Today was a good visit. I decided to ask some questions, starting with how my parents knew Lynne’s parents (see the entry on Reconnecting). It turns out that Lynne’s parents lived across the street from Young’s Store, where my mother worked during high school. At one point in time, my dad decided to leave his job rather than move to Philadelphia, and Lynne’s dad arranged for my dad to work as a mechanic in a garage in Harrisburg. I never knew about this place, never knew that Dad worked as a mechanic. Our parents (Lynne’s and mine) “ran around together,” playing board games and cards at each others’ homes — and probably attending those early birthday parties for the kids.
Ok, so while I was asking questions, I decided to write down some info to add to our family tree. I heard some interesting stories, but the one on which I’ll focus tonight is the job that my dad left for the mechanic position.
It seems that my dad’s first job, starting at the age of 14, was at Howard Johnson’s, affectionately known as HoJo’s.
In the 50’s and 60’s, the orange roof of Howard Johnson’s was iconic. Restaurant and motor lodge, a place to stay when on the road and a place to eat for a special evening out. My family went to eat there regularly. For one thing, Donnie and I belonged to the birthday club.
Yep, up until age 12, we received free meals on our birthday. As the birthday girl (or boy, in Donnie’s case), I had to place my order from the children’s menu:
Which had its perks, considering that the menu turned into a cool hat.
And The Pieman himself (think the HoJo Santa Claus of desserts, as evidenced by the logo on the birthday club postcard) would bake a special cake for me!
When we went to HoJo’s for this special birthday dinner, the entire family accompanied us: parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles. Of course, they couldn’t order from the children’s menu, so we went on Wednesday night, which — in every Howard Johnson’s restaurant, coast to coast — meant fish fry night. All-you-can-eat fried fish.
We ate there other times as well, not just on birthdays, but I think we always went on Wednesday night, driving out route 230 and then up Eisenhower Boulevard. The orange roof is still at that location, but only as a hotel with a bar and lounge. No more fish fry.
Of course, this was not the Howard Johnson’s where my father worked. He started his career in 1950 at the age of 14. It was a brand new restaurant on the newly-opened section of the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
I think that HoJo had a special contract with the turnpike commission, because all of the rest stops along that stretch of road was the same. No orange roof here — they went with a different look.
My dad worked there until he finished high school in 1954, starting as a bus boy and transitioning to cook. And upon graduation he entered into training to become an assistant manager. However, that meant a transfer to a different restaurant — still a Howard Johnson’s but now in Mechanicsburg. Yes, it was a commute, but not a bad job for a kid straight out of high school. The problem came a year later when he was told that he would be transferred yet again: to Philadelphia. This was no longer within commuting distance, even with the wonderful new turnpike. So that’s when my dad decided that he needed a new job. Neither he nor my mother wanted to move from Middletown.
It’s a great story, but not the only reason that I decided to write about HoJo’s. You see, my first job was at the same restaurant on the turnpike, the one in Middletown.
The building was very close to our high school. In fact, the only thing separating HoJo’s and the high school was the turnpike. Of course, we couldn’t cross that since the turnpike is edged with chain link fence. Instead, we had to leave the school, walk up the steps to Union Street, cross the bridge, then walk down a long lane to a gate in the chain link fence. This was our entrance to the world of Howard Johnson’s and the PA Turnpike.
My friend Kathy and I applied for jobs at the same time. She was hired as a waitress, while I was a fountain girl. My pay was more than hers, but she made tips, so she ended up with more money. I forget my wage (it was over a dollar, maybe $1.30/hour?), but hers was $.73/hour. We wore blue uniforms with white collars, length below the knee. And Kathy and I spent our first pay checks on wigs — short artificial hair — so that we wouldn’t have to wear hairnets.
We also often had to wear special pins, ones that were given to us at the beginning of the month, advertising something that was on special. These were often seasonal items and I couldn’t find a picture of any of them, but the one that I remember most vividly was a cartoon peach with a face, winking at the customer, proclaiming “Peaches Galore!” Seriously? That’s a stripper name if I’ve ever heard one.
At any rate, I worked the fountain. I was in charge of the ice cream — all 28 flavors. I’d scoop the ice cream orders for the waitresses in the dining room and at the counter, and I’d wait on customers who came in just for cones or dishes without ordering meals. Most of the time the work was moderately-paced — until a bus arrived. Then things were hectic.
Ice cream. That was really the center of the HoJo empire. 28 flavors. 28. At that point in time, this was phenomenal. No one else had that many flavors. However, we had banana, black raspberry, butter pecan, butter crunch, butterscotch, caramel fudge, chocolate, chocolate chip, coconut, coffee, cherry vanilla, frozen pudding, fudge ripple, lemon, macaroon, maple walnut, mint chip, mocha chip, orange pineapple, peach, pecan brittle, pineapple, peppermint stick. pistachio, strawberry, strawberry ripple, Swiss almond, and vanilla. At one time I could recite those flavors and knew exactly where in the case they were located, but to list them above, I had to look them up. My first week on the job, I tried them all. It didn’t take me long to get sick of them. Scoop the ice cream, dip the scoop into the water bin located in the ice cream case to clean it, dip some more. Ice cream getting too low to scoop? Use the scraper to push down the remnants of ice cream on the sides of the cardboard cylinders. Container empty? Take it into the kitchen, rinse it, throw it in the trash bin, retrieve another from the freezer. I washed my hands and arms often, but by the end of the day I was a sticky, ice cream-y mess, reeking of something that I had once loved but now despised.
Eventually I worked my way to gift shop attendant and occasionally cashier, sometimes counter waitress as well. I was certainly glad to leave the ice cream.
If Howard Johnson had ever stopped at this particular restaurant for a surprise inspection — which he was known to do, though not at our restaurant — he’d probably have shut down the establishment immediately. Our manager was apathetic at best. He stayed in the back room, in his little office off the kitchen, as much as possible. Especially in the evenings. During the day there were “older” waitresses and cooks — some in their late 20’s, others with more years. After 3:00, when the morning shift went home, there were teenagers. And the cooks, those who spent their time in the kitchen, were usually so high that it’s a wonder anyone ever got a meal. I remember one night, Dave was in the kitchen. Every time anyone ordered fried clams, we (the waitresses at the counter) would blow up one of the balloons we had available for birthday children, we’d wait until he had started to heat the clams, and then we would stretch the mouth of the balloon, releasing air with a high-pitched sound — straight into one of the microphones located at each counter bay, the microphones whose sound transmitted into the kitchen. Upon hearing it, Dave would fall apart, crying that, “The clams are dying! They’re crying for help!” Whatever he was taking that night, it played along well with our pranks.
The building is still there on the PA Turnpike, still across the road from the high school. But now there’s no HoJo located there. Instead it holds Starbucks and Sbarro, as well as restrooms, phones, and a place to buy PA lottery tickets.
I wonder if it still smells of ice cream?
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