The Lowell Textile Mills - 1848
Writers Forum
Her fingers were little more than bones; stripped of their natural fullness. She looked down at the splayed members, one hand missing the tip of a pinky due to the accident the prior year, and almost wept. Her job at the factory required so much of her physical well-being that even her hands reflected the dangerous conditions under which she worked.
Careful to keep her hair intact so as not to be caught in machinery, she replaced a comb at the back to keep it off of her neck. The heat was oppressive and rising, always rising. Then, with no warning, she felt his even hotter breath on her cheek.
"Taking some time, are we?"
"No, sir. Just securing my hair."
His hands slipped around her waist from the back; she could feel him. "Well, be quick about it. You know what happens when I . . ." He suddenly became distracted by a noisy quarrel erupting down the line. Mary breathed a sigh of relief as he moved away from her.
She stepped up to her station on the line still feeling a chill from his hands on her. She began moving the large amounts of cloth from one spot to the next, feeding a corner into the monstrous machine at precisely the correct spot and working her arms constantly to keep it smooth. Wrinkles meant stopping and stopping meant money lost. Money lost meant smaller wages.
She looked up at the clock on the wall, the time nearly hidden by cotton dust and particles, but she could see that she had eight more hours to go in her twelve-hour day. A wracking cough seized her just then, but Mary struggled to keep her focus on the textile. She was already exhausted and could have easily slept where she stood. Being all too aware of the dangers of fatigue, she momentarily put the throbbing end of her small finger into her mouth to soothe it.
The set-to down the line was becoming louder; machines ground to a halt. Two women, hair undone and flying, were screaming obscenities at each other and throwing fists, ready to go to the floor in their struggle. The Boss, after spending several minutes just standing by watching the spectacle, had finally stepped in. His voice, loud and commanding, could be heard all down the line as he hauled off one of the women, Paulette, by the hair and took her to his office. We all knew what was coming for our girl Pauli. She would either be beaten or taken.
The mill workers now were almost exclusively single Irish immigrant women, and a sense of community had developed between them. They protected one another as best they could, but when it was a one-on-one situation with The Boss, there was no help they could offer without jeopardizing their own well-being at the factory.
Hours later, poor Pauli would appear, they knew, broken in ways they had all experienced at one time or another. The Boss was a cruel man, in charge of three hundred women, many of whom he had abused in some way. Mary had only felt his cruel hand on her waist a time or two, and his presence too close. She tried to stay under the radar so as not to catch his attention.
The follow morning, Mary's apprehension began to grow as she approached the factory and saw a mass of women standing outside. She knew she might be late, that her pay may be docked, but she could not help but be drawn into the crowd. She saw Pauli and moved in her direction.
"What's going on?"
"We're striking, girl. That's what going on." Even with a front tooth missing and a serious-looking black eye, she was infectious. Mary grabbed her hand in support.
"Striking? What do you mean?"
"I mean that we are no longer going to work until some changes are made. And the first one is to get rid of that big bully, the Boss!" Her comment was heard by others nearby and the rallying cry went up.
"Get rid of the Boss!"
At the main entry, a distinguished-looking man appeared. He wore a dark suit and had a fine gray beard. Some men had set up a dais to raise him above the crowd of angry women and everyone quieted and turned to him as he prepared to speak. The Boss stood at his side, smiling broadly.
"Women of Lowell Mills! I am speaking to you today because there have been some complaints and rumors about working conditions here. Let me assure you women of these facts. The hours are long and will stay that way. The pay you receive is the pay you will get; there will be no increases for you. If you decide to quit, that is your prerogative; there are others who will come for your jobs. Make no mistake about that. You are not unique; you are not special. We pay you to come here every day to do a job that must be done. If not by you, it will be done by someone else."
He paused and glared at the women before him. Murmurs among the crowd were low at first until Pauline spoke up.
"And what about the bully, Mr. Lowell? What about the Boss? How much longer do we have to put up with him abusing, beating, raping us at his will?" The crowd fell silent, waiting for an answer.
Mr. Lowell turned to the Boss momentarily, who continued to grin inanely. "Mr. Zelinski, the man you know as 'the Boss,' is no longer in the employ of Lowell Mills. His behavior is not tolerated and he will be replaced."
The Boss' grin faded quickly as he moved to the back of the stage. The crowd moved forward menacingly.
Fleeing in terror, he emitted a high-pitched scream as he jumped off the dais.
The women moved into the factory, ready to work. One down, they thought.
The Smells of Fall
Flashes
I laid in bed looking up. I had been working so long on Fall arrangements; knitted scarves, mittens, and leafy decorations, that they were all I could see drifting across the white expanse of my bedroom ceiling. On the floor were the left-over scraps of makings. Each one had, at one time, a high purpose but was now nothing more than garbage. I'd clean it all up later, after coffee, after shower, I thought, when I felt more inclined. I got up and headed toward the kitchen.
Fall has a smell; it's not the same for everyone. My childhood self knew the fall of raked leaves, burning on the curb in front of the apartment building where my family lived. Afterward, real hot chocolate waited inside, where we stood in the kitchen to brush off any stray leaf fragments that remained on our clothes, and mom swept them up off the vinyl floor. We had been jumping into the piles for hours before the burn. The janitors all over the neighborhood were working hard to clean the small yards with big trees, and had to shoo us away when it was time to rake the huge piles that we had tried to destroy, to the curb. The smoke begun, we knew our fun was over for that season of Fall.
My adult self had a more sophisticated aromatic association with Fall. It was potpourri of cinnamon sticks and apples. Candles that bordered on the smell of Christmas, but not quite, and of course pumpkin spice everything. We still had Thanksgiving to get through and the ever up-coming Fall festival.
I began as a young mother with small children, and had helped out at the church Fall festival every year since then, garnering me a status of sorts among the other volunteers. In the first year, I was proud of a sign I had made for a group of started wandering Jew plants that had been donated, selling for a dollar. The sign I made read, "Be ecumenical! Take home a wandering Jew." I wasn't sure anyone else got the joke, but I felt I had never been more creative - before or since my first step into the Fall festival hierarchy.
My house remained a messy, chaotic place throughout the duration of the festival preparations, and my family learned patience. Dinners were thrown-together affairs, where "Susie's surprise" had usually been a once-in-awhile meal, it was almost every night during the Fall. There were strips of this and that in the house where ever you looked. Even though every year I would start out organized and tidy, something always came up that sent the whole works into a free fall of crepe paper, ribbons and yarn, and sometimes cake flour. This year, that something was Mavis Riley.
Mavis Riley. A lovely woman with no sense of urgency in any cell of her body. She'd volunteer with a smile as wide as her face and her conviction was so strong that, initially, you'd think she'd hung the moon and would continue to do so long after harvest. Fall festival was in her blood, she'd say, and we all hung on every word, convinced in a crunch she would be our "go-to" girl.
The festival would be held on the Friday and Saturday after Thanksgiving, so the Wednesday before was our only real chance to get everything set up. My team and I had scheduled a meeting at my house the Sunday before Thanksgiving, to go over any last minute issues. Seven women showed up at basically the same time, parking their cars anywhere they could find a spot. My house, remarkably, looked presentable in the rooms they would see. They brought fresh doughnuts, coffee cake and good will. A happy group of women.
Mavis was missing. After insisting, she had been given the job of getting the flour from the grocers at half price, and we were expecting her to come with a car load to distribute. The grocer was the same one we used every year; he and his family attended the church, too, and we relied on him to help us with the cost of making the cakes. The women and I sat around chatting for half an hour before someone said, "Where's Mavis? I haven't received any flour from her yet."
A murmur went around the room; apparently no one had their flour. I picked up my cell phone and went into the kitchen to call her. It rang and rang; no answer. I went back into the family room, where everyone looked at me expectantly.
"She's not answering. Maybe she got held up and is one her way."
We continued with pleasantries, but after another fifteen minutes went by and still no Mavis, we were becoming concerned.
"Has anyone even seen Mavis lately?"
"I saw her last week. She was in her van with Bob, the grocer, I think, and heading toward the highway. I didn't think anything of it, but I didn't see her in church this morning either." This came from Fran, my next door neighbor.
"I have Bob's home number. I'll call him." The phone rang and eventually, Bob's wife Mary came on the line.
"Hello?"
"Hi Mary. This is Pat. Could I speak to Bob please? We were wondering about the flour for the Fall festival."
There was silence on the other end, then "Bob's not here. He and Mavis left together last week and I don't know where he is. Can't talk right now." The line went dead.
I turned to the group. "The cake walk will not be held this year after all, ladies. There's been a snag in the flour delivery. The baker, the grocer, and the flour too, I think, have gone down the highway."
The Fall festival was held, sans cake walk. The baking ladies made candies instead; homemade gumdrops and five-minute fudge. New Fall smells added to the memory odors of burning leaves, cinnamon sticks and pumpkin everything.
Fall has a smell; it's not the same for everyone. My childhood self knew the fall of raked leaves, burning on the curb in front of the apartment building where my family lived. Afterward, real hot chocolate waited inside, where we stood in the kitchen to brush off any stray leaf fragments that remained on our clothes, and mom swept them up off the vinyl floor. We had been jumping into the piles for hours before the burn. The janitors all over the neighborhood were working hard to clean the small yards with big trees, and had to shoo us away when it was time to rake the huge piles that we had tried to destroy, to the curb. The smoke begun, we knew our fun was over for that season of Fall.
My adult self had a more sophisticated aromatic association with Fall. It was potpourri of cinnamon sticks and apples. Candles that bordered on the smell of Christmas, but not quite, and of course pumpkin spice everything. We still had Thanksgiving to get through and the ever up-coming Fall festival.
I began as a young mother with small children, and had helped out at the church Fall festival every year since then, garnering me a status of sorts among the other volunteers. In the first year, I was proud of a sign I had made for a group of started wandering Jew plants that had been donated, selling for a dollar. The sign I made read, "Be ecumenical! Take home a wandering Jew." I wasn't sure anyone else got the joke, but I felt I had never been more creative - before or since my first step into the Fall festival hierarchy.
My house remained a messy, chaotic place throughout the duration of the festival preparations, and my family learned patience. Dinners were thrown-together affairs, where "Susie's surprise" had usually been a once-in-awhile meal, it was almost every night during the Fall. There were strips of this and that in the house where ever you looked. Even though every year I would start out organized and tidy, something always came up that sent the whole works into a free fall of crepe paper, ribbons and yarn, and sometimes cake flour. This year, that something was Mavis Riley.
Mavis Riley. A lovely woman with no sense of urgency in any cell of her body. She'd volunteer with a smile as wide as her face and her conviction was so strong that, initially, you'd think she'd hung the moon and would continue to do so long after harvest. Fall festival was in her blood, she'd say, and we all hung on every word, convinced in a crunch she would be our "go-to" girl.
The festival would be held on the Friday and Saturday after Thanksgiving, so the Wednesday before was our only real chance to get everything set up. My team and I had scheduled a meeting at my house the Sunday before Thanksgiving, to go over any last minute issues. Seven women showed up at basically the same time, parking their cars anywhere they could find a spot. My house, remarkably, looked presentable in the rooms they would see. They brought fresh doughnuts, coffee cake and good will. A happy group of women.
Mavis was missing. After insisting, she had been given the job of getting the flour from the grocers at half price, and we were expecting her to come with a car load to distribute. The grocer was the same one we used every year; he and his family attended the church, too, and we relied on him to help us with the cost of making the cakes. The women and I sat around chatting for half an hour before someone said, "Where's Mavis? I haven't received any flour from her yet."
A murmur went around the room; apparently no one had their flour. I picked up my cell phone and went into the kitchen to call her. It rang and rang; no answer. I went back into the family room, where everyone looked at me expectantly.
"She's not answering. Maybe she got held up and is one her way."
We continued with pleasantries, but after another fifteen minutes went by and still no Mavis, we were becoming concerned.
"Has anyone even seen Mavis lately?"
"I saw her last week. She was in her van with Bob, the grocer, I think, and heading toward the highway. I didn't think anything of it, but I didn't see her in church this morning either." This came from Fran, my next door neighbor.
"I have Bob's home number. I'll call him." The phone rang and eventually, Bob's wife Mary came on the line.
"Hello?"
"Hi Mary. This is Pat. Could I speak to Bob please? We were wondering about the flour for the Fall festival."
There was silence on the other end, then "Bob's not here. He and Mavis left together last week and I don't know where he is. Can't talk right now." The line went dead.
I turned to the group. "The cake walk will not be held this year after all, ladies. There's been a snag in the flour delivery. The baker, the grocer, and the flour too, I think, have gone down the highway."
The Fall festival was held, sans cake walk. The baking ladies made candies instead; homemade gumdrops and five-minute fudge. New Fall smells added to the memory odors of burning leaves, cinnamon sticks and pumpkin everything.