in sick. I could sit on the stool, doing my homework or reading a book until the switchboard rang, or someone wanted to buy stamps or a candy bar. I liked manipulating the switchboard cords to connect hotel guests to an outside line, or take incoming calls. When someone wanted to rent a room, I asked the customer whether he wanted a plain room or a room with a bath; then, I assigned a room, took the money for the first night's stay, and handed over a room key. Next, I had to transfer all of the information from the guest's registration card onto a ledger sheet. As I remember, a plain room was rented for four dollars a night, and a room with a bath was seven or eight dollars. By the time I was fourteen or fifteen, I often sat with newly-hired clerks to help train them for the job.
Sometimes, I helped Mom paint hotel rooms. I didn't mind helping her paint, probably because we spent most of the time talking, and because I didn't have to clean the brushes when we were done. Now, I hate to paint, because I think it's a boring, messy job, but then, I enjoyed the sense of responsibility and accomplishment.
I remember one summer when I was about fourteen, when Mom and Dad decided to repaint the hotel lobby. It was a huge undertaking, because the lobby was an expansive room with a twenty-foot ceiling. It wouldn't do for the lobby to be totally torn up for more than a day or two, especially not during the week when people were walking in and out of the building throughout the day. (Besides our many permanent and overnight guests, many other people came into the hotel lobby on their way to a meeting or to eat in the cafe--or to buy a candy bar or bottle of pop, use a pay phone, or play pool.) Mom and Dad never hired anyone to do a job they could do themselves, but this job was a test of their abilities and ingenuity. They decided to get the ceiling painted first, as efficiently as possible, so they set up scaffolding and invited many of their friends over one Sunday for a massive ceiling-painting party. Since the cafe was closed on Sundays, and no meals would be available for the painters, I asked three or four friends to help me prepare a meal for the whole crowd in the big kitchen. I never worked as a cook, but I had worked with the cooks often, and Mom had taught me how to follow a recipe, so I was certainly competent in the kitchen. The friends I asked to help me were even better cooks than I was, because most of them were farm kids and active 4-H members. We had a good time working alone in the big kitchen, with the radio tuned to our favorite station. We roasted a turkey, and made potato salad and baked beans. Then, we served the painters, washed the dishes, and cleaned the kitchen. Late that afternoon, after we finished our task, my friends and I walked to the carnival in the city park. The painters finished the entire lobby ceiling that day, but Mom and Dad, with help from our friend Amy, worked six more long weeks to finish repairing and painting the lobby walls.
When I was sixteen or seventeen, I asked Mom if I should think about getting a part-time paying job. Her reply? She and Dad would make sure I had everything I needed if I would keep on helping them at the hotel. It was nice to be needed.
I was nine when we moved to the Mary-Etta. At first, when we weren't in school, Laura, Dan, and I followed Mom around as she worked. If she was filling in for an absent maid, I helped her make beds. If she was helping serve a meal to a large group of people, we stayed in the kitchen and put a dinner roll or sprig of parsley on each plate. I remember helping Dad empty the change from the pop machine and fill it with pop bottles. Once, Dad handed me a broom so I could help sweep the lobby, but my technique didn't quite meet his standards, so he never asked me to sweep the lobby again. (That job probably fell to Dan, who also helped shovel the snow that covered the sidewalks every winter.)
By the time I was twelve, I was working regularly at the Mary-Etta Cafe. My first summer job (non-paying, of course) was waiting tables in the cafe during coffee breaks. At that time, in the late 1960s, many business people left their offices or other workplaces for a few minutes every afternoon to go out for coffee and a piece of homemade pie or a dish of ice cream. At the Mary-Etta Cafe, the coffee break rush lasted for about forty-five minutes, from around 2:45 until 3:30 every weekday. Mom and Dad didn't feel like they could hire an extra waitress to work for less than an hour a day, so I was elected. Of all the jobs I ever did at the hotel, waiting tables in the cafe was the one I liked the least. It wasn't a hard job, but I was so shy that I wasn't comfortable walking up to people I didn't know to take their orders. Besides that, working coffee breaks cut into my afternoon, because I couldn't head for the pool until after 3:30. (Dan always waited for me; we rode our bikes to the pool together almost every afternoon.) Perhaps I would have liked waiting tables better if I had earned any tips, but there seemed to be an unwritten rule that the bosses' kids didn't need tips. No matter how hard I worked, and even if I remembered to smile, that rule remained in effect until I left for college.
At about the same time, I started busing and waiting tables for noon service club meetings, such as Rotary and Kiwanis clubs, and for large evening banquets, too. I didn't mind that job nearly as much, because I didn't have to talk to anyone I didn't know, other than to ask "May I take your plate?" or "Would you like more coffee?" Have you ever noticed how waitresses for large events seem to fade into the background? That suited me just fine, because I could do my job quietly without drawing attention to myself. Sometimes, I even earned a little tip money when I worked in the party rooms, because the tip was split evenly among all of the staff.
My favorite job at the hotel was working at the front desk. I starting filling in for a few minutes at a time, and gradually worked longer hours. I never worked a regular shift, but I was often available to work when someone called in sick. I could sit on the stool, doing my homework or reading a book until the switchboard rang, or someone wanted to buy stamps or a candy bar. I liked manipulating the switchboard cords to connect hotel guests to an outside line, or take incoming calls. When someone wanted to rent a room, I asked the customer whether he wanted a plain room or a room with a bath; then, I assigned a room, took the money for the first night's stay, and handed over a room key. Next, I had to transfer all of the information from the guest's registration card onto a ledger sheet. As I remember, a plain room was rented for four dollars a night, and a room with a bath was seven or eight dollars. By the time I was fourteen or fifteen, I often sat with newly-hired clerks to help train them for the job.
Sometimes, I helped Mom paint hotel rooms. I didn't mind helping her paint, probably because we spent most of the time talking, and because I didn't have to clean the brushes when we were done. Now, I hate to paint, because I think it's a boring, messy job, but then, I enjoyed the sense of responsibility and accomplishment.
I remember one summer when I was about fourteen, when Mom and Dad decided to repaint the hotel lobby. It was a huge undertaking, because the lobby was an expansive room with a twenty-foot ceiling. It wouldn't do for the lobby to be totally torn up for more than a day or two, especially not during the week when people were walking in and out of the building throughout the day. (Besides our many permanent and overnight guests, many other people came into the hotel lobby on their way to a meeting or to eat in the cafe--or to buy a candy bar or bottle of pop, use a pay phone, or play pool.) Mom and Dad never hired anyone to do a job they could do themselves, but this job was a test of their abilities and ingenuity. They decided to get the ceiling painted first, as efficiently as possible, so they set up scaffolding and invited many of their friends over one Sunday for a massive ceiling-painting party. Since the cafe was closed on Sundays, and no meals would be available for the painters, I asked three or four friends to help me prepare a meal for the whole crowd in the big kitchen. I never worked as a cook, but I had worked with the cooks often, and Mom had taught me how to follow a recipe, so I was certainly competent in the kitchen. The friends I asked to help me were even better cooks than I was, because most of them were farm kids and active 4-H members. We had a good time working alone in the big kitchen, with the radio tuned to our favorite station. We roasted a turkey, and made potato salad and baked beans. Then, we served the painters, washed the dishes, and cleaned the kitchen. Late that afternoon, after we finished our task, my friends and I walked to the carnival in the city park. The painters finished the entire lobby ceiling that day, but Mom and Dad, with help from our friend Amy, worked six more long weeks to finish repairing and painting the lobby walls.
When I was sixteen or seventeen, I asked Mom if I should think about getting a part-time paying job. Her reply? She and Dad would make sure I had everything I needed if I would keep on helping them at the hotel. It was nice to be needed.
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