Everybody Has a Story: Fire or no fire, deliveries went through

In the 1970s, before there were fax machines, voice mail, overnight delivery and GPS, I had a job with a clipboard, a pen, a Thomas Guide and carbon paper.

United Parcel Service hired women drivers. It was a good-paying, Teamsters-union job with benefits. After working the Christmas rush in 1972, I was hired in March 1973. It was my first real job with health, dental and vision insurance. It was the hardest physical labor I had ever done. Every muscle hurt by the end of the day. My hands and shoulders were sore from the steering wheel and gearshift; my feet and legs were sore from lifting packages.

Each driver delivered 300 to 400 packages a day. The rule was, every package delivered, every day. We recorded package numbers and addresses on sheets of paper with carbon paper — a thin black sheet between pages to make a copy. It smudged, tore and was a nightmare when wet. After some practice with the Thomas Guide, I became proficient at map reading.

My first route was in beautiful Palos Verdes, Calif. Mansions sat behind guarded gates, hillsides overlooked the Pacific Ocean. I felt lucky to have such a route, as I ate my lunch overlooking the ocean.

On the 25th day of probation, a supervisor showed up. He announced, “I’m here to see why you haven’t been meeting standard.” He informed me I had to deliver a package every three minutes to finish probation. Had he seen my route? It was at least three minutes between houses. So as we started off, he saw that I wrote down 20 deliveries before I left the hub.

“No, that is not the way. You go to your first stop, grab the package and look at your next three stops. Deliver the package and on the way back to the truck write down your next three stops. Repeat — never more than three stops ahead.” Off we went and he saw that the route was not typical. Using his method, it took us until 10 p.m.

I stepped up the pace. No more time for gazing at the ocean. I could work faster because my muscles adjusted and I learned the route. Three days later, my manager told me I exceeded standard by 8.4 minutes one day and 12.5 minutes the next. Then he showed me this huge chart with every driver’s record.

I was mortified. All the men knew I was in trouble. The standard was also an incentive plan. The faster I delivered, the more money I made.

One day in September 1973, it was 90 degrees and the Santa Ana winds were blowing off the desert. The air shimmered and the leaves crackled in the heat. I was eating lunch in my truck, soaked with sweat. On a ridge to the west, I saw two boys playing. Then I saw smoke. They had started a fire. I could see the fire grow bigger. It was running away from me across the ridgeline. The sky filled with dark smoke.

I called the center to report my route was on fire. I was told to finish deliveries. Residents hooked up their trailers, loaded their horses, put their pets and children into their cars and drove out. I was amazed at how calm they were. I called the center to say I was finished and people were evacuating.

But I was sent back in to pick up packages. Ashes and embers were falling. Smoke made it hard to see. When I arrived at one residence, the family had evacuated but the man was waiting for me. We tossed his packages into the back of the truck and I got out of there. Evacuations were mandatory and police closed the road. (The fire burned for three days. Eleven houses were destroyed.)

I had other problems — two accidents. The trucks had fiberglass tops. My route had winding roads and trees. It was easy to run into trees and break the truck top or the windshield. I was warned by my manager.

In January 1974, I was assigned a new, bigger route. It was cold and rainy, with the wind blowing off the ocean. Rain made it hard to read the street signs. I fell behind. I called the center to let them know I was behind, and the clerk said keep delivering. I couldn’t see in the darkness. I hit a tree limb. I knew I was doomed. But I had to keep moving. So I made my deliveries and called in to report the accident. I was told to come back to the center. It was late when I arrived.

I was suspended for two weeks. I felt tired and defeated. But I returned to work and was given a more lucrative route in Long Beach. The streets were straight, the residences close together and there were businesses with multiple packages. If I went to a business and delivered 20 packages, each one was worth three minutes. After lunch, I did my afternoon pickups. I beat standard by two hours or more each day, and was in the top 10 percent of drivers.

After two years, I found a teaching position and hung up my Thomas Guide. Teaching meant less money and no benefits, but my knees and back were wearing out. I learned so much from my UPS job — discipline, concentration, and having a good attitude. I learned how to work with, and get along with, men. A sense of humor is a great asset. It served me well for the rest of my career in male-dominated fields. Those jobs are where the money is.

Everybody Has a Story welcomes nonfiction contributions, 1,000 words maximum, and relevant photographs. Send to: neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA, 98666. Call “Everybody Has an Editor” Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525, with questions.