Glenn Campbell had a song a while back called, “A Lineman for the County.” My dad was a lineman during the twenties and, again, just before World War ll. Dad worked out of an AFL union hall in Grand Rapids, Michigan. That was how you got that job in those days. Dad worked at various sites in the Midwest. He didn't work for any county.

Can you imagine a time when there wasn't a line of poles marching down a country road? They have been around less than a hundred years. My Dad helped set a number of those poles and strung the line. He worked as a telephone lineman and later built and strung line for those big electrical towers you see planted across the country.

My dad met Mother when he was working as part of a crew near a small town where she was working as a nanny. His life changed when he married her. Before that, he had been part of a crew that followed the job from one area to another.

The crew would live at a boarding house near where they worked. Hotels were not always available for working class people in those days. Boarding houses supplied their needs. The men would have breakfast there and come back to a hot supper and a place to sleep. Dad had some wild stories about those days. They were a rough and tumble crew.

Back to setting poles and stringing telephone line. Previously, the power company in the area had secured rights to run their lines along the roadways in the county. The telephone lines were included in those right-of-way agreements.

It was a marvel to watch my Dad climb a pole. That was what they called it “climb a pole.” He wore a special belt that was placed around the pole and buckled back on him. That gave him some security as he worked at the top of the pole. Climbing jacks were strapped to his legs to get him up there. He didn't wear regular shoes. Instead, heavy laced up high-tops gave him support. I haven't seen a pair of those in years. His climbing jacks hung in the closet until the day he died. It truly was another time, now gone.

Just before World War ll, Dad worked in Illinois building what he called, “the high lines.” When I see a row of them marching across the horizon, I think of Dad. Those steel towers were dangerous to build. One time he fell from the top of one, landing in a swampy bog. Dad lived through it but was off work for months. It took many visits to the chiropractor to get his back back in shape, enough for him to be able to return to work. There was no health insurance in those days. We had to just make do, as Mother would have said. Dad was able to return to work, but his back bothered him the rest of his life.

What do you see when you drive down the road? In my mind's eye, I see my Dad setting poles and stringing line.