The Foundry, Day I: Confined Spaces

The foreman met me at the gatehouse. Mike, short with a mustache and an air of quiet annoyance, probably thinking "Another college kid..." He escorted me past the fence and into the choking and fuming and looming foundry. From the streets on the other side of these buildings -- the streets in pristine Kohler, WI -- you'd never know the grime and machines and noise was there. The ivy covered walls of the foundry on that side seemed civilized. On the other side, it was 5 a.m. late May. Still dark for another hour. This place, though, was alive. I was walking into a hell. 

Gear

Inside, I was assigned a lock and a brown mesh metal locker among banks and banks of the same. Mike handed me a generic pair of striped blue and grey coveralls, fire retardant, never to be worn twice. As I put on my coveralls and black boots with protective metal tongue that covered the laces, Mike attached the mesh face protector to a bright smooth blue hard hat. Then he set it on my head, adjusted it, and told me to never take it off up on deck. Next came a pair of tough leather gloves, dark as night sunglasses, and a black respirator. Change the filters every day, he said. New filters are up on deck. New gloves and earplugs, too. 

Orientation

Down and I was quickly lost. Rumbling, rolling machines muffled overhead contrasted the silent, dusty conveyer belts we passed below. Up again, and the din. Huge open spaces; bags on pallets; small carts shuttling back and forth; men arms white setting bricks in a new kiln; yellow lights sharply indicating just how much it wasn't day yet. Then quiet again as we entered the foreman's office. Nothing stuck in this 30 minute tour through a rule and regulation book. But the notion of "confined spaces" set my imagination awhir. I had no clue what my job entailed -- I was going to be slagging and charging furnaces; driving a crane, and filling ladles; sweeping and sitting. But this notion of confined spaces, together with my new getup, made me feel like I was heading down a coal shaft, to a place where I'd not be able to stand up or turn around or exit as quickly as I might want. (Later, as a teacher of technical communication, I wish I could return to this moment and review what that manual said.) The deck held no real confined spaces, so the emphasis, in retrospect, was a distractor. I'd rather have learned any one step in the protocols I was about to experience.

Deck

Back into the yellow light, we made our way past three huge holding furnaces, past faceless men in respirators and sunglasses whose stares seemed immediately menacing. Judging, with no personality, like automatons in matching gear. I was staring right into my own face -- shielded everywhere, only our height and weight set us apart. The deck was upstairs, and the men on my first shift crew were already slagging furnaces. They turned in unison to look at me -- the college kid coming to inconvenience their system. Suddenly, loud and indecipherable, "Charge George" echoed over the intercom, and the men turned back, moving to another furnace to take up position. 

I was taken through the bathroom, past the Gatorade station, and into a back room where I added earplugs to close off the last of my sensory systems. I now couldn't see (sunglasses), couldn't hear (ear plugs), couldn't talk (respirator), and couldn't feel (gloves). And the early summer heat was just beginning.

Slagging and Throwing

My first skill was learning to slag. The furnaces had three stages -- Charging, Throwing, and Slagging -- after which half the iron would be poured out and the process would begin again. Charging meant dumping in fresh iron or pig iron, adding to the molten mix already in the furnace. Throwing meant tossing different amounts of pyrite, carbon, and silicon (in 25 lb bags) into the furnace to get the chemistry right. Slagging meant raking the unmoltenable gunk that floated on top of the molten iron into a slag cart. 

Two men worked either side of a long rake, moving in unison forward and back to pull the dark, dirty slag out of the furnace. Without voices, you coordinated the rake in silence, maneuvering it to this side then this corner of the furnace without conversing. Someone led this dance. The frustration the other men felt slagging with me, the new kid, was never spoken aloud. But it emanated, through glances, nods and shakes of the head, and shifts in the body. I wasn't welcome here. 

After slagging, I watched as the men poured out the furnace. Then we were onto the next task. The control tower, which stood above and behind us, opposite the furnaces, directed us to one of the five furnaces -- Delta, Easy, Fox, George, and Hotel. Pick one. It needed bags of carbon to correct the chemistry. The control tower code indicated which furnace, then gave the numbers and types of bags. We lined up. One man picked up the bag and slung it to me. I turned, carrying his momentum, and threw it into the furnace. 

Splash! Not sparks but droplets of molton iron arced up and everywhere. I scoot quickly away. Dumb. A mistake. My first real sense that the danger here is real. 

Randy, my throwing partner, lowers his respirator and yells: "Not IN the furnace, slide it off the edge so it doesn't splash!" Though he has to repeat it three times, I do not make this mistake again. 

I don't yet realize how many of these rules are not in the orientation or the manual; they're idiosyncratic, not only to the deck, but to each activity and to each of the five furnaces. I don't yet know that most days I won't talk more than five minutes over my eight hour shift. I will eat alone, work in dim silence, make no friends here. I will learn that each of these tasks is easy but incredibly stressful. I will learn the meanings of all the secret chalk marks and blue lights. And I will learn when to disregard their obvious meanings. I will be shunted away in the crane until I screw up and overflow the holding furnace. I will cry. I will nearly knock over a forklift. I will crawl inside a furnace and brush its new, white brick interior. I will get burned, scarred, and singed. I will wake up every morning with fingers tightly clenched, fingers that pop open, individually and painfully, as I work them back into place. I will do this for two summers. But I don't know any of this yet. 

It was only day one. 

Comments

[Sarah]

And the incredible thing...for you it was two summers and for others a lifetime. A lifetime of those conditions so that they can put food on the table for their little miracles.

[Mom]

And you came home after work, didn't say much, showered and drank a big glass of water and most days reclined on a lawn chair on the deck at our home....for hours. Great blog Greg!