GRADUATION

Millville Memorial High School Graduation Day 1962 finally came, and I wasn’t jubilant as most of my friends – I was a bit sad.  I loved school, every grade.  I seemed to know what to expect each year as I progressed through the grades, but now I had no idea what would be next.  On literally the last day I had decided to turn down my scholarship to the very prestigious Philadelphia Museum College of Art and instead go to the nearby state college only 20 miles from home.  I said this was for financial reasons but in reality I had "cold feet" about Philly and the competition I was going to face.   My face saving plan was to commute, live at home, get “A’s” and transfer next year to a major school.  I traded a national scholarship (award to only one student each year) to have my mom remind me to do my homework!  But an upside to this decision was the fact that the ratio of my “temporary institution'' was seven females to ONE male.   (I never transferred, abandoned my plan and completed four years at this state teacher’s college. But that story comes later - I’m getting ahead of myself.)  

Back to my high school graduation and it’s historic traditions that every student had to endure.  The worst was being tortured by sweating to dehydration wearing a rented polyester choir robe which was a heat sponge.  And I had to do this three times;  once in a steaming church;  at an awards convocation in our school auditorium and lastly on an earlyWednesday evening in the middle of the parched football field.  In the packed stands were my beaming parents, friends.  Another mysterious tradition, whey we all were forced to beanie with a square board and tassel attached to top.  I thought a small propeller like in the Sunday comics would have been a lot better.

As we baked on that late Spring evening with the temperature still hovering around 80 I tried to look like I was listening to countless speeches about our bright futures.  Each message was the same at every graduation I attended there after -  Work hard, do your best, keep learning and most important, save your money and all would be great – hopefully.  And then it finally ended as the sun finally set.  Our high school band also suffering in their winter wool uniforms struggled through the last tradition, playing  Pomp & Circumstance (a lot of us giggled because we called it “Pump and Circumcise” - we were graduates but still really kids that was certain. 

The next day, my one summer day off for the next four years, I went to the beach with my buddies.  The next day, sporting a third degree sunburn (my first mistake for the beginning of working life) I was to report for work at Millville's big glass factory.  It was the highest paying summer job for college-bound kids in town (it took only one day to find out why?).  Employees' kids got preference for these highly prized jobs and so Dad had made sure I got one. I was scheduled to start my working life at midnight.  Shift work – the torture continued.  I had never been up this late.   Mom packed my new metal lunch box – peanut butter and jelly; a lemon Tasty Pie (it would take years and pounds for us both to learn about a healthy diet.  But to her credit, she did add some carrot sticks). I had an old thermos filled with cold milk. (Every day after it would be filled with black coffee)

At eleven-thirty I was at the gatehouse and the guard directed me to the shift foreman’s office and I walked with the steady stream of “regulars” into what I would learn that night was called the “hot end”.  It was filled with glowing molten glass being blown into bottles by giant puffing behemoths.  I now knew what “hot as hell” meant. The roar of massive machines cancelled out all other sounds.  I watched, with fascination,  as white hot gobs of glass were pumped into molds and after a sizzle a the molds opened like a book and a completed bottle was deposited on a large conveyor belt; row by row like soldiers, they marched into a long dark tunnel.

The tunnel, I learned, was called the “leer” and it was designed to slowly cool the bottle from 2600 degrees to a warm temperature that could be packed into boxes at the far end of the metal belt that was moving at about 3 miles an hour.

The “boss” Mr. F (packing house foreman) greeted me in his air conditioned office which felt like the arctic in comparison to the heat I just walked through.  His first words, “So you are another college kid, huh!”  My nerves went up a notch.  “I’ll give you an “easy job” to start this week and on your next day shift.  One of my day guys will show you how to “pack’em and put’em in a box.”   Mr. F. walked me down to leer #2 and a few feet in front of the  “packers”.  They never looked up from their mechanical toil of inspecting a handful of small bottles and each in cartons.  I was taught my job in less than 15 seconds.  I was to take a metal plug and shove it into the neck of each bottle as they came on the belt of the leer. If the gauge came out easily I would let the lucky bottle continue its journey to the packer. If the thing stuck I was to toss defects into a bin behind me.  I was the judge and jury that decided the life or death for a medicine container.  The boss had me try it a couple of times and my instructions were over.  I thanked Mr. F and he replied with a surprise, as if I were crazy and walked away to his very cool office shaking his head.  At precisely midnight a loud buzzer sounded the shift change and the tired robots were replaced with new robots. The machines never rested 24/7 unless a part broke down.   I took my place and began my labor.  “This is easy!” I said, but no one could hear me as the hum of the factory drowned out all sound except never ending hum of the machines.  (A sound I now know caused the loss of certain frequencies in my hearing – but of course workers safety wasn't a big factor in my day)

I shared the job with a person across from me.  She worked half of the rolling belt and I got the other half.  There were rows of 50 bottles each for about 100 yards to where they were born.  Grabbing the first few was easy but as I worked my way across I had to bend and reach as far as I could to get the last few of my 25 – this easy job became a killer in less than an hour.  I had to keep moving to keep up with the never ending march of the bottles.  I would not get my break until 2 AM.  Then I waited (what seemed longer than a math class) until 3 AM for my half hour meal (euphemistically called lunch in the lunchroom); and another 10 minute respite at 6 AM.  A time now slowed to a crawl as I worked on the longest night of my life.  By the end of the first hour the constant bending was killing me and I had cramps in both legs.

I learned a lot that night:  Go to the bathroom before the shift starts - Men sit at separate tables then the women in the lunchroom - Conversation is about baseball, horse racing or which co-worker was “running around” with somebody - All regular workers smoke except me - One could sweat standing still - Time truly is relative - Regulars expect part timers to return from breaks early to give them more rest time - The sun comes up early! And this lesson was more valuable than I had from all of my high school classes:  Stay in school, and get a degree - Manual work is much harder to do.