My first job after I moved to Oregon in 1972 was at Martin Brothers Box Factory. We made wire-bound, wooden vegetable crates. This was well before the industry switched to using corrugated cardboard boxes.The factory was housed in a big metal building in White City, a few miles north of Medford.
Martin Brothers employed from 20 to 40 people in various positions, depending on the seasonal demand for the boxes.Inside on the factory floor there was a row of about 15 assembly lines. Each line consisted of two huge, incredibly complex machines that performed the manufacturing processes.
The first machine was the stapler. Workers would place the wooden slats and cleats on moving belts, and the parts would travel through the big, noisy machine that would staple 4 wires to the slats to tie them all together, and staple the slats to the heavier wooden cleats. The boxes came out of the machine in a continuous line, all still connected together by the 4 wires.
That line of boxes traveled into the second machine where they were separated, and the wire ends on each box were formed into loops that allowed the boxes to be assembled. That assembly would not be done at the factory. The boxes would be assembled in the fields, at the harvest locations.
On my first job there, I was a bundler. The unassembled boxes came out of the machine flat, and a worker would attach the 2 final pieces—the ends of the boxes—and slide the unit across the table to me. I stacked ten of these into a bundle, wrapped a wire around each end, and stacked the bundles on a pallet.
The job of bundler was a boring job. There were 3 or 4 repetitive moves, repeated every few seconds, all day long. I got very good at it, and I was probably the fasted bundler they ever had.
After a few months as bundler I was promoted to the coveted position of wire boy.
Feeding the stapling machine were 8 huge spools of wire. 4 of those wires would be the main structure holding the boxes together. The other 4 became the staples, cut, formed and installed by the machine.
As a wire boy, I was assigned to one of the machine lines. My job was to ensure that the huge spools of wire that fed the machines unwound smoothly, and to replace empty spools. I was also responsible for supplying the line workers with the wood box components.
I had to keep the area clear of rejected wooden pieces, which were simply thrown on the floor. I also filled in on bathroom breaks for the 5 to 6 workers on each machine line.
I don’t know why, but most of the workers on the machine were women, and if I kept my machine going smoothly, I had lots of time to visit them.
Being not quite as boring, it was a major step up to become a wire boy. I don’t recall that I got paid more, but it was a bit slower-paced. As a bundler, I had to hustle all day. It was relentless. I enjoyed my time as wire boy. It was a bit more relaxed most of the time.
Eventually, the lead machine mechanic for the company noticed my problem-solving skills, and decided I had the potential to be a mechanic. I was again promoted, and as a mechanic, I was responsible for the smooth operation of the machines themselves. I monitored performance, made adjustments, oiled parts, and replaced worn and broken components.
Because I worked hard to keep my machines working well, I again had time to visit with the rest of the employees. Now I was not restricted to one machine, I had the run of the factory. I made a lot of friends at Martin Brothers. I was a budding musician, and so were some of the others who worked there. My first Oregon band included two other Martin Brothers employees.
And of course, there were the girls. Most of those relationships were short-lived, although well worth the effort.
The company’s main office was in a separate building, but the time keeper’s office was inside the main factory. There were two to three pretty girls in there all the time, so when I was mechanic, and had lots of spare time, I hung out there and flirted. That time I invested paid off very well.
Among the people I became close to were Roger and Vickie Anselmi.
Roger was also a machine mechanic, and his wife, Vickie, worked on one of the production lines. Roger was just a couple years older than I was, he was personable and fun-loving, and he took his job very seriously. I respected him, and I looked up to him. Vickie was a sweet, pretty girl, and I was very attracted to her. At some point, they found another opportunity, gave their notice, and left Martin Brothers.
A few weeks had passed when Roger showed up at work again. He was there looking for talent to work for him at his new job, and asked ask me if I would like to come to work where he was. I remember thinking what an honor it was that someone I thought highly of, thought enough of me to ask me to come work with him. I was making just about 2 bucks an hour at the box factory, and he promised me $2.50. Without knowing anything else, I jumped at the chance. A 25% raise is a big deal. And I would be working with Roger again. I didn’t even ask if Vickie would be working there too.
I gave my notice that day.
Gerry Egan was a local entrepreneur, a short, overweight, balding man. He bought a small cut-stock mill in partnership with another guy, Pat Dodgin. Roger had known Gerry, and it was Gerry who brought Roger on board.
At Gemco Wood Products, we made big boards into smaller boards. That’s what cut-stock mills do. Large chunks of raw lumber were cut into smaller pieces, to specific dimensions, that we sold and shipped off to be made into a number of other finished products. Most of the pieces would ultimately become high-end window frames and door jambs.
The scrap pieces that were too short for that purpose were sent to a factory that made mouse traps. We shipped a lot of mouse trap wood, so we were able to minimize waste. The massive piles of sawdust went to a local mill that made particle board.We kept a pretty good-sized crew working most of the time, and even had a night shift for a while. I was in pretty good standing, and was running my own crews, and I ran the whole operation during the night shifts while they lasted.
The machines at Gemco were mostly saws of various kinds. There were also planers, routers, sanders, and various other wood-shaping tools. There was a lot of noise, and a lot of saw dust.
For a while, we tried diversifying, at one point making decoupage boards for the craft market, and we even marketed a wooden hanging lamp kit. I did the assembly instructions and drawings for that.I also made and packaged my own drumsticks, when no one was looking. They looked great. I had my own label. They were worthless.
We used exclusively pine at the mill, which is too soft for drumsticks. There were some pallets made of mahogany that I pirated. The sticks I made from that wood were pretty, but still not hard enough.
I was normally very careful around the equipment, but one day I had a run-in with one of the saws. That saw was used to trim the dry, split ends off the lumber before it went to the next sizing procedures.
The trim saw had two blades positioned about 8 feet apart. The boards would travel sideways on a conveyor, get pulled through the saw blades, and both ends would be trimmed at the same time.
One day I was feeding the lumber onto the belt. It was a chilly morning, and I was wearing a heavy wool over-shirt. The tail of my shirt got snagged on one of the lugs on the moving belt, and it began pulling me in. I was going to be fed to the twin, 12-inch spinning carbide-tipped blades. I struggled to get my shirt free, and finally succeeded in kicking myself backward. I broke free, and landed on my butt. Although my shirt was destroyed, I was spared having my head and feet simultaneously, and unnecessarily, trimmed.
Up to that point, most saws in the plant had emergency kill switches. After that, I made sure all the saws had them. I guess I was the company’s first safety steward.
I really enjoyed my time at Gemco. I liked the variety of work and I made good friends there. My friend Steve Novak worked there. He became one of the founding members of our band, Jepetus, along with Marty Simcoe and Tom Doerr from Martin Brothers.
Then of course, there was Roger’s wife, Vickie. We worked a few Saturdays together, just the two of us. It was unusual for me, but I managed to keep it all business. It was probably out of respect for Roger, and her, that I kept my lust to myself. I really fantasized about her a lot. On those working Saturdays, Vickie and I had lunch together, and she sat across from me at the table in the lunchroom. She was so nice, so beautiful. I fought the urges with all my might.
I tend to look at the incredible restraint I demonstrated that summer as a turning point in my lusty attitudes. It was actually more of a slight curve than a hard turn. But I was aware. That’s a first step.
Pat Dodgin became a good friend to me and my girlfriend, Cherry, who I met at Martin Brothers. She also worked at Gemco for a while. When our car broke down, Pat let us use an old beater 1954 Chevy pickup truck the company owned.
Cherry and I lived on Crater Lake Avenue in Medford, about a block north of Jackson Street. That decrepit house, and all neighboring houses have long since been demolished and replaced by office buildings.
One night, we had been partying at Pat’s house in Eagle Point, and on our way home, maybe a bit drunk, we were driving that old pickup, radio blasting at full volume. Apparently, I was speeding and ran a red light about a half-mile from home. A cop was following me with lights and siren, but with the loud music and no rearview mirrors, we were oblivious.
When we got to our house, our own disabled car was in the driveway, so I bounced up on the curb onto the lawn, where I normally parked the truck. I turned my head to the right before I got out, and that’s when I first I saw the cop, who was by then parked behind me in the street, blocking my escape.
‘Oh, crap!’ I thought. I set my beer bottle down on the floor of the pickup.
I got out of the truck, and turned to look at the cop. He was standing at the back corner of the truck, his gun in one hand, and a flashlight in his other hand. Both were pointed right at me. He looked very nervous, almost frightened.
I said, “Jeez, a gun and everything?”
At that, the situation was suddenly diffused. He relaxed, and put his gun away. He said he started chasing me after I blew through the red light at a major intersection. He had the lights on for a while. When I didn’t stop, he added the siren.
I didn’t see the lights. I didn’t hear the siren. I kept going. When I finally made the wild parking maneuver, that’s when he decided it could be a dangerous situation. I can’t blame him.
But we talked, and laughed. I explained my parking place on the lawn, and I told him where we had been, and how I came to be in possession of the old truck. I even admitted that I had been drinking.
Running a red light, speeding, and drunk. If I had not seen the cop before I got out of the truck, and got out with beer bottle in hand, I think he was nervous enough that he would have thought the beer was a gun and he would have shot me. And I didn’t even get a ticket!
There was another visit to Pat’s house that also nearly ended with my untimely demise.
I have always been an amateur herpetologist. As a kid I was fascinated by snakes, lizards, bugs…anything creepy-crawly. I loved all animals, but especially snakes and lizards.
I used to go snake hunting several times each summer. I would catch everything I found, and usually let them go. Occasionally I would bring something home to keep for a while, before returning them to the wild. I still go out once in a while and catch them. I just don’t bring them home anymore.During that time at Gemco I had a small rattlesnake that I had captured. I kept it in a terrarium at home. I would get him out and play with him once in a while. Pat was also fascinated by him, and had mentioned that he would like to take over his care and feeding. So, one day I gave the snake to him, and he took him home.
One evening, after (another) night of drinking at his house, I got out the snake and we were trying to get it to show us his fangs. He eventually showed me one, just long enough to stick it right in the end of the middle finger on my right hand. The snake hadn’t even really opened his mouth. He simply parted his scaly lips, and a fang popped out.
We put the snake away, and Pat drove me to the emergency room.
When we arrived, the triage nurse rushed me past others who had real, more serious issues. I had a tiny hole in my finger, and at the time there was no pain or even discomfort. The doctor asked me why I thought it was a rattlesnake.
After telling him the story, I waited while he got on the phone and called another doctor to find out what to do. They decided that, due to my lack of symptoms and the very small size of the snake, there was probably not sufficient venom injected to warrant the use of antivenin.
While I thought that was good, the treatment they decided on was not. The doctor brandished a scalpel, and quickly sliced through the puncture at the end of my finger. That is when the pain started. Intense, throbbing pain. It hurt like hell.
The purpose of the cut was to encourage bleeding, to help remove what venom remained in the area.
I spent about three days in the hospital with my right arm propped up on pillows, to allow the venom to be more easily circulated and absorbed. The body can handle small amounts of venom, but it tends to accumulate in the joints, where it lingers and does more tissue damage. That’s the reason for propping it up: to straighten out the joints to improve blood flow.
It took many weeks for the aching and bruising to go away. My wrist, elbow and shoulder were black and blue from tissue damage. One fang from a baby snake!
That was not the last time I caught rattlesnakes, but it was the last time I played with one!
It was quite ironic, actually. The main reason I agreed to let Pat take the snake home was because I had been thinking about my relationship with the snake. I would often get him out to handle him, and I feared that someday I would probably get bitten.
Gemco flourished for about a year, but all good things come to an end. For whatever reason, the business began to fail. To Gerry’s credit, he informed everyone that the company’s days were numbered, and there may be no pay if we stayed on. Up to that point, he had never missed a payday.
We kept going with production and shipping for a few more weeks, with pay, and at the end, a few of us worked knowingly without pay for two weeks. We needed to ship out one more boxcar load, with the promise of the ‘possibility’ of eventual pay from that final shipment.That pay never came. I’m sure he said there ‘may’ be no pay, but in retrospect, he knew there would be no pay. Any money made would go to him; he was a shyster.
Gerry had known for some time that Gerry Egan’s Money Company was going under, and unbeknownst to anyone else, he began selling the business, one piece of equipment at a time. But he had apparently sold the same things to multiple buyers, and at some point, they would all be showing up to collect their equipment.
That was not enough for Gerry. He wanted to sell it again, so he hatched a plan to remove all equipment from the premises, and store it at a different location, to sell again! He again promised back pay for our help. Pat, Roger and I were the ones he trusted to help. To his credit, Roger opted out. But as a partner, Pat had a vested interested. I simply wanted to get paid.
The burglary would be done one night, under cover of darkness. On the fateful night, Gerry, Pat and I met before the caper at Witham Truck Stop for coffee and a short planning session. We were all dressed for the occasion: black pants, black sweatshirts, and black wool caps. We didn’t look at all like burglars!
During the meeting that evening, Pat and I managed to talk that idiot Gerry out of grand theft. I can’t begin to express how relieved I was. I didn’t really have to be involved in the first place, but I was foolishly hoping for a payday. I suppose, in the back of my mind, I realized there would be no pay regardless.
That was the end of Gemco Wood Products. And except for one visit to his house demanding back pay, it was the end of my association with Gerry Egan. That was my first and only conspiracy to commit burglary.
I went back to work at Martin Brothers. I would stay there until the spring of 1978, when I moved to Arizona with my band, Jepetus. All members of that band were musicians I had worked with at Martin Brothers and Gemco.
Looking back, there were several potentially major life-changing—or life-ending—events that occurred during my time at Gemco. And Pat Dodgin was involved in all of them.
Pat was also into skydiving. He tried to get me involved in that. I toured the facility, and took a class. I chickened out. That might just have been the one to do me in. I suppose I’m lucky to be alive. Oh, yeah, and not in prison.
Scott Wright © 2017