When I graduated from high school I knew that I would go on to college. But I planned to do something else first. I wanted several different chapters in my life, and one of them had to be spent in the rough-hewn world of a traveling construction worker. A man in my Georgia hometown owned a small company that went from place to place stringing telephone and electric-power lines, mostly in small rural communities. When I asked him for a job, he hired me.

Some of my friends and especially my teachers were distressed when I said I had chosen to work for a year before applying to college. "You'll get used to the paycheck, then you'll start making car payments, and in the end you will never go to school," they warned, strongly urging me to change my plans. But my mind was made up.

The first place I was sent was Millen, Georgia, a pine-woods town of about 1,000 people some 200 miles south and east of my hometown. With a great sense of excitement and apprehension, I got up long before dawn on the day I was to report and hit the road in my old black V-8 Ford. I found the crew and then started learning the ways of the lines.

My first tasks were simple and laborious, such as carving deep round holes with long-handled posthole diggers, unloading shipments of 6- or 8-foot wooden crossarms, or galvanized metal hardware, or long, dark brown poles treated with creosote, a wood preservative with chemicals so potent they would burn and blister uncovered skin — something I learned the hard way. Soon I knew how to "set" poles, hooking them on a steel cable hanging from a metal winch frame and guiding them into the waiting holes.

One task at a time I learned the skilled work of a groundman, or "grunt," as such men were called. The grunt was the lower half of a two-man team, working at the base of the pole, while the upper half, the lineman, worked high above. The grunt assisted the lineman, or "clumb-some," in any way necessary, sending tools and other equipment up and down the rope handline, and providing on-the-ground muscle to aid in the heaviest tasks. Every now and then a lineman would accidentally drop something, at which point he would yell "Headache!" Falling items could do damage, but mostly they hit the ground harmlessly or bounced off the plastic hard hat worn by the grunt.

Without a doubt the knights of the lines were the linemen. Their work required the most skill, the most knowledge, the most ingenuity, often the most strength, and certainly the most courage. With sharp 2-inch steel spurs protruding from the aluminum climbing hooks strapped to the leg below the knee, they climbed pole after pole after pole, and when they were in place they strapped themselves into position with a nylon safety belt. On any day, on any pole, one slip could send a lineman plunging to injury or death, but this was the work they had chosen. Needless to say, they were paid more than anyone except the foreman.

Moving with the crew from job to job, I became an accomplished groundman. But my burning desire was to climb. And then an aging lineman, who was also an alcoholic, lost his nerve and decided to quit the work. He sold me his climbing hooks and tool belt, cheap, and I was on my way. After work and on weekends I practiced going up and down poles. At first it was terrifying, even 10 feet off the ground. But slowly I grew more comfortable.

After a while I started doing simple work up on the poles, and each time I got the hang of one task I began figuring out the next. As months passed, I was considered just one of the linemen — taking my turn with the others. I was by no means the best, and many complex tasks remained beyond my abilities. And to tell the truth, I was always a little scared up there. But of course I could not admit that. It would have been against the code of the lines.

I loved almost everything about the lines. I loved the travel, from Georgia to Alabama to North and South Carolina to Mississippi to Tennessee, once even to Indiana. We lived in boarding houses and cheap motels and ate at greasy-spoon restaurants. Under contracts from the Rural Electrification Administration, we sometimes brought power and telephone service to tiny hamlets that had never had it before. I loved the smell of the lines — creosote and aluminum wire and leather and rope and motor oil. I loved the back roads in lovely landscapes. I took pride in my hard muscles, my tough physical condition. There were a couple of country girlfriends along the way, and I liked that part too.

Most of all, though, I loved the thrill of it all — the idea that this was essential and dangerous work, work most men would never undertake. We worked in blazing summer heat and in ice storms, when we would be pressed into duty as an emergency crew to restore power to dead lines. Sometimes we had to knock a coat of ice off the poles as we climbed. A typical power-line pole would be 40 or 45 feet long, but on one job a pole set into a little valley was 65 feet. I was afraid of it, but in the normal rotation of things my turn came to climb it, and I went up and did the work.

I followed the lines for a year, then did enter college. Even so, I spent every summer back with the crew. Through it all I never got hurt, although once an old pole with me atop it broke off at ground level, where it had rotted out. It fell 40 feet and I should have been injured, but somehow was not. I climbed the new pole installed as a replacement.

After college I left the lines and became a writer. But last month I was back in Georgia for a wedding, and I drove through some of the towns where I had worked. I looked for my 65-footer, but it was gone, and the winding little road where it had stood had grown to four lanes. I did, however, find another 65-foot pole alongside another little road, and I stopped to study it. As I did, a shiver of what must be called fear ran down my spine. Falling from that height would be like falling from the roof of a six-story building. It would almost surely be fatal. And now, just thinking back on that pole, I feel another shiver.

No, you can't go back to the lines again, just as you can't go home. But I did do the work back then, and I'm glad for this vivid part of my life. It's a guy kind of thing, I guess.




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	Most of all I loved the thrill of it all — the idea that this was essential and dangerous work, work most men would never undertake. My Time on the Lines, Long Ago he tallest pole I ever climbed was 65 feet long, and recently I went looking for it. I didn't find it, but I did find powerful memories of my time on the lines. When I graduated from high school I knew that I would go on to college. But I planned to do something else first. I wanted several different chapters in my life, and one of them had to be spent in the rough-hewn world of a traveling construction worker. A man in my Georgia hometown owned a small company that went from place to place stringing telephone and electric-power lines, mostly in small rural communities. When I asked him for a job, he hired me. Some of my friends and especially my teachers were distressed when I said I had chosen to work for a year before applying to college. "You'll get used to the paycheck, then you'll start making car payments, and in the end you will never go to school," they warned, strongly urging me to change my plans. But my mind was made up. The first place I was sent was Millen, Georgia, a pine-woods town of about 1,000 people some 200 miles south and east of my hometown. With a great sense of excitement and apprehension, I got up long before dawn on the day I was to report and hit the road in my old black V-8 Ford. I found the crew and then started learning the ways of the lines. My first tasks were simple and laborious, such as carving deep round holes with long-handled posthole diggers, unloading shipments of 6- or 8-foot wooden crossarms, or galvanized metal hardware, or long, dark brown poles treated with creosote, a wood preservative with chemicals so potent they would burn and blister uncovered skin — something I learned the hard way. Soon I knew how to "set" poles, hooking them on a steel cable hanging from a metal winch frame and guiding them into the waiting holes. One task at a time I learned the skilled work of a groundman, or "grunt," as such men were called. The grunt was the lower half of a two-man team, working at the base of the pole, while the upper half, the lineman, worked high above. The grunt assisted the lineman, or "clumb-some," in any way necessary, sending tools and other equipment up and down the rope handline, and providing on-the-ground muscle to aid in the heaviest tasks. Every now and then a lineman would accidentally drop something, at which point he would yell "Headache!" Falling items could do damage, but mostly they hit the ground harmlessly or bounced off the plastic hard hat worn by the grunt. Without a doubt the knights of the lines were the linemen. Their work required the most skill, the most knowledge, the most ingenuity, often the most strength, and certainly the most courage. With sharp 2-inch steel spurs protruding from the aluminum climbing hooks strapped to the leg below the knee, they climbed pole after pole after pole, and when they were in place they strapped themselves into position with a nylon safety belt. On any day, on any pole, one slip could send a lineman plunging to injury or death, but this was the work they had chosen. Needless to say, they were paid more than anyone except the foreman. Moving with the crew from job to job, I became an accomplished groundman. But my burning desire was to climb. And then an aging lineman, who was also an alcoholic, lost his nerve and decided to quit the work. He sold me his climbing hooks and tool belt, cheap, and I was on my way. After work and on weekends I practiced going up and down poles. At first it was terrifying, even 10 feet off the ground. But slowly I grew more comfortable. After a while I started doing simple work up on the poles, and each time I got the hang of one task I began figuring out the next. As months passed, I was considered just one of the linemen — taking my turn with the others. I was by no means the best, and many complex tasks remained beyond my abilities. And to tell the truth, I was always a little scared up there. But of course I could not admit that. It would have been against the code of the lines. I loved almost everything about the lines. I loved the travel, from Georgia to Alabama to North and South Carolina to Mississippi to Tennessee, once even to Indiana. We lived in boarding houses and cheap motels and ate at greasy-spoon restaurants. Under contracts from the Rural Electrification Administration, we sometimes brought power and telephone service to tiny hamlets that had never had it before. I loved the smell of the lines — creosote and aluminum wire and leather and rope and motor oil. I loved the back roads in lovely landscapes. I took pride in my hard muscles, my tough physical condition. There were a couple of country girlfriends along the way, and I liked that part too. Most of all, though, I loved the thrill of it all — the idea that this was essential and dangerous work, work most men would never undertake. We worked in blazing summer heat and in ice storms, when we would be pressed into duty as an emergency crew to restore power to dead lines. Sometimes we had to knock a coat of ice off the poles as we climbed. A typical power-line pole would be 40 or 45 feet long, but on one job a pole set into a little valley was 65 feet. I was afraid of it, but in the normal rotation of things my turn came to climb it, and I went up and did the work. I followed the lines for a year, then did enter college. Even so, I spent every summer back with the crew. Through it all I never got hurt, although once an old pole with me atop it broke off at ground level, where it had rotted out. It fell 40 feet and I should have been injured, but somehow was not. I climbed the new pole installed as a replacement. After college I left the lines and became a writer. But last month I was back in Georgia for a wedding, and I drove through some of the towns where I had worked. I looked for my 65-footer, but it was gone, and the winding little road where it had stood had grown to four lanes. I did, however, find another 65-foot pole alongside another little road, and I stopped to study it. As I did, a shiver of what must be called fear ran down my spine. Falling from that height would be like falling from the roof of a six-story building. It would almost surely be fatal. And now, just thinking back on that pole, I feel another shiver. No, you can't go back to the lines again, just as you can't go home. But I did do the work back then, and I'm glad for this vivid part of my life. It's a guy kind of thing, I guess.