Chick Evens went to work at the pens one summer in 1966 near 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 meatpacking department), the company 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 months of that era. summer working in the cattle pens inside a packing house (cutting pig carcasses), and especially delivering animal waste to the Rose Room.
The traditional puff of smoke, which attracted attention from its tall chimneys as the remains of pigs, cows, sheep and goats rumbled and burned, slowly over miles of bones and animal droppings, circulated through the air and floated through the enormous pens, second after the largest in the country in Chicago.
You could see and smell it in any section, division, or corner of the city; let this putrid smoke, from the corrals, to the Mississippi River, some five miles away, and even across the Robert Street Bridge, to the other side of the river, where St. Paul, proper, resided the downtown, downtown; that dark gray to light gray smoke, rising into the clear morning sky.
Where some of this smoke was coming from was a small dimly lit room through which an employee brought piles of desecrated and discarded animal meats, from all the livestock pens. From these piles you could see bright pale pus from hams, torn skins, discolored skin and unusable bones and infected guts, etc., nothing to please the appetite.
There was no wind, no windows in this room, this room they called ‘The Rose Room’, just a round iron plate on the floor, heavy like a Cadillac car, opened by pressing a yellow button, and the machinery it raised this tonnage gate one meter high … then it stopped as if a person could fall or jump into this hellish pit, and there was hellfire. You could hear the crackle of the fire, feel the heat penetrating your pores, and smell the stench sharp and putrid with them, and almost suffocating in the process: everything was about to gag the lungs, about to collapse.
The fire was equal to the hottest point in a forest fire, it grew along the sides of the well when the iron door was opened, like snakes running down its sides to escape.
In the afternoons I would go to what was called the Hall of Roses, I would open the door of the house of flames, it crackled and snapped under my feet, even the soles of my shoes warmed through the thick stone floor, the smell of this room was putrid, disgusting, sizzling. It made a man think about going back to school, it still made me learn a real trade: it was a room that I swear rented by the devil or perhaps God himself, to express where souls go to decay: the abyss of repentance.
My mind captured such an image even before I stepped foot out of this room, the first time I brought a wheelbarrow of animal waste; I remember having little to say, gazing into that abyss of flames, dumping my wheelbarrow of rotting animal carcasses. , softly woven, over the edge of the rounded iron door, watching the massive fire consume him even before it hit the bottom of the pot, boldly and freely.
The fatty tissue, which he poured into the well, ignited 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, swept the edge of the frame that held the iron door in place, swept to his feet, leaped back, stood up. against the wall staring into the hungry fire, as if it were a living beast trying to harm him, and a voice said something, a voice beside him, next to the door that was usually closed to the room, except if someone else was waiting start at the same traditional job you just finished …
The employee
Employee: Come on, come on! Let’s go here sunny, I don’t have all day. Give the rose a kiss and get out of there so I can drop my load! (A laugh.)
Chick Evens: You almost got me!
Employee: It’s a suicide escape! ((stated slyly) (comes to stand next to Evens)) Sneak in when you’re half asleep, or daydreaming at work, stay alert in this room boy, now get outta here, turn my ass, give me some room to maneuver my truck.
Note: the pens in South St. Paul, created and built the city of South Saint Paul, settling in the middle, 1885-1887, and built by Gustavus Franklin Swift Jr., and before him, his father. Before Swift’s And Company, there were no cities 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 in South Saint Paul, Minnesota.
Written on May 16, 2009 ((No: 398) (SA / 5ds))
Spanish version
The Pink Room
((The South San Pablo Cattle Corral, Minnesota, 1966) (A Chick Evens Story))
Chick Evens went to work for the cattle corral one summer in 1966, near the small town of San Pablo Sur; the summer was so hot you could cook an egg on the sidewalks.
His mother worked at Swift’s Meats (in the meatpacking department), the company in which he had now been employed, which made a deep impression on Chick’s mind as he would never forget the thoughts and experiences. than working in the corral, in the packing house, during the last months of summer (cutting the meat of the dead pigs) and especially: taking the animal waste to the Pink Room!
The traditional cloud of smoke – which drew attention to their tall chimneys as they roamed along and slowly burned the remains of pigs, cows, sheep and goats, over thousands of bones and animal waste – circulated the air and drift through the immense corral, the second largest in the nation after Chicago.
You could see and smell this putrid corral smoke anywhere in town, all the way down to the Mississippi River, about five miles away and even across the Roberto Bridge, across the river from where downtown San Pablo was. from the city; that dark smoke, light gray, rising in the clear morning sky.
There was a wave holding light this smoke coming, to a small room where an employee would bring, from all over the corral, lots of animal restaurants to dump them, spoiled meats. There could be pours, in these piles, intense and pale pus from the hams, torn sides, discolored skin, useless bones and infected intestines, etc., nothing to please the appetite.
There were no windows or Venezuelan running in this room-they called this room “The Pink Room” -just an iron plate on the floor, as heavy as a Cadillac car, it was opened round by pressing a yellow button, and the machines they would lift this tonnage of door, about a meter high … then it would relax as if a person could fall or jump into this infernal pit; there was a hell fire. You could hear the sound of fire, feel the heat penetrating your pores, apart from smelling that putrid and almost suffocating stench; in the process: all this was about to suffocate the lungs, to the point of collapse.
The fire was equal to the hottest point in a jungle fire, it grew along the sides of the pit when the iron gate takes shelter, like snakes running up to its sides to escape.
In the afternoons I went to what they called The Pink Room, I opened the door of the house of flames, it creaked and snapped 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 suffocating. This made a man think about going back to school, this made me think anyway, learn a real trade – this was a room, I swear, rented by the devil himself or maybe by God himself, to tell where souls go to decompose – the abyss of regret.
My mind captured such an image even before I set foot in this room, the first time I brought a wheelbarrow of animal waste – I remember having little to say, staring into the abyss of flames, emptying my wheelbarrow of decomposed dead meat and tissues. soft sober the edge of the round iron door, watching the massive fire consume this before they hit the bottom of the bowl, boldly and freely.
The greasy tissues, that he threw in the hole, were inflamed almost instantly. This was a house with only one window – the fire window. When he poured the remains over the edge of the doorway, the fire spread towards him, swept over the edge of the frame that held the iron door all the way to his feet, he jumped back, he was leaning on the wall looking at the hungry fire, as if this was a living beast trying to hurt him, and a voice said something, a voice beside him, through the door that was normally closed, except if someone else was waiting to start the same traditional work as him had just finished …
The employee
Employee: Come on, come on! Let’s keep going, I don’t have all day – kiss the rose and get out of here so I can dump my load (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, stay alert in this room boy-now move out of here, walk around me, lady more room to maneuver my truck.
Note: The cattle pens in the South of San Pablo, will build the city of San Pablo Sur there, establishing this in the middle, between 1885 and 1887, built by Gustavus Franklin Swift Jr., and before him by his father. Before the Swift Company, the city of South San Pablo, Minnesota, did not exist. This was one of the largest pens in the world, the first was in Chicago in the United States. This story is dedicated to the Swift family who, in their way, helped to employ so many people in some parts of the United States, and especially in South St. Paul, Minnesota.
Written on May 16, 2009 ((No: 398) (SA / 5ds))