My first job away from the farm happened during the last couple of months of my senior year in high school. Along with four other boys in my class, I agreed to work at a local resort where every cent of our salary would go directly to the school to pay for our senior trip to Washington, D.C. Because most of us couldn’t afford the trip without this option, it was a good deal.

This particular resort was well-known as a premier destination for fishermen and outdoor enthusiasts, and many Midwestern businesses would, as a perk, send some of their employees there for a few days of food, fun and fishing. The resort charged a fee for all the fish that were caught, but because the companies were paying the bill, the fishermen would catch huge numbers of fish each day and bring them back to the main lodge, where the resort employees would clean, process and freeze the fish.

Numbing experience

Every Saturday and Sunday in March and April of that year, my friends and I cleaned hundreds of fish during our 8- to 10-hour days. I can remember how raw my thumbs and fingers would be from scraping, gutting and deboning those fish. The feeling would barely return to my hands before the next weekend would come along. But the desire to attend that week-long bus trip kept us going back.

That was 50-some years ago. The resort is still there, and more beautiful than ever. As a little getaway, after a long winter of feeding cattle and spring calving, I took my wife there this past weekend for some rest and relaxation. As we drove along the entrance to the resort, I could see that the river was full of fishermen in hip-waders, flexing their wrists with fly rods.

After we checked into our room, I made my way to the main lodge in search of snacks. The lady at the front desk informed me that there was a vending machine “way in the back of the building, right across from the fish cleaners.”

“I think I can find it,” I said.

Arriving at the vending machine, I realized that I didn’t have any change. In the adjoining area, three young men were working feverishly, sorting and cleaning dozens of stringers. I interrupted them to ask if anyone had change for a $20 bill. One young man, probably the youngest of the three, eagerly volunteered to help me and quickly produced my needed change.

I thanked him and added, “You know, 53 years ago, I worked at that same table, cleaning fish for the people who were staying here then.”

“Wow,” he replied, “I didn’t even know this place was around back then. Did you have fun working here?”

“I cleaned fish.”

Crownover raises beef cattle in Missouri.