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Reading David McCullough's biography, Truman, I ran across the phrase "cussin' job". For the young farmboy Harry Truman, raking hay was a "cussin' job". So was milking cows, as they "flipped their manure-soaked tails in his face."

This was an eye-opener to me. Being hit in the face with a manure-soaked tail has just replaced pulling on a fat disgusting udder as my top reason for why I don't milk cows. Probably the main fear we all have when it comes to milking cows is getting kicked off the stool by an enraged cow whose udders you are ineptly trying to manipulate. But to now know that even if you don't get kicked off your stool, the very least that can happen is that you'll get slapped in the face with a manure-soaked tail... well, I'll just continue to pick up my milk at the store. Plus I had no idea cows' tails were soaked with manure; although, if you think about it, why wouldn't they be? I must have been living in a fool's paradise thinking cows moved their tails out of the way when they went to the lavatory.

I've had several manual labor jobs that I liked, particularly one when I was part of a maintenance crew in the Cleveland Metroparks system. We'd empty barrels at the picnic areas and pick up roadside trash with sticks with sharpened nails driven into them. This job gave me the opportunity to see animals like raccoons and rabbits, plus hopefully catch a glimpse of full beer cans or discarded pornography. For even more fun we would fling our sticks at the picnic tables; if your stick stuck straight up on the table you... uh... won.

Where the cussin' came in was when we had to fill roadway chuckholes with hot tar. We fought over who got the job of raking the tar, and who got the (cussin') job of shoveling it out of the truck bed. With my thin arms I didn't have much control over the shovel so the hot tar would plop all over me as I dumped it on the ground. And I'd say "f---" and "s---." But at least with filling chuckholes you knew within a few days you'd go back to pleasant garbage duty with its potential for raccoons and pornography.

Not so with my landscaping job, where the thing I was lousiest at-mowing lawns-was the main task. The boss always got mad at me because I couldn't mow in a straight line. I'd go straight for a while, but then my mind wandered and I'd veer off. And when I got to the end of the yard I'd look back at my mow line and say "f---!" My mow lines looked like tossed ribbons on the floor on Christmas morning. I never improved, and when I went to the boss and quit, he said, "I'm glad you're quitting, because I was going to fire you anyway."

Another thing that made me cuss was when I was an usher at a movie theater and had to clean up vomit. I only had to do it once, but that was enough. Fortunately the theater was supplied with Vo-Ban, a powder you pour over vomit that dries it up, making it easy to sweep into your usher's helper dustpan. But of course you do have to ultimately confront the vomit, so you cuss while gagging. I'd say "f--- (gulp)."

My philosophy is, if your job is more than a certain percentage a cussin' job, you should think about getting out, if it's financially possible. I once quit a house painting job after only two days. I was doing overhead scraping on a carport overhang in unbelievably humid weather, with the paint chips falling on my face, sticking to my sweaty nose, cheeks, and forehead; so I decided to take an early retirement.

Later, when I ran into one of the other painters in a bar, he said the guys wanted to give me the "Most Dedicated" award. Hey, I thought, let them have their fun. I'm not about to spend my life in a cussin' job.

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