Scavenger Hunt

 

Have you ever participated in a scavenger hunt? You get a list of unlikely things to collect and usually there are some obstacles in place that make the hunt a bit more challenging. That's what we've been doing lately, only it's family records that happen to be the unusual items we're trying to collect.

Marcie's mum is entitled to some veteran's benefits and in order to apply we had to 1) locate and download a ream of government forms (okay, half a ream) and the directions (which we've since found are incorrect); 2) complete the forms (in black ink only; printed, no cursive); and 3) provide all sorts of back-up information, certified documents and official certificates. We realize that they don't want people collecting benefits that they're not entitled to, but really. Do they expect octogenarians to figure all this out and complete the process?

Our hunt has taken us to my home town of Leicester, Massachusetts to get a certified copy of my dad's death certificate from nearly 40 years ago even though he has nothing to do with the benefits my mom will be receiving. Granted, I could have done this on-line, but in the interest of time, it made more sense to drive there and pick it up. It also required us to drive to Concord, New Hampshire to get a copy of my step-dad's 1946 Honorable Discharge paperwork certified. This could not be done on-line and needed to be completed on a restricted Army National Guard Base at the Adjutant General's office. The stamps are very colorful and official looking.

We headed to Conway, New Hampshire to get a death certificate for my step-dad's first wife who died in the 1980's. Though Archie had been part of the family for nearly 20 years, we didn't know his ex-wife's name, date of death or where she died. This required getting temporary memberships to several on-line “trace your heritage” type sites to track down the information after which we found that because of an unusual state law, you cannot get a copy of a death certificate in New Hampshire unless you're a relative and you can't do it on-line. After much to-do and producing a Power of Attorney, my mom's driver's license, a letter signed by her authorizing me to get the certificate for her and my driver's license, I was told that the woman died in a different town and we needed to go there … on the other side of the state! We drove from Conway to Hanover and after doing the same dance routine, I was able to obtain what I needed … for $15.

I found out recently that I could have paid one of several companies between $900 and $2,000 to complete these forms for me. This would be tempting.

Just in case you were wondering, we were not required to get a Papal Imprimatur nor a Presidential Seal and for that, we are thankful … though the trip to Rome might have been an adventure and we could have visited Brennan and Hannah in D.C.

From a Family of Mill Workers

 

Did you ever have one of those epiphanies when you finally comprehend something that you've seen, read and heard about for years, but its significance had never really hit you? I had such an experience the other day as we drove through the Blackstone National Heritage Corridor through mill town after mill town. The life of the mill worker is my own heritage. I was bred from this stock of hard-working laborers that spent their lives in mills, working long days in miserable conditions.

My grandfather was born in Manchaug, a mill town in south central Massachusetts and worked at the Manchaug Mills as a young man. Most young men in Manchaug did the same. It's what you did. It's the work that was available then. People died of brown lung (inhalation of textile fibers) and machinery accidents. Towns smelled of mill fumes. Rivers changed color depending upon the chemicals that were dumped into them that day.

After being discharged from the Army after WWII, my dad worked at Whitin Machine Works in Whitinsville. This company had been making machines for the textile industry since 1831 and during the post-war years employed thousands. In his later years, he worked in a steel mill in Worcester.

My Mom always worked. First at a knitting mill, MKM, as a piece rate worker assembling sweaters, and later at Carlton Woolen Mills as a weaver. Both mills were located in Rochdale, MA, the village in which she was born. My parents always referred to their workplaces as “the Shop”.

My grandmother worked at the Worcester Knitting Company for over 40 years. The year I turned 16, she got me a job and I worked there summers and every vacation for the next three years for minimum wage. Did you ever see the opening scene of “Joe vs. the Volcano”? It's a depressing look at factory life. Gray-brown, dull, boring, poor lighting and unhealthy. It was an awful job. From my table, I looked out windows caked thick with dust and grime and could never tell what color the sky was. It was hot, filthy and joyless. I dreaded entering the building every morning at 06:50.

I was a piece-rate worker and my job was to inspect and properly fold polo shirts … a fancy name for t-shirts. I stood beside a thigh-high table for eight hours a day. Beside me was a huge bin which Millie, the floor lady, aka the boss, would fill throughout the day with searing hot, freshly steam pressed shirts in four dozen bundles. I would inspect the shirts for quality then cut off loose threads, apply labels, insert tissue and fold. There were small, pliable aluminum fasteners that squeezed shut or sometimes common pins were used to keep the shirts properly folded. The fasteners cut my fingertips and I was reprimanded once when I got blood on a finished shirt.

I worked with 4-5 little Italian ladies who had cumulatively worked at the mill, doing the exact same job, for nearly 150 years. They rarely spoke to me; talking was discouraged. After all, we were there to work, not chat. I folded those shirts into neat one-dozen piles and stacked them in front of me. Millie would swoop over and remove the finished product every once in awhile and refill my bin with more shirts to be folded. The company sold product to J C Penney and Sears and every time I looked at their catalogs and saw those shirts for sale, I felt a wave of nausea.

It was working at that factory that convinced me that I needed to go to college and get an education. The thought of working in this mill and becoming like the shriveled little Italian ladies was so abhorrent to me, that no amount of stress, grief or aggravation through my college years was equal to my fear of working at the Worcester Knitting Company for the rest of my life. My generation was the first in our family to complete high school, never mind go on to college.

The mills have gone by the way now … renovated and refurbed for other uses. Driving through this “heritage corridor” of mill towns however, will stay with me forever now. It's always been a part of me; I just never realized how much.

Crew Update

Once a month or so, we try to give everyone an update on Nine of Cups and crew. As far as Cups goes, it appears she's faring well through the South Australian winter. She's still berthed in the marina, the marina fees are up to date and friends stop by every once in awhile to make sure she's okay. She complains of neglect and loneliness, but it appears she's no worse for the wear. The crew is still in Mansfield, Massachusetts, about 20 minutes from Boston. Marcie's mum, Bea, has been in and out of the hospital and rehab facilities over the past months, but she's strong-willed and tough. We're looking at lots of options, but have arrived at no firm decisions. These are not easy decisions to make and sorting through the alternatives takes time and patience. Who could have known all there is to do and know about this? Certainly not us.

Where does that leave us? Landbound, at least for a few more months. This is one of those times when reality and life get in the way of sailing off into the sunset. That said, there seems to be a light, dim but still shining, at the end of the tunnel … and a sailboat there patiently waiting for her crew to return.