…Working

No matter what it is I do, I do so under a collar of blue…

…I am the son of the son of the son of a legacy of collars of blue.

Working men, working women, working towns, working neighborhoods, build it, sell it, fix it kind of folks.

I am the grandson of immigrants…

…2nd generation born on this soil, I was told “…we couldn’t buy it so we built it instead.”

Grew up next door to the “concrete guy,” grew up next door to the “foundry guy,” down the street from “the plumber,” down the street from “paint factory guy.”

Under the roof of the Sears Roebuck refrigerator salesman and Junior High school cafeteria lady.

Every parent I knew punched in and punched out, every family I knew lived week to week, paycheck to paycheck. By the time I was 10 years old I knew the difference between “laid-off,” “closed,” and “a retool.”

Knew a salesman’s “slow time” meant “Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday stew.”

Knew our new car was someone’s old car trade in.

I never went “needing,” I got what I needed and wanted what I got.

My degree came from the same University that my father once delivered furniture to, my best friend’s dad was “in landscaping” and cut the lawn outside the classrooms I sat in.

I’ve learned as much from men and women with paint spots on their hands, grease under their nails and bandages on their fingers as I did from the professors with letters after their names and chalk on their tweed jackets.

“Is this what you dreamed of dad…”

…my father and I were sitting in the Sears Roebuck basement employee “cafeteria” having chow together, we worked in departments that faced each other, his was Refrigerators/Freezers/Washer/Dryers/Air Conditioners mine was TV/Stereo/Records.

Back then Sears paid in cash, in a white envelope, on Saturday. A lady named Millie handed each envelope out from an office also in the basement, my father got a “draw” of not much if he didn’t sell anything or “commission” if he did.

I got $1.50 an hour and high school credit for “work/study.” At Christmas my white envelope from Millie was always thicker than his, in the heat of the summer when A/C was needed his envelope beat mine.

“…dreamed of dad…” said the son with the thicker envelope.

“Stopped dreaming a while ago...”

He was eating fast, every minute off “the floor” could be a lost sale.

I didn’t know it was one of those “tough weeks” and knew when he found out I just charged 5 gallons of gas at 33¢ a gallon at the Sears gas station against his “draw” of next week, he wouldn’t be happy.

Knew it wouldn’t help his dreams any.

“…I dreamt that I would make it out of the Philippines alive, that came true, no need to waste dreamin’ on bigger cars, houses or more money when you dreamed of staying alive and it came true…”

He is looking past me, watching to see how fast the other salesmen are eating, if they are eating slow, he’ll talk more, if he sees they are watching him, he’ll gobble it down and be gone to beat them out to “the floor.”

“…when I do dream though, I dream about you…”

Huh, wait, what.

“…dream you find your way, dream you don’t die for the old rich guys who send the young poor guys off to shoot others or get shot…”

He pulls a white napkin out of the shiny metal napkin holder sitting on the table between us, wipes his mouth puts it on his plate, starts to stand and picks up my plate to bring to the dirty plate area.

My Father has just bussed my table.

As he walks by me he puts his hand on my shoulder and stops.

“…and I also dreamed that if I didn’t get killed while loading the howitzer that I would one day have a son and that he would never have to load something that would blow up a person a mile away…”

And then he leans down and whispers so none of the other salesmen can hear him…

“…and that my son would be kind, oh, and not have to work with those assholes over there.”

To which he stood back up and smiled at his salesmen coworkers of whom he just described.

Unless there is a crown on top of your head…

…a white collar does not make you king, or queen.

My next door neighbor, the cement guy, Mr. D’Napali once told me that his father told him that “You ain’t shit until you sign the front of the paycheck, not the back.”

One day Mr. D’Napali took me and his son to a Buffalo Bills football game in ‘da Rockpile, Buffalo’s War Memorial Stadium, as we were walking up to the ticket counter he just stopped and a big smile came across his tanned and unshaved round face.

“You know boys, I helped pour this place,” and then he went over to a part of the stadium wall and patted it, “I was just a little older than you when I poured this baby right here.”

This is a piece of the ‘da Rockpile, pretty slim chance it is what Mr. D’Napali “poured” but every time I see it, every time I hold it I think of him and all those who “poured the place,” where I sat as a child.

The kindest hands I’ve ever shook…

…were, are, the working man’s, woman’s blistered hands.

I learned kindness from those who held the skinny envelops, from those who never signed the front of the paycheck, from those who hung their work clothes up on a line outside to dry, from those who had to fix what broke, from those who came to help you when all others ran away, from the person who brought you your meal and from those who afterwards washed your plate.

All of those people and so many more all of whom POURED THIS PLACE!

This is the hammer my father used to…

…nail together a cradle he built that would hold his son who at a few months old was put in a body cast from just above his ankles to under his armpits.

And that would be me.

The pipe fitter down the street welded together a special stroller I could “sit” in, the mechanic across the street made a contraption that hooked over the back of the front seat in my father’s car so that I could “sit” up and look out the window when we went for rides.

The seamstress around the block made outfits that would fit over and cover the cast, would make new ones as I grew and they changed the casts to bigger ones.

The car guy took the board he used to slide under cars, cleaned most of the grease off, painted clowns all over it and gave it to me so I could “scootch” across the kitchen floor.

I get to spend Classic Saturday in the…

…EXpo and sometimes in the Bassmaster booth, it’s my favorite day of the season because I get a chance to meet so many of you folks.

Every person who comes up I ask the same thing: “What’s your name, where are you from and what do you do.”

And so many times I’m told, “…just a blue collar guy…”

Take the “JUST” out…

…I’m a blue collar guy myself, raised by collars of blue, respect and honor the family of that collar.

Respect and honor those under the fire helmets, those under the flashing red lights on the roof of the squad car, respect and honor those who work the factory line, who sell stuff, who build stuff, who fix stuff, who take care of me when I’m sick, who build the boats we fish in, the line we use, the rods in our hands, the reels under our thumbs…

Take the “JUST” out…

…everyone regardless of what they do, what they look like, what language they speak, what level of education they have, where they come from need not use the word JUST around me or around anyone else.

Know this…WE ALL POURED THE PLACE…us and all those who came before us.

No.

“JUST.”

Needed.

There you go,

db