THE IVY LEAGUE

  

    How naive I was...In the summer of 1966 I had a college degree but was still a "real hick from the sticks” I had a degree in Art Education but about halfway through the BA courses I was bitten by the theater bug and drifted  through my major with the intent of becoming a performer rather than an art teacher spending my life watching students draw and paint stuff. After graduation my musical comedy sidekick in our Campus Players production of The Music Man,  Dom A. was bound for Broadway and was accepted at the prestigious Academy of Dramatic Arts in NYC and I sought to pursue my lifelong dream - a career in TV (which I thought was much more doable because I couldn’t sing and was such a bad dancer that the Players director cut several dance number in the three college musical comedies I “starred” in.)  I was by my adviser urged me to continue at Temple University's for a MA in broadcasting but aftera visit to the campus I did not apply - frankly I was afraid of to walk from the parking lots in urban campus.  The day I toured the campus I was literally serenaded by police sirens and screams in the night.  I asked for a recommendation from my college President Dr. Robinson, (who I met with once a week as the student body president)and with his recommendation I applied to the new Annenberg School of Communications at the University of Pennsylvania and I was surprised to not only be accepted but also offered a full scholarship. (Learning #1 – its does pay to know people in high places).

              Now the naiveness begins.  My mother and grandmother got on a bus to Philly on a very hot day and walked the streets looking for an affordable place for me to stay.  I actually thought that finding a place would be easy but 35,000 Penn students started months before me to secure their digs.  We trudged up and down the streets and visited several real estate offices.  We were exhausted and tried one more – and the rep said he just had a cancellation open up – a small one studio apartment at 46 and Pine streets we immediately signed the rental paperwork.  (Learning #2 – never rent a place in a city before investigating the location.  Today that would have been easy but…not in ’62)  We looked at the furnished place which was actually very nice.  A first floor unit in a house that had been turned into 3 apartments all resided in by Penn students.  We staggered to the bus station (cabs seemed to expensive for my trooper of a grandma) and bussed home to the sticks.

              A couple of weeks after I moved in, I learned from one of the other residents the reason the apartment had been available.  THE FORMER TENENT WAS ROBBED AND MURDERED WALKING HOME FROM CLASS!!!!!  Every night after I slept with a butcher knife under my pillow.

(But there’s more – stay tuned for Learning #3 next post) 

THE PATH NOT TAKEN

My first summer of work and sweat seemed like it would never end but like all things it did.  And the Saturday after Labor Day mom and I visited several men’s clothing stores for a new outfit for my first day at college.  Madras was big in 1962.  Mom said she thought it was silly buying a new shirt that was already faded!  (Decades later I would say the same to my daughter - buying rip jeans was hard to fathom also - but that was fashion for ya).  I was ready to go to Glassboro State.

But that wasn’t my first choice!  I had applied to several institutions as most college bound high school students do - just in case.  My first choice - The Philadelphia Museum College of Art.  An internationally respected art school of fine arts.  Part of the application process was to put together a “portfolio” of examples of my work.  Ms Pierson, my art mentor who encouraged me to continue my artistic education, was a graduate of that institution - she helped me build the portfolio for most of the last half of the year.  I sent it off and waited but I knew my chances were slim to none.  The Museum School got applications from all over the world and I thought my “art” was ok but…

To my great surprise I received a letter a few months after applying:  “We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to join the class of 1962…(the next paragraph “floored me”).  “And after reviewing you portfolio our Faculty Scholarship Committee has awarded you our top full tuition and expenses scholarship for 1962.  Congratulations….etc.

I was invited to visit the school and meet my professors and the Dean of Instruction as soon as possible to sign several admission’s documents.  So on a hot summer day I took a day off from my summer job and took a bus to Philly which stops at every small town along the way.  The 25 mile trip took two hours!  Being admitted was a surprise but what came next was a bigger one.  A summer student was assigned to take me on a tour of the various classrooms. He had his hair in a long ponytail, wore well worn sandals and a tie dyed tee-shirt. (I had a crew cut, brand new penny loafers that squeaked as I walked and wore a new button down oxford shirt!)  As I followed him I was introduced to the “art world” that I had only seen depicted in movies.  There were bongo drums and some female students singing folk songs. I was in the land of Maynard G. Kreps.  Real beatniks!  They scared me - a straight laced, naive kid from a factory town where long hair was a scourge to mankind.  I lost my confidence in my skills walking to the Dean's office - plus I wanted to be an industrial designer.  I wasn’t ready to have a mission to change the world.

After the usual greetings I blurted out, “I’m sorry Dean X but I can’t accept your scholarship and won’t be matriculating.  He was stunned and with anger informed me that I had just turned down the school’s top prize. That my art work showed real promise that might become “exceptional” if I studied with the school noted artists.  I could only reply, “I’m sorry and I had to catch a bus.”  On the long ride home I pondered if I had done the right thing?  I had gone to college just one day and was already a drop-out".

Now decades later seeing paintings selling for millions I still wonder where I would be now if I had traveled on the path not taken?

THE FACTORY

     I have many wonderful memories growing up…and the changing of the seasons always makes me think of school...as each season brings back special feeling - for some a beginning and for others the end of the beginning...

    Now June ‘62 I was finally a high school graduate and considered myself grownup even though I still had a lot to learn.  Now it time for me to learn the lesson of hard work. To “cut the apron strings” as grandmother Ethel would say.  She seemed to have a saying about everything I said.  I graduated on a Thursday and reported to my first real job on the midnight shift Sunday.  My two and a half days of summer vacation was over.  And my season of discontent had begun.  I would labor in a hot glass factory for three months - but it was the highest paying summer job for a student in town and I would pocket a small fortune - almost $100 bucks a week.

    Even though I moved away from my hometown almost 50 years ago I still read about Millville on-line. Yesterday there was an announcement that the Wheaton Glass plant was closing…the one time lifeblood of the city’s and it's working people…the factory.  And I think about my first day of really hard work - I ever did…

Wheaton Glass Circa 1962

…I dressed in the standard factory uniform – tan khaki’s and white tee shirt.  And had on my first pair of ‘work' shoes – hard toed heavy black ones that my dad insisted that I wear that first day.  They made my feet sweat and I felt like Frankenstein plodding around in them.  Dad worked at the same plant, one of two massive factories in “Glasstown”.  He worked in th cool AC of the “Pentagon” as the executive offices were fondly called by the unwashed.  He was a master craftsman - model maker.  His models were the first step in producing a designer's graphic idea of a bottle.  He drove me to the north gatehouse a half hour before my shift. We were going to share our only car getting to work. I joined the parade of zombies marching to their various jobs in the steamy heat.  I only recognized a couple of my school friends trudging along.  There wasn’t much conversation and very few smiles. I would grow here an learn that factory "shift workers" were much different then those in my former world of school, sports and fun - They were very serious people

    As we walked into smokey building the temperature rose from a pleasant 70’s to what seemed to be close to what hell feels like.  It had to be 110 degrees – and thus why they called this area of the plant the “hot end.”  But more than the heat the noise was deafening.  A constant dissonance;  a droning that I would learn came from the glassblowing machine, behemoths that “blew” a never ending stream of molten glass into bottles. One could actually “smell” the heat as we all hurriedly walk to packing area. I followed the line of workers to the end of some very long covered converyors belts. At the end of each out came a never ending parade of bottles. And in there midst was a small "packing house office". What I remember most is that it was air conditioned. I had been in the glass business for five minutes and alreadly a cool room was actually a bit chilly but not as much as my reception.  I was met by the “foreman” who look up from a pile of forms and scowled at me. I knew him from the outer world.  His son and I played football together.  But here in the plant he had a totally different personality.  He immediately told me he was the “boss” and no longer was a friend.  My work "orentation" - He tossed me a gate pass, and then ordered me to report to the assistant foreman out on the floo, The second in command didn't waste any words and immediately said, “See this damn %^&# mess (a six foot high cluttered bunch of torned cartons, broken pallets and other stuff I didn’t recognize). "Yes sir", I replied as I cupped my ear even though he was shouting. "Move this crap to the other end of the building, pile it up neat and then come back sweep up this area. Use that hand. Use that broom.  Mr. Wheaton likes a clean and uncluttered factory.”  And he marched away. The first real work day of my life had begun.  

    I didn’t mind this job because it was only about 96 degrees here away from the hot end. However, I did feel the task a bit below my skill level – I was now a certified a high school graduate!  Later in the lunch room I learn very quickly not to broadcast that fact as most of the workers and the few bosses resented all summer hires.

    I spent the next couple of hours moving a mountain about 100 yards to the other end of the packing house.  Twice the assistant foreman stopped by, looked, flashed a smirky smile and left without a word.  I guessed I was doing what he wanted?  When finished I still had six hours left to this sendless night - it seemed time had slowed down. I stood learning on my broom when the assistant foreman marched up to me. "Nice pile - now move all that stuff back to where you found it. The foreman said he rather have it where it was!"  I was speechless. By 4:AM I had moved this dreck to five differenct placea in the warehous.  And I discovered time was relative. My two 15 minute breaks and 1 half-hour lunch of a wilted peanut butter sandwich flew by.  Finally, the sun light tried to shine through the years of gunk on the safety glass windows. I was in the home stretch and exhauted. My legs felt like lead. A loud whistle blew and the robot packers and filed out much faster than they filed in the inferno. I learnd by the end of the week that we all couldn't wait to get out of work and get to sleep. I parked by industrial sized broom in a corner and join the herd. Dad was waiting to drive me home where I dived into bed without saying a single work and was instantly out cold. Kids love to stay up late - I a newly formed "adult" needed my sleep and I slept the enitre day away - another first. My mom woke me at supper time and I felt like I had been in bed ten minutes. Once again experiencing the mysteries of time. Between yawns I recounted "busy work" experience and the only remark from Dad was, “that’s factory work for ya!"  I reported to the assistant foreman the that night whic swiftly arrived.  He looked at me, laughed. “No more moving stuff. Tonight you're gong to learn how to soak corks." I almost fainted. I was led to a tub of water and he explained the task (which less complicated than moving crap. "Take a cork from that bin and dunk them in the water. When the tub fills with corks put them in the other bin and somebody will pick them up. That's it." He walked away assuming I "got" it.

    That night I got my first case of "dishpan hands!" soaking hundreds of corks. At first I counted them just for fun but got tired of this amusement when I hit number 2500. Sometime that night standing there I had another "Got It" An epithany. I realized that the sem–boss was making up work for me because they could not just have me standing around getting paid for nothing.

    I was an apprentice "cork soaker" until the first "real" packer took their vacation and never went back to the broom or the tub again that summer. And it was indeed a summer of learning about the way of the world. I loved my lunch break because I could listen to the constant babble of the regulars (the people I probably would have never met.)  Their standard conversation centered on baseball, horseracing or the romantic escapades of certain notorious male and female packers at the plant.  I listened to folks who had been doing this job for 40+ years. By the way my (union contract required) paid lunch was 30 mintues but it took about a 5 minute to the lunch room and back so the actual break was a whole 20 minutes.  I also got a 10 minute break every 2 hours - but didn't race to the breakroom - I sat on a pallet of boxes and enjoyed getting the feeling back in my feet. I continue this routine for the next ten weeks.  But beyond the work of a skilled packer who learn to inspect each bottle for dozens of different flaws - I learned one of the greatest lessons of my life.  

    After only a few weeks of my first sumer job I definitely knew that would study hard and graduate from college.  I lived the life of how hard some people (who weren't as smart or perhaps just not lucky as me) worked to simply live. And I learned who was the best shortstop in the National League and how the different odds are determined for a horse race.

THE PROFS

 

GSC was a teacher’s college which became a college college during my 4 years there - thus our team “mascot” was The Profs which never change and is still associate with Rowan University in Glassboro NJ a small college town that has “morphed” into a sprawling home for a major institution of higher learning.  

During my undergraduate years at GSC I had many excellent “profs” -  but some stand because of their methods of teaching and others for their eccentricities.

The head of the education department, a very proper Asian gentleman taught a freshman course called “Intro to Education”.   His first lecture went something like this: “Students I suggest that you refrain from turning your back on your class, keep eye contact.  He turned around and started an outline on the blackboard with the number 1.  Next, B - I suggest that outlining of key ideas is not so good.  Let the student take their own notes. This is much better for retention.”  And so it went.  At first I thought he was doing this to make a point but after a few classes I realized that he had not idea how to teach and at the end of 15 weeks neither did I.

The historic first stately building on  Campus was Bunce Hall.  My freshman world history class was taught by Professor Bunce, son of the schools first president.  I learned from an upper class friend that he was known as “Lullaby Bunce”.  I would also learn as the semester progressed that most of the instructors at the school had student originated nicknames.  It took only one class for me to see how his monicar fit.  “Welcome to World Civilization 101," he muttered.  Then he took a thick pack of large index cards from his briefcase, took off the rubber band and began to read - head down and locked for 40 minutes. Five minutes into his lecture the man with the hypnotic voice (Term borrowed from Mandrake the Magician comic strip) had most of the class sleeping with their eyes open.  Fifthteen weeks later he read the last card but the rubberband back on the stack and said, “Class dismissed!”

I will also never forget my Childhood Psych teacher.  He constantly mispronounced the term puberty in his lectures (and this word was used a lot in the course).   He always said - Puba-tree.  It was hard for us all not to break out in titters of levity each time he referred to that stage of life.  One day around the midterm when we enter the classroom “someone” (My friend Jim B was always suspected as the perp) had drawn a large tree on the blackboard and hanging on each limb was a “fruit” that looked very much like a certain male organ.  We waited with baited brief for our mentor to arrive.  He finally entered, checked the board and chuckled.  And began his lecture.  I firmly believe to this day he never got the connection to his spoonerism

There are many other minor memories - There was a math teacher who constantly said, “Howsomeever” every time he revealed an answer to a sample calculation.  The head of the art department who “taught” Painting Studio, a senior art major course. The first day of class he entered the studio and said, “Paint 5 painting” and left - we never saw him again until the last meeting.  I painted all of my masterpieces in one weekend.  Of all the media I could have used I chose "egg-tempura" a favorite of the "old masters". It wasn't a favortte of my roomate as our suite smelled like rotten eggs for weeks until I finished. I delivered them to the last class where each student’s work was place on easels and critiqued by our mystery prof.  When he got to mine he touched one and said, “Still wet Mister Iszard?”  I replied, “For me, Sir, a painting is never done!”  A lame excuse but the only one I could muster up as all five of my oil paintings were still wet.

Another notable was my English prof who was nationally known as the "Underground Grammarian" who printed a very "colonial days" looking pamphlet of examples of poor writing that had subscribers all over the world. I feared having a comma fault in my business reports for years after this course.

But the top memory of all profs is of my British Literature professor who came to many classes dressed in a costume that coincided with the topic or time of the novel we reading that week.  (A British novel a week was a tough class as most English writers were very long winded.)  About halfway through the class we had all gotten used to the costumes but one of my most bizarre college experience happened (does but need a comma?)  We heard a knock on the window of our second floor classroom and saw our teacher standing on the ledge 50 feet about the holly bushes below. He was beckoning for someone to “run to the window and throw up the sash”  After the shock diminished someone opend the window and he climbed into the classroom, made his way to the lectern and said, “I always wanted to do that!”  And he ever mention it again!

However, I learned the most from the profs who made the learning entertaining. Later in life I taught college myself and considered each class a performance rather than a lecture. I got good reviews from some very tough critics.

TO ALL THE GIRLS

 

To all the girls I've loved before

Who traveled in and out my door

I'm glad they came along

I dedicate this song

To all the girls I once caressed

And may I say, I've held the best

For helping me to grow, I owe a lot, I know

To all the girls I've loved before

The winds of change are always blowing

And every time I tried to stay

The winds of change continued blowing

And they just carried me away…

This song  seems to summarize  my attempted “social” life at college when I did indeed learn a lot about the opposite sex.  I must admit I was quite naive but living on a campus of nine dormitories of which seven were women's helped accelerate my investigation.  And by my junior year I had a reputation for some as a “love’em and leave’em cad” and for others “a good catch”.  I am not one to tell tales but:

Here’s to:

Joan, the nurse who introduced me to smoking menthol cigarettes

Pam, who proved one could have two dates in one night

Nancy, who demonstrated that “playing hard to get” works

Andrea, who revealed that the quiet ones are not always actually very passionate and that still water wasn't deep at all - she was just shy

Liz, who proved that a gin fizz makes one sleepy

Liz II,  proved two can get poison ivy with their clothes on

Mary Ann, who knew more grappling moves than a Ninja 

Patty, who informed me that I was oblivious to  many would have liked to date me

Cindy, who proved one shouldn't eat bake beans before a date

Andy, who taught me to always have a blanket in the car

BJ, who knew one can't see a drive-in movie in the back seat of VW

Barb, who actually thought there were "submarine races" at the campus lake

Beth, that distance doesn't make the "heart grow fonder"

There are many more examples I suspect that I could add some more - but 50 years of has blown them away.  But, I do have a universal truth that I learned from my happy college days. 

    "In the spring when the scent of apple blossoms permeates the campus, a young man’s fancy turns to what young women have been thinking about all winter!"

IN MEMORY OF POP

    

 Herb Sherman Haley (1898-1956) died today - March 8, 1956.  He was only 57 and I was 12 years old.  I called him Pop for as long as I can remember.  He was my "step" grandfather as my maternal grandfather died from injuries he suffered in the First World War.  I always considered him "My Pop."

    He was a "working man" who could only go to school to the 4th grade because he had to go to work to help support his large family.  He drove an ice cream wagon on the streets of Philadelphia.  His family moved to Millville when he was a teenager because there was work in th the growing glass industry there.  He would be called a "functional illiterate" today.  But he taught himself to fix things and as he grew up he became a master auto mechanic.  He opened his own repair shop until the second world war began and times were tough as the use of gasoline was rationed and cars sat idel.  He went to work for the Millville Manufacturing Company - the cotton mill in our namesake town.  He met my grandmother there.  She only went to the 8th grade and was working as a "bobbin girl". (Note:  Amazon offers a book of the same name if you want to know what a bobbin girl role was in the hot noisy factory.)

    Later he left the mill to work for the new Wheaton Glass company as their head of the fleet of vehicles.  This self-taught mechanic kept dozens of trucks in tip-top shape until the President of the company, Mr. Wheaton heard about his fine work and offered him the job of running his 100 foot yacht.  He taught himself and he taught himself to be a "sea captain".  He learned to fix 400 HP diesels and maintain the Wheaton "fleet" - (a speed boat, Chinese junk, cabin cruiser, racing sailboats and the yacht that had four staterooms to full bath, a library and a crews quarters that slept four.).  I got to stay on the boat with him many weeks in the summer riding the waves, learning to swim in the Ocean City bay and spent my days in the sun with the Wheaton children.

    After that first summer Mr. Wheaton made Herb a proposal to be "his man" an run his estate.  He said yes and we moved from our "cottage" in South Millville to his remodeled and furnished carriage house next his "manor" home- the biggest house in town.  Pop saud we were "In the Chips".  I was 10 and sincerely believed I was rich.  A limo took be to school with the Wheaton kids everyday. I had a swimming pool and a color TV. 

    Pop had through his hard work had earn a great properous life.  Our family life was a dream that soon turned to a nightmare. When he was in his twenties Pop was "treated" for a tumor that was discovered on his jaw bone. Part of his jawa was removed and he almost died from the effects of a new form of treatment called radiation therapy.  He was strong and recoverd.  But I think the disease was in his system and fate or the remnants of his past stepped in and Pop was diagnosed with lung cancer in November suffered through the holidays and died in March.  When I was a teenager I thought 57 was ancient - now I know how "young" he was and how much he missed.  Years later when I was grown my mother told me Pop's last words before his past - "Margaret I never knew it would be so hard to die."  And then he was gone.

    When Pop was "laid out" as they said then at Christy's Funeral Home, they extended the viewing to three days because so many came.  Three rooms were filled with flowers.  Hundreds of people filed by and paid there respects.  I had no idea how much this common working man was not only known but respected by Millville folks - from all walks of life.  I was heartbroken as I sat and watch this strange ritual.  And then he was gone.  My Pop, my mentor left me and soon we moved back to our humble home across the tracks and ours lives dynamically change (But that's another story)

    And so I salute this self-made and surprising man who has proven to me that hard work indeed pay off big dividends.  I think about him often and wish he could have seen me grow up and practice what he "preached".  Seven decades have passed and I miss him still.  

    Rest in peach my Pop, rest in peace.

 

Millville Memories - The College Years Begins

 Dear Readers - THANKS for being a part of Millvile Memories - now after 170+ posts and over 96,000 page views I am heading off to college and stories about new escapades as the first person in my family to go on to higher education. And it was indeed a learning experience for a small town boy now roaming the marble halls of academia.   Please continue to join me for some of my "still coming of age" adventures! 

THE FACTORY SUMMER

 I have many wonderful memories growing up…and the Fall always makes me think of school...for some a beginning and for others the end of the beginning...

    Now June ‘62 I was finally a high school graduate and considered myself grownup even though I still had a lot to learn.  Now it time for me to learn the lesson of hard work. To “cut the apron strings” as grandmother Ethel would say.  She seemed to have a saying about everything I said.  I graduated on a Thursday and reported to my first real job on the midnight shift Sunday.  My two and a half days of summer vacation was over.  And my season of discontent had begun.  I would labor in a hot glass factory for three months - but it was the highest paying summer job for a student in town and I would pocket a small fortune - almost $100 bucks a week.

    Even though I moved away from my hometown almost 50 years ago I still read about Millville on-line. Yesterday there was an announcement that the Wheaton Glass plant was closing…the one time lifeblood of the city’s and it's working people…the factory.  And I think about my first day of really hard work - I ever did…

Wheaton Glass Circa 1962

…I dressed in the standard factory uniform – tan khaki’s and white tee shirt.  And had on my first pair of ‘work' shoes – hard toed heavy black ones that my dad insisted that I wear that first day.  They made my feet sweat and I felt like Frankenstein plodding around in them.  Dad worked at the same plant, one of two massive factories in “Glasstown”.  He worked in th cool AC of the “Pentagon” as the executive offices were fondly called by the unwashed.  He was a master craftsman - model maker.  His models were the first step in producing a designer's graphic idea of a bottle.  He drove me to the north gatehouse a half hour before my shift. We were going to share our only car getting to work. I joined the parade of zombies marching to their various jobs in the steamy heat.  I only recognized a couple of my school friends trudging along.  There wasn’t much conversation and very few smiles. I would grow here an learn that factory "shift workers" were much different then those in my former world of school, sports and fun - They were very serious people

    As we walked into smokey building the temperature rose from a pleasant 70’s to what seemed to be close to what hell feels like.  It had to be 110 degrees – and thus why they called this area of the plant the “hot end.”  But more than the heat the noise was deafening.  A constant dissonance;  a droning that I would learn came from the glassblowing machine, behemoths that “blew” a never ending stream of molten glass into bottles. One could actually “smell” the heat as we all hurriedly walk to packing area. I followed the line of workers to the end of some very long covered converyors belts. At the end of each out came a never ending parade of bottles. And in there midst was a small "packing house office". What I remember most is that it was air conditioned. I had been in the glass business for five minutes and alreadly a cool room was actually a bit chilly but not as much as my reception.  I was met by the “foreman” who look up from a pile of forms and scowled at me. I knew him from the outer world.  His son and I played football together.  But here in the plant he had a totally different personality.  He immediately told me he was the “boss” and no longer was a friend.  My work "orentation" - He tossed me a gate pass, and then ordered me to report to the assistant foreman out on the floo, The second in command didn't waste any words and immediately said, “See this damn %^&# mess (a six foot high cluttered bunch of torned cartons, broken pallets and other stuff I didn’t recognize). "Yes sir", I replied as I cupped my ear even though he was shouting. "Move this crap to the other end of the building, pile it up neat and then come back sweep up this area. Use that hand. Use that broom.  Mr. Wheaton likes a clean and uncluttered factory.”  And he marched away. The first real work day of my life had begun.  

    I didn’t mind this job because it was only about 96 degrees here away from the hot end. However, I did feel the task a bit below my skill level – I was now a certified a high school graduate!  Later in the lunch room I learn very quickly not to broadcast that fact as most of the workers and the few bosses resented all summer hires.

    I spent the next couple of hours moving a mountain about 100 yards to the other end of the packing house.  Twice the assistant foreman stopped by, looked, flashed a smirky smile and left without a word.  I guessed I was doing what he wanted?  When finished I still had six hours left to this sendless night - it seemed time had slowed down. I stood learning on my broom when the assistant foreman marched up to me. "Nice pile - now move all that stuff back to where you found it. The foreman said he rather have it where it was!"  I was speechless. By 4:AM I had moved this dreck to five differenct placea in the warehous.  And I discovered time was relative. My two 15 minute breaks and 1 half-hour lunch of a wilted peanut butter sandwich flew by.  Finally, the sun light tried to shine through the years of gunk on the safety glass windows. I was in the home stretch and exhauted. My legs felt like lead. A loud whistle blew and the robot packers and filed out much faster than they filed in the inferno. I learnd by the end of the week that we all couldn't wait to get out of work and get to sleep. I parked by industrial sized broom in a corner and join the herd. Dad was waiting to drive me home where I dived into bed without saying a single work and was instantly out cold. Kids love to stay up late - I a newly formed "adult" needed my sleep and I slept the enitre day away - another first. My mom woke me at supper time and I felt like I had been in bed ten minutes. Once again experiencing the mysteries of time. Between yawns I recounted "busy work" experience and the only remark from Dad was, “that’s factory work for ya!"  I reported to the assistant foreman the that night whic swiftly arrived.  He looked at me, laughed. “No more moving stuff. Tonight you're gong to learn how to soak corks." I almost fainted. I was led to a tub of water and he explained the task (which less complicated than moving crap. "Take a cork from that bin and dunk them in the water. When the tub fills with corks put them in the other bin and somebody will pick them up. That's it." He walked away assuming I "got" it.

    That night I got my first case of "dishpan hands!" soaking hundreds of corks. At first I counted them just for fun but got tired of this amusement when I hit number 2500. Sometime that night standing there I had another "Got It" An epithany. I realized that the sem–boss was making up work for me because they could not just have me standing around getting paid for nothing.

    I was an apprentice "cork soaker" until the first "real" packer took their vacation and never went back to the broom or the tub again that summer. And it was indeed a summer of learning about the way of the world. I loved my lunch break because I could listen to the constant babble of the regulars (the people I probably would have never met.)  Their standard conversation centered on baseball, horseracing or the romantic escapades of certain notorious male and female packers at the plant.  I listened to folks who had been doing this job for 40+ years. By the way my (union contract required) paid lunch was 30 mintues but it took about a 5 minute to the lunch room and back so the actual break was a whole 20 minutes.  I also got a 10 minute break every 2 hours - but didn't race to the breakroom - I sat on a pallet of boxes and enjoyed getting the feeling back in my feet. I continue this routine for the next ten weeks.  But beyond the work of a skilled packer who learn to inspect each bottle for dozens of different flaws - I learned one of the greatest lessons of my life.  

    After only a few weeks of my first sumer job I definitely knew that would study hard and graduate from college.  I lived the life of how hard some people (who weren't as smart or perhaps just not lucky as me) worked to simply live. And I learned who was the best shortstop in the National League and how the different odds are determined for a horse race.