Chick Evens went to work for the stockyards one summer in 1966, near the town of South Saint Paul, the summer was extremely hot and you could bake an egg on the sidewalks.
His mother worked at Swift’s Meats (in the meat packing department), the company, which he now came to work for, left a deep impression on Chick’s mind and he never forgot the thoughts and experiences that came to him during those last few months. of that summer working in the pens inside a packing house (cutting up hog carcasses) and especially delivering animal waste to the Rose Room.
The traditional puffing smoke, which drew attention from its tall chimneys as they rumbled and burned the remains of pigs, cows, sheep and goats, slowly over miles of animal bones and waste, circulated the air and floated throughout the vast corrals. of cattle, second only to the largest in the country in Chicago.
One could see and smell any section, division, or corner of the city, let this putrid smoke, from the stockyards, all the way to the Mississippi River, about five miles away, and even across the Robert Street Bridge, to the other side of the river, where St. Paul resided, proper, the center of the city, the center of the city; that dark gray to light gray smoke, rising up into the clear morning sky.
Some of this smoke was coming from a small, dimly lit room through which an employee brought piles of desecrated and discarded meats from animals from all the pens. From these piles one could see the pale, glistening pus of hams, torn hides, discolored skin and unusable bones and infected casings, and so on, nothing to please the appetite.
There was no wind, no windows in this room, this room was called ‘The Rose Room’, just a round iron plate on the floor, heavy as a Cadillac car, it opened by pressing a yellow button, and the machinery lifted this tonnage. door about three feet high…then it stopped as if a person were going to fall or jump into this hellish pit, and there was hellfire. You could hear the crackle of the fire, feel the heat seeping into your pores, and smell the punishingly putrid stench that came with it, and almost suffocating in the process: it was all close to gagging the lungs, to the point of collapse.
The fire was equal to the hottest point in a forest fire, growing along the sides of the pit when the iron gate was opened, like snakes running up the sides to escape.
In the afternoons I went to what they called the Rose Room, I opened the door of the house of flames, it creaked and creaked under my feet, even the soles of my shoes warmed through the thick stone floor, the smell of this room was putrid, filthy, crackling. It made a man think about going back to school, it made me anyway, learn a real trade, it was a room I swear the devil rented or maybe God himself, to express where souls go to decay: the abyss of repentance.
My mind captured that image even before I stepped foot outside this room, the first time I brought in a wheelbarrow of animal waste; I remember having little to say, staring into that abyss of flame, dumping my wheelbarrow of rotting, soft-woven animal carcasses over the edge of the rounded iron door, watching the huge fire consume it before it even hit the bottom of the door. pot, boldly and freely.
The fatty tissue, which he poured into the hole, swelled almost instantly. This was a house with only one window: the fire window. When he had dumped the debris over the edge of the opening, the fire leaped at him again, went over the edge of the frame that held the iron door in place, swept all the way to his feet, jumped back, slid to the ground. stood up. against the wall looking at the hungry fire, as if it were a living beast trying to harm him, and a voice said something, a voice to the side of him, by the door that was normally closed to the room, except if someone else was there. waiting to start the same traditional job he had just finished…
The employee
Employee: Come on, come on! Let’s go here sunny, I haven’t got all day, kiss the rose and get out of there so I can drop my load! (Laughter.)
Chick Evens: Almost got me!
Employee: It’s a suicide escape! ((stated slyly) (comes to stand next to Evens)) Sneaks in when you’re half asleep, or daydreaming at work, stay alert in this room, boy, now get the hell out of here, roll my ass, give me something of room to maneuver my wheelbarrow.
Note: Stockyards in South St. Paul, created and built the city of South Saint Paul, settled between 1885 and 1887, and built by Gustavus Franklin Swift Jr., and before him, his father. Before Swift’s And Company, there was no city south of St. Paul, Minnesota. It was one of the largest cattle pens in the world and second only to Chicago in the United States. This story is dedicated to the Swift Family, who in their own way contributed to the employment of so many people in many areas of the United States, and especially South Saint Paul, Minnesota.
Written on 5-16-2009 ((No: 398) (SA/5ds))
Spanish version
The Pink Room
((The South St. Paul Stockyard, Minnesota, 1966) (A Chick Evens Story))
Chick Evens went to work for the cattle pen one summer of 1966, near the small town of San Pablo Sur; the summer was so hot that he could cook an egg on the sidewalks.
His mother worked at Swift’s Meats (in the meat packing department), the company in which he had now been employed, which made a deep impression on Chick’s mind and he would never forget the thoughts and experiences. which he obtained working in the pen, in the packing house, During the last months of that summer (cutting the meat of the dead pigs) and especially: taking the waste of Animaux to the Pink Room!
The traditional cloud of smoke—causing attention from its tall chimneys as they rang throughout and slowly burned the remains of pigs, cows, rams, and goats, over thousands of bones and animal waste—circulated the air. And it drifted through the huge corral, the second largest in the nation after Chicago.
One could see and smell this putrid smoke from the barnyard anywhere in the little town, all the way down to the Mississippi River, about five miles away and even across the Roberto Bridge, across the river from where the city of San Pablo resided. properly, the center of the city; that dark, light gray smoke rising in the clear morning sky.
There was an outfit light where this smoke came from, a small room where an employee would bring, from all parts of the corral, piles of animal remains to throw away, spoiled meats. He could pour, into these piles, rich pale pus from hams, torn flanks, discolored skin, useless hides and infected intestines, etc., nothing to please petite.
There were no windows and no wind in this room-this room they called “The Pink Room”-just a round iron plate on the floor, as heavy as a Cadillac car, it was opened by pressing a yellow button, and the machines they would lift this gate tonnage, about a meter high…then it would stop as if a person could fall or jump into this hellish pit; there was a hell fire. You could hear the sound of the fire, felt the heat penetrating your pores, apart from smelling that rotten and almost suffocating stench; in the process: all this was about to suffocate the lungs, to the point of collapsing.
The fire was equal to the hottest point in a jungle fire, it grew along the sides of the pit when the iron gate opened, like snakes running up its sides to escape.
In the afternoons I went to what they called The Pink Room, sheltering the door of the house from flames, it creaked and clicked under my feet, even the soles of my shoes were heated by the thick stone floor, the smell of this room it was putrid, disgusting, and stifling. This made a man think of going back to school, this made me think anyway, learning a real trade-this was a room, I swear, rented by the devil himself or maybe by God himself, to say where souls go to break down-the abyss of regret.
My mind captured such an image even before I stepped foot in this room, the first time I brought in a wheelbarrow of animal waste—I remember having little to say, staring into the abyss of flames, emptying my wheelbarrow of rotting dead meat and tissue. soft on the edge of the round iron door, looking at the massive fire consuming it before it touched the bottom of the bowl, bold and free.
The fatty tissues, which he threw into the hole, were inflamed almost instantly. This was a house with only one window-the fire window. As he dumped the remains over the edge of the doorway, the fire slashed at him, swept over the edge of the frame that held the iron door all the way to his feet, and he jumped back, leaning against the wall staring into the sky. hungry fire, as if this was a live fire trying to hurt him, and a voice said something, a voice to the side of him, through the door that was normally closed, except if someone else was waiting to start the same traditional work as him. just finished…
The employee
Employee: Come on, come on! Let’s keep going, I don’t have all day-give a kiss to the rose and get out of here so I can empty my position (a laugh).
Chick Evens: Almost got me!
Employee: It’s a suicide escape! ((he said slyly) (he came to stand behind Evens)) This one catches up with you when you’re half asleep, or daydreaming at work, keep an eye on this fourth kid-now move from here, walk around after me, give me More room to maneuver my wheelbarrow.
Note: The cattle pens in the South of San Pablo, created and built the city of San Pablo Sur, establishing it in the middle, between 1885 and 1887, built by Gustavus Franklin Swift Jr., and before him by his father. Before the Swift Company, there was no city of South St. Paul, Minnesota. This was one of the largest corrals in the world, the first being in Chicago in the United States. This story is dedicated to the Swift family who, in their way, will contribute to their employment at some point in parts of the United States, especially in South St. Paul, Minnesota.
Drafted on 16-May-2009 ((Nº: 398) (SA/5ds))
