An English major who melted aluminum

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On a summer morning at the scrapyard before my junior year at the University of Minnesota, I was reassigned to stir molten aluminum. My foreman, Mr. Robinson, didn't make me his "stirrer" because I had experience or skill. I had neither. My only qualification: I was the only remaining college boy hire in the yard after the previous stirrer, Leonard, had a panic attack inside the smelting furnace and was reassigned to foraging the yard for stray copper and brass shavings with a wooden pail.

No wonder. The stirrer's first task each morning was "prepping the furnace." That meant climbing into it and scraping off aluminum residue that had cooled and hardened overnight. At one point in this hellish task, the massive furnace door had to be closed with the stirrer inside in order to scrape the door's backside in near pitch-darkness. Mr. Robinson stood with me the first time and said he hoped I'd get used to it, not like the other "college kid."

After the scraping, Mr. Robinson fired up the furnace. Heating it took about an hour because it takes 1,221 degrees Fahrenheit to melt aluminum. In the meantime, the stirrer tossed in the first load of aluminum scraps from a giant heap deposited by the endless daily line of pickups and dump trucks.

At 1,221 degrees came the main event — stirring. Mr. Robinson affectionately called it "stirring the soup." The smelting crew called it stirring something else. For this the stirrer used an 8-foot-long giant-sized "stirring spoon." It looked more like a roof rake but rigged with a top-heavy 9-by-14-inch slightly curved rectangular steel piece soldered to one end. Stirrers were required to wear asbestos oven-mitt-like gloves, a comically oversized floor-length asbestos coat and a metal helmet with a face protector, the kind welders might wear.

Mr. Robinson raised the stirring spoon. "Grab on behind me. This is how you stir the soup."

I still remember: Clockwise … counterclockwise … left to right … right to left … bottom to top … top to bottom … repeat …

He handed it to me. "Now you do it. … Sweet Jesus! Not with just your arms, son! Use your whole body!"

My god, it was exhausting, painful and scary.

"How come I have to do this way?" I whined. "Can't I just …"

"How come? Because, if you stir half-ass, aluminum will probably clump like your mama's unstirred Cream of Wheat. One clump could clog the output hole and harden there, and if that happens your clogged hole will hold up the pour, which means because of you, the crew'll have to pour past their quitting time because you can't stop the pour once you start. That's how come."

On my first try, everything Mr. Robinson said could happen did happen.

And the second day.

And the third.

If looks could kill …

On day four Mr. Robinson brought me into the office trailer. I was hoping he'd hand me a wooden pail like Leonard's and I'd be happily off the hook. Instead, he said, "Son, it's time you do this job right."

I was sure that couldn't happen and said so. Up to then I'd mowed lawns, caddied, stocked women's shoes, bused tables and decorated horse stalls at the State Fair. In short, I wasn't prepared for labor like this.

"Young man, the fellas can't do their job if you can't do yours. They're depending on you."

Hard-as-nail, skilled scrapyard workers with families were depending on me? A college-kid English major?

Mr. Robinson said so.

Sometimes, in a flash, a few words can rock your world.

And on that fourth day, I stirred very well, finally. At lunchtime, Mr. Robinson tells the crew they should expect "a good pour today." I'm exhilarated. They just nod. No hip-hip-hoorays or slaps on the back.

To these men you weren't any kind of hero just because did your job right.

That night I had a dream. The short version is I'm trapped inside the furnace and no one hears my screams for help.

When my roommates roused me, I was standing on my bed bawling and pounding the curtain rods with bloodied knuckles.

The next day I describe my dream to the crew. They can tell I'm spooked. Ivan, our crew's paterfamilias, says matter-of-factly how he's been smelting aluminum since before I was born and still has dreams like mine. He says, "That's just how it is."

When the horn sounded, Ivan, Randy and Karl packed up their lunch buckets, crushed out their cigarettes almost in unison and went back to work.

I returned to my furnace and gave my aluminum soup one more hearty stir before the pour so the crew might punch out on time.

Dick Schwartz lives in Minneapolis.