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Sometimes the men would come in and say there was a turkey nest down in
the meadow and they'd send me to look for it.
Once I fell in the mireage up to my waist. My, they was mad at me.
"Can't tramp a meadow without falling in the mireage?" they said.
I miss it often. At nine they let me drive the hay-hoist with one horse
and later with two. One morning I had the young team out. It was Allie's
team of greys, they was only just no more than colts. They shied at a
piece of paper. I could hear the men up in the barn yelling. "Hey,
what's the matter down there!" But it was no use. I tried to get to
their heads. I wasn't afraid of them. Allie said afterward he wouldn't
have been surprised to have seen me killed.
One of the women stood in the road waving a broom. I can see her yet. I
might have been able to manage them if it hadn't been for her but they
simply jumped over a wagon and smashed the hay-fork and ran down the
road two miles. Then they came back again. My but the old man was mad at
me. All the black looks I got!
I used to hate the Old Man. Sometimes I'd be getting wood and he'd ask
me why I hadn't done something. I'd say I hadn't gotten round to it yet.
Maybe he'd throw a piece of wood at me.
I can remember the churning. I wouldn't exactly like to go back to it
all but sometimes I miss it terribly. Sometimes it would n't take you
more than five minutes to get the butter and sometimes you'd churn for
45 or two hours and sometimes it would never come. We'd get four or five
pounds or more at a churning. Then it would have to be washed and salted
and packed in jars in the cellar.
So now that it is raining. So now that it is Amazonius--we go to buy a
metal syringe at the factory because we know the men who live on our
street who own the bricks that make the walls that hold the floors that
hold the girls who make mistakes in the inventories:
Every order that comes in is copied. You must rely on your help. As the
orders come in they are handled by a girl who puts them on our own
uniform order sheets. So right there it begins. You have to rely on a
young flyaway who has perhaps been up dancing the night before. It's
easy enough for her to write "with" for "without" and--that's the sort
of thing that happens. There is a certain minimum of error that you must
count on and no reputable house will fail to make good promptly.
The glass blowers have never in my entire experience of 17 years
suffered any harm from their trade. Why we had a boy in the old factory,
a cripple, a withered leg, the weakest, scrawniest lad you ever saw.
He's been blowing for us for 15 or 17 years and you should see him
today. Why the fat fairly hangs down over his collar.
In our thermometer work they blow the bulb then fill it with mercury
which is in a special container like the cups you get at Child's
restaurant say. They never have to touch the stuff. When the bulb is
full they seal it. Then the mercury in the bulb is warmed by passing the
bulb through a flame. This is to drive it up the capillary tube. There
can be no volatilization since the mercury is in the tube and this is
the only time the stuff is heated. Then when the metal rises from the
heat the other end of the glass is dipped in the stuff so that as the
bulb now cools the mercury is sucked up filling the thermometer
completely.
Sometimes, of course, a bulb breaks in heating so that the floor is full
of the stuff.
The hydrofluoric acid for marking is used under a hood with a special
exhaust-blower that has nothing else to do but exhaust that hood. There
is not the slightest odor of fumes in the room. The air is as good there
as here.
And what is your business?
Rag merchant.
Ah yes. And what does that mean?
Our main specialty is shoddy.
Ah yes. Shoddy is made from--
From woolen rags. The whole mass is put into a vat and the cotton
dissolved out. It comes out in a great wet heap of stuff that has to be
washed and dried.
Sometimes they burn the cotton out with gas. For instance you'll see a
piece of cloth, grey cloth. The gas will take out the black cotton and
leave the wool fibres all running in one direction. One of the secrets
of the trade is the selection of the colors. That is red shoddy is made
from red rags and so on. But they even take the dyes out of the cloth
and use it over again.
You know the army coats the boys wore. They were 70% shoddy. It's all
wool but the fibre has been broken. It makes a hard material not like
the soft new woven woolens but it's wool, all of it.
After the stuff from the vats is dry they put it on the donkeys which
turn it into loose skeins. From that stage it goes on to the making of
the yarn for weaving when any quantity of fresh wool can be mixed that
you desire.
The shortest fibre, that can't be used for anything else, is made into
these workingmen's shirts you see. The wool is held in a container in
the loosest state possible. This is connected up with a blower in front
of which a loom is set for weaving a fairly tight cotton mesh. Then as
the loom is working the wool is BLOWN IN! Where the cotton warp and woof
cross the shoddy is caught.
Recently a Jew came in to complain of the lightness of the shirts he was
getting. All we did was to yell out, "George turn on the blower a little
stronger." One washing and the wool is gone. But the Jews are the smart
ones. You got to hand it to them. They invent machinery to do anything
with that stuff. Why one man made a million before the government
stopped him by making cheap quilts.
He took any kind of rags just as they were collected, filth or grease
right on them the way they were and teased them up into a fluffy stuff
which he put through a rolling process and made into sheets of wadding.
These sheets were fed mechanically between two layers of silkolene and a
girl simply sat there with an electric sewing device which she guided
with her hand and drew in the designs you see on those quilts, you know.
You've seen this fake oilcloth they are advertising now. Congoleum.
Nothing but building paper with a coating of enamel.
¡_O vida tan dulce_!