RON

by: Jeff Manes

He was no stranger to shelling purple hull pinkeye crowder peas for his mother, slopping hogs or baling hay. He spent a good deal of his childhood on a farm west of town, near the state line. Even as a youngster, Ron knew work, you see.

Ron loved basketball. The summer before seventh grade he had a tumor removed from his lung, actually, they removed 90% of the lung. As soon as Ron was able, he returned to the hayloft, and he practiced. And he practiced some more. I remember him starting three years for the high school basketball team, knockin’ down 25 footers from the corner- before the advent of the three point shot. He didn’t let the tumor stop him. Ron knew work, you see.

The glory days came and went. Fresh out of high school Ron found employment at Youngstown, as it was known back then, but they kept laying him off. He opted to try his luck across the canal. He took a job at Inland Steel, because they were prosperous. Ron needed to stay busy, no idler he. Ron knew work, you see.

He was sent to the coke plant and spent much of his time atop the battery donning a pair of greens. Eventually he wore a respirator but shunned the wooden clogs that some strapped to their metatarsals, considering them too clumsy and unsafe. One afternoon a rep from some outside outfit hung a thermometer from one of the standpipes where Ron and I were working. It read 208 degrees.

We repaired hog rods and steam lines on the battery top and our long underwear remained drenched due to the oppressive heat. And at night the battery top looked like…hell. Yet, he stayed out there longer than most, because he had been steeled and tempered early. Ron knew work, you see.

We cladded huge gas mains on the battery and our eyebrows and eyelashes were burned off a time or two. And there were those who were hurt worse…much worse. Ron respected these dangers, he was always very safety conscious and watched out for me like a hawk. Let it be known that Ron looked out for all of his workmates.

When you ride with a guy for years, you learn things about him. Sometimes the man reveals his feelings intentionally, sometimes not… Without a doubt, two people that left a lasting impression on Ron were his Grandpa Harvey and his mother. Although both were deceased, he reminisced about them often. And I remember when Ron, who would help anyone at anytime, wired a bathroom fan for me. I can picture him wriggling his lanky frame inside my cramped attic, fighting insulation, spider webs, and mouse droppings the entire way. And I told him of how Harvey, a retired member of the IBEW, had bought and mounted a security light for my widowed grandmother. Old Harvey had never mentioned it to Ron, of course; he just did the work. His Grandpa Harvey and my Grandpa Vito -local 597- had often worked on the same jobs together throughout the years… 

Ron was a moonlighter. He hauled decorative stone and black sandy loam from his native Lake Village. He held various positions for the town of Schneider including head of the Water Department and Street Department. He was an integral member of the maintenance crew at Ashland Products in Lowell. Ron was sharp; he knew work, you see.

Tuesday, March 13th, 2001, after working days in the mill, I helped Ron run conduit at Ashland. We kidded each other while we did the job, him calling me Vito and me calling him Harvey. When finished that night, we sat in his pick-up truck just like we used to. He had a can of Miller, while I nursed a Mountain Dew. He had been having some personal problems but I told him to just hang in there, eventually he’d work things out. After all, Ron knew work. 

Friday, March 16th, 2001, six of us went up to the 6th floor of 4 BOF. Four made it down on their own accord. Helluva thing, telling a young man his father has been involved in an industrial accident.

And there was a nice article in the newspaper about him and at the conclusion of the article the reporter interviewed his former neighbor, Dennis, and he stated that Ron was his best friend. And I thought; how could that be? He was my- and then I realized that Ron probably had a best friend as most people do, but there were many of us that deemed Ron, best friend.

And as we left Lowell, truck drivers and townsfolk pulled over for the procession as they sometimes still do in rural communities. And one of the mourners with a CB radio overheard a trucker comment “This fella must of have been well liked,” as the long line of cars headed down U.S. 41, toward the Kankakee River, where Vito and Harvey waited to welcome him. We were taking Ron home, you see.

And although my wife had witnessed it before, she was touched by the camaraderie of the mill workers, some retired, some transferred, some from the north end, some that now dwelt over east, and those of us from south county. And my daughters stared as these people, these steelworkers, as we sobbed. And it occurred to me that my girls had never seen us cry in such a way.

And the pastor reminded all, that Jesus wept.

And when we did return to the mill, we held hands in the lunchroom trailer and Wessie led us in soulful, heartfelt prayer like only Wessie could. And as we stood in our unbroken , albeit smaller circle, we decided to a man, that we should go back up and complete the project. We always had. Ron would want it that way.

And as we dragged up our tools on the last day, we figured Ron was looking down upon us, in approval, for he would know it was finished. After all, Ron knew work… You see.