Growing up Blue-Collar

The neighbors had names like Dubicki, Kurkasian and Bertolini.  The men never called a repairman.  They could tell what part was broken and knew how to fix it.  They knew how things worked, having grown up when autos, washing machines and other contraptions had three moving parts.  The guys admired and critiqued every mechanical addition and improvement. When the old man said ‘the whatsit connects to the whosit and turns the thingamajig’ he knew what he was talking about.  He had worked on it before there was a whosit.

Blue collar men raised their boys to help every time something needed fixing,improving or tearing down.  The boys sweated on the roof, under the car, next to the sump pump and by the fence.  They became familiar with their father's hand powered tools.  Muscle cut wood, and more muscle made a hole with an “eggbeater” drill.  The endless fascination with circular and jig saws, electrical drills and all other power tools originated with great sighs of relief.  It also explains every man having pound, bang and kick in his arsenal of tools.  If dad wanted to see if the whatsit and whosit were tightly connected, if he wanted to dislodge something clogging up the works, if it was necessary to wedge or maneuver some &#!^!#* thingamajig – pound, bang and kick were essential techniques.  They still are – ask any mechanic or repairman.

The Dubickis, Kurkasians and Bertolinis all wanted their sons to be a white collar worker.  Someone who worked up front in the plant office, wore a tie and didn’t have to wash up and change at shift end.  The guy who came out on the floor once in a while, wandered around the thudding machines and then quietly told the shift supervisor about the next project.  The shift super then told the foreman, and the foreman cursed and barked orders.  That’s how you recognized a foreman – he did a lot of cursing and shouting.  He was the one you talked to when you wanted a job.

It took very little effort to get a job in Detroit, Cleveland and other industrial towns back in the 1960’s.   You got a ride to factory row, walked by the gate trucks came in and out of, over through the big doors and into the smoke, steam and stink of the plant floor.  “Need someone?” you asked the foreman.  If not, you just walked out the lot and over to the next building.  Manufacturing plants lined the road for miles.  Every Midwestern town had a factory row; Detroit had 100’s of them.

A resume wasn’t required, although it was best to shave and not be falling down drunk. Within a few hours a foreman would bellow, “so ya wanna work?  You’ll be doin that (pointing at a guy pounding on some machine), be here ready to go at 3:00.”  It was always the afternoon or midnight shift; the guys with seniority filled the day slots.  Blue collar kids didn't mind afternoons or nights, they knew about shift differential.  The extra hourly dimes added up when you got time and a half for overtime, double time for Sundays and holidays.  After a month of sweat, grime and aching muscles a guy could head to the used car lot and plunk down cash for that V-8 Ford.


DJO8/7/10