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.

FIRST LOVE

Another Valentine's Day and even at my age - I still think of love...and what it is...what it could be...what it could have been...There are many kinds of love in our lives. As we grow they grow with us.  I loved my new bike.  My mom.  The first snow of the year…But there is one love that most of us can never forget or really get over – that’s our first romantic love

Our eyes met in the school cafeteria line for the first time.  And wow!  There are thousands of words and songs about it – poets pondered it in sonnets.  But when it happens for the first time – there are no words that explain it.  But I believe you just know it.  Indeed “Zing went the strings” of my innocent heart.  I could feel myself blush.  We got our food and she sat with her friends; me with mine.  She laughed.  I tried not to look.  But I failed.  For the whole lunch period I stared at my green plate of beige institutional food.  It got cold and I tossed it. Somehow my appetite was replaced that day with that sweet taste of first love.  The next morning the sky was actually bluer – nothing but blue skies did I see.  The songs on the radio all meant more.  I walked the hall hoping to see her again.  And then there she was, opening her locker.  Locker 214 – I still remember it all these years.  She’s wearing a grey skirt, a blue oxford blouse and penny loafers with argyle knee socks.  Gads I was madly in love! A loud voice in my mind repeated and repeated her name…KATHY.

After two days of smiles. I had the courage to say “hi”.  The next day I walked her to her freshman math class.  And I was late to my Latin II torture.  I got a warning that lateness is not tolerated.  And...So it goes.   Walking leads to carrying her books to holding hands to yearning to touch and stay together as long as we can each day.  We date.  The movies on Friday night’s.  We hold hands the whole show while Jerry and Dean carry on – but we both are not really watching – we are in our own movie.  The Saturday dance at the YMCA.  The quick kiss goodnight at her door knowing that her dad was probably listening on the other side.  And our school days proceeded into months.  The intervals between seeing each other felt so long. What to buy her for Christmas…picking the right Valentine…and then it’s summer and we say goodbye on the steps of our last school day - which until now was an occasion we both used to look forward to – but not now.   We would be miles apart and only connected by telephone.  I lay on the cool kitchen floor and talked to her for hours  – I wonder what did we have to say ?  But the words flowed – mostly silly words.  We laughed and constantly tested our “love”.  She goes away with her parents on vacation – when will she ever return?  Did she meet someone at the shore?  Moments of doubt creep into our conversations.  Do you still like me?  Would you like to date other people?  Do you…would you…?  All the games everyone plays when learning the steps of the dance of love.  And then for no good reason – it ended. I went to college.

 For some of us first love just ends as fast as it started.  These first loves are fragile.  A word can start unraveling it.  But for some of my classmates this puppy love would last beyond school and mature to marriage, children, homes and lives well-lived or at least until the first divorce!  I look back and still wonder, after all these years, why did my first love end?  I guess it was my yearning to test what lay beyond the borders of my small town – to taste a bigger world.

Did I gain that much?  I will never know – but I do now know that it was paid for with my innocence that left me saying goodbye to one of my best friends - ever.  

 First love...she made my heart sing...and honestly, when I think of her...she still does!

THE FIRST SNOW

It’s snowing in New Jersey but for me in central Florida the only snow we see comes from “snow” machines at Disney World when the Magic Kingdom is decked for Christmas.  I think of snow…

...I’m 8 years old and it’s January 1951.  I was back in school only two weeks from one of the best times of the kid year – Christmas vacation – and that was what it was called, get over it.  And now another true hallmark day was coming without the aid of the Weather Channel – not as great as Christmas, but near to it.  A snow day!  The TV weatherman predicted a light dusting which many times turned into 2 feet of the wet stuff.  I had my hopes that the first snow day off from school would be tomorrow.  But Mom made me go to bed at the regular time – bad sign because if the snow was certain I would be able to stay up late.  At least to nine thirty.  And so I was vigilant at my bedroom window waiting and waiting and then –  I saw a flake, then another.  I yell IT SNOWING! and mom came into my bedroom and said  “Go to sleep!”  I do because I couldn’t for a white tomorrow.  It was going to be a very busy day.

Now this is a strange thing.  I loved going to school – but getting a free day off for me and I believe most kids was like having a reprieve from a sentence to Alcatraz.  Oh the joy.  I awoke bright and early.  And WMVB radio litany of closing was heard in our kitchen.  I rushed and sat at the table listening for the big to be announced.  “Millville schools are closed”, the announcer made it official and I hurried a breakfast of toast and jam – couldn't wait for eggs to fry  this AM.  

 I dressed for a polar expedition in a snowsuit obeying an order from my grandmother.  A snow suit – yikes - the winter bane of every kid my age.  I wasn’t a little kid anymore but I had to wear it or I’d be sentenced to watching from a window as the other kids on my street had snowball fights.  In reality it was only a heavy coat with a hood and matching heavy padded bib pants that always were too tight.  And my grandmother made me wear my grandfather’s black rubber galoshes over a pair of his rough and itchy wool hunting socks or “your feet will freeze”, she warned.  I felt like an Eskimo in rubber “Frankenstein feet”.  They had metal clasps that looked me in their protection from the dreaded elements.  You could never get into them fast enough as this was a two hand job of opening, hooking, folding and closing.   I was finally ready and out I went into the freezing tundra.  (Can’t you imagine the UGG’s generation wearing these rubber boots?)  

I was finally outdoors and  to the joy of a day off from reading and writing and rith-ma-tic to the world of snowmen and snow forts and getting hit in the face with a “soaped” snow ball – which was illegal in my peer group.  But most times not heeded by my cousin (the bully) Bruce who lived to toss one.  I started my day by running and sliding down Stratton Avenue on my new Flexible Flyer sled.  (I recently saw  one for sale on EBay for $750 bucks just like the one  I sold mine for $5 bucks at a yard sale).  This was a machine very foreign to South Jersey.  There are absolutely zero big hills to slide down – but I had to try it anyhow.  And I got that over with. This device never did fulfill its purpose as promoted on TV and  it would be soon relegated to the garage to become a cobwebbed artifact.  But at the time a sled was a must have in my circle of pals. Next came the fashioning of a snowman that ended up not looking much like Frosty - except for my Pop's corn cob pipe. ( Some snows are better for snowman building - this snow I remember was too light and fluffy to make a good one.)  I retreated back in only for a quick lunch – hot pea soup, the kind only grandmothers made on snow days, the kind with milk and chunks of potatoes floating in it.  I washed it down with a cup of tea that warmed me up.  And with red cheeks in full flush of the season I ventured out again to an afternoon of melting fun.  

My snow day fades.  Oh those indeed were the days when a thing so simple as some frozen rain could make such joy in a kid's heart – but those days are gone now - for years before I moved south I  rarely saw  kids taking time out from their video games or cell phones to go out in the snow and play.  So, I made a silent pledge to myself - If I ever get to see real snow again I am going out and "play" in it or at least take a nice long walk through it even though I no longer have a pair of galoshes!

KNOCK AT THE DOOR

I received a Christmas delivery today of an online purchase - no knock at the door, it was just waiting on my doormat until I discovered it had arrived.  This made me think about the days growing up when people came to our door all the time…

…and I'm back in Millville and there’s a knock on our backdoor.  This was always exciting for me, a preschooler home with grandmother Ethel with one year until kindergarten.  My grandmother took off her homemaid apron - she never answered the door with it on. I guess she didn’t want to be mistaken for our maid, which wasn't very probable in our home.  I was always excited to see who was there.  This time it was a person who scared me everytime he made his monthly visit.  My grandmother didn’t like him much either.  She called him a “peddler”?  And that he was.  He was the “pin peddler” whose case was filled with buttons, straight pins (which seems to be always getting lost) and thread of every color I could think of.  I can’t imagine how he could make a decent living now - but then in our factory workers' town most of the ladies of the house sew, mended and adapted our clothes to make them last.  My grandmother looked at me with her “oh no” rolling of her eyes.  And I remember why she thought this salesman was a pest - talked too much and kept her from our chores.  Ten minutes later after hearing his pitch again, she did need some black thread, paid him 25 cents and was back in her apron.  I have to admit I like standing behind her  and watching as the old man showed her his newest stuff.

These were the days long before one could buy something and never utter a word to another living soul.  The milkman left milk at our door every few days and knocked to collect his money once a week.  He worked for our local dairy and also supplied us with butter, cream and cheese.  Another visiter was the Bond Bread man - who came once a week (or more if Nanny requested something special).  He had a large tray filled with donuts and pies which hung on one arm.  Nanny always asked me what I would like even though I always said, “Cinnamon Buns”!  I can still taste their freshness, matter of fact many time they were still warm from baking.  And I have yet to taste any since those days as good as they were - fresh, really sticky and covered with  pecans.  

And there were more visitors I look forward to seeing.  The mailman actually came to our door and sometimes personally handed her a package.  The meter readers all took time out to chat with us…and so it was in the days when we talked with people. 

Technology today in just seven decades for me has made many things easier and instant - but as it connected us to the world it has also made us so far apart.  The electronic age is a very lonely time for many - when there is rarely a knock at the door. 

A Birthday Wish

The years roll by and I check off another birthday, number 79 - on my mental calendar. So far, so good as they say! We  mark our lives with birthdays and holidays and those days are the best days of our lives and stay in our minds like no other days of a long ago. 

When I was young I couldn’t wait to have another birthday – kids are always looking forward to something: a two wheeler; the first Scout uniform; drivers training.  But at my age we say please "slow down"!  My growing up days turned into months and the years flowed like fine wine from nature's cafafe - much too quickly.  

My first birthday?  I certainly can’t remember that one but I can see imagine it from a few fading pictures - me in a high chair with a pointed paper party hat and cake icing all over my face.  This the standard infant birthday pose.   (Most of us all have a box or drawer pictures that illustrate the days we were too young to remember – many times we just think we remember them.)  In another photo I am dressed like a sailor – my father was a medic in the Pacific landing on the beach at Iwo Jima the day I was born – one of the bloodiest days of that awful war.  When he was stationed in Hawaii he sent me a genuine Hawaiian shirt and sandals for my second birthday – my one and only present from him as my mother and he were divorced as soon as he returned from the service.  He never sent me a birthday present after that.  Which now as a GrandPa Cal I believe was his great loss not mine.

And so the years passed... as the photo collection grew, my journey now in Kodacolor. When I reached 10 years I finally got that long awaited Cub Scout Pen Knife that I had yearned for until Mom decided I was  old enough to have a dangerous weapon.  I could now whittle large chunks into small chunks an earn a Cub Scout badge (which I now know the main purpose was to sell badges along with all the other scouting add-ons. The Boy Scouts was one of the great marketing ploys in history so far). 

And the gifts, rather than the days, become the milestones of  my memories; their cost grew as I did:  

12 years = Schwinn Black Beauty, the best bike ever.  

14 = A blue bowling ball with “Cal” engraved on it.              

16 = A Remington electric razor with the caveat from Nanny, “Calvin, you are getting there”!  (She said that every year on my birthday and his too)

And in a wink my special days were being marked with crayoned signs made with love by my kids.  Balloons greeted me when I came home from work on my big day – daughter Lisa made me a lopsided pottery bowl-ashtray-container something one year in art class which I still keep change in on my bureau; son Jon created a homemade card – Roses are Red…Violets are Blue…You’re still young at 32.  Barb, the oldest, would make her first cake from scratch. It was blue inside and out. The number of candles didn’t fit on top of her cake so I blew out one for each decade. 

Time gobbled up my days.  Grandmother Ethel always said that the older I would get the faster the years will go by.  She was so right.  It seems like just yesterday we all were together around the kitchen table; Pop, Nanny and Mom as I with just a few candles to extinguish and wishes for simpler things.  They sang and then we laughed…there was always lots of laughing in my home growing up.  Like my years my folks are all gone now.  No more counting the years for them.  Yes Nanny as you always said – you finally got there after all.  

My birthday wish this year, after the one candle was out on my favorite restaurant's annual free cupcake - I wish as last year, that I could have just one more birthday with them all...just once more... and that I would have another cupcake...next year.