With Bellevue’s high school kids soon to be streaming out of the classroom and on vacation for the next few months, it is with conflicted nostalgia that I recall my first foray into the summertime job market.

I grew up in the town of Bend, Ore. It was the June of my 16th year, and my plans were set. After a grueling year completing the 10th grade, I now planned to spend the next three months in a mostly horizontal position, reading comic books and quaffing root beer.

Up until that point, I’d had the usual summer jobs, including lawn-mowing services. That career came to an abrupt end when I mowed over a sprinkler head on Mrs. Barfknecht’s underground watering system. I spent the rest of the summer paying that one off, and by the time Labor Day arrived, I’d ended up with net assets of around a dollar.

That’s why I decided this summer it would be just as profitable to put my feet up and immerse myself in the classics such as Superman, Green Lantern and The Flash.

But the Old Man had other ideas.

My dad, a staggering 46 years of age, told me there was a new supermarket about to open a few blocks away. “That’s great news,” I thought. “It should be a great place to get comic books and root beer.”

But that’s not what he had in mind.

“I want you to get down there and apply for a job carrying out groceries,” he said. “The manager is a friend of mine and I’m sure he’d hire you.”

Carry out groceries? What kind of job is that for a student of literature?

Every day the O.M. would ask, “Did you go down to the store to apply?” I would mumble something unconvincing like, “I ran out of time.” Or “The manager wasn’t in.” Or, “I couldn’t find the store.” This went on for a couple of weeks.

Finally, the Man (Old) told me to get into the car. “I’m taking you to where you’ll be working this summer.” We drove out of the neighborhood, and before long I could see the new supermarket (“Grand Opening Next Weekend!”) coming into view. But we drove on.

We rolled past other job possibilities, including a lumberyard, a pet store and a donut shop. (A friend of mine had worked at the donut shop the previous summer, and had returned to school in September looking considerably heftier than he had in June.)

Within a few minutes, we were on the outskirts of our little town, traveling down a lonely highway heading east. “Where are we going?” I finally asked.

“A place called the G.I. Ranch,” dad said. “They’re looking for a kid like you.” That didn’t sound good.

After driving for what seemed like a thousand miles, we turned off the highway onto an unmarked and forlorn dirt road. All of the planet’s dust resided on that solitary road and as our car bounced along like a rodeo bronco we kicked up a cloud so thick that I thought night had fallen.

Suddenly, the car skidded to a halt. The Old Man had spotted a grey mass lying in the road. “Look at the size of that rattlesnake,” he said. Sure enough, it was the genuine article and as it slithered off the road, my knees began shaking like castanets. “Don’t worry,” dad assured me. “Most of ‘em out here aren’t that big.”

We drove on.

When we got to the ranch, a man more gnarled than a burl wood stump climbed off a horse and greeted us with a toothy smile. Well, not that toothy – maybe four. Then he began showing us around.

“Here’s the bunkhouse you’ll be sharing with the other ranch hands,” he said. “They tend to get a bit liquored up and rowdy at night, so don’t get on the wrong side of ‘em.” My knees started going again.

He showed me the area where I’d be stacking bales of hay on and off of a truck. “You gotta be careful though,” he warned. “There was a rattler hiding under one of the bales last week and one of our fellas got bit pretty bad. Took me over an hour to suck the poison out.”

By the time dad and I got back in the car, I was extremely focused and completely motivated. Even though it was near twilight when we got back to town, I asked dad to drop me off at the supermarket. I was hired.

I never found out if the Old Man had orchestrated the particulars of the G.I. Ranch visit including the rattlesnake in the road. But it worked.

I stayed at the supermarket for several summers, and in all my time there, I never developed a single saddle sore.

Or suffered a snakebite.

Pat Cashman can be reached at pat@patcashman.com.