MEASURED BEAUTY

J.D. Salinger once wrote that we tend to look at things and people in the way we are taught to look at them. We see a block of wood, and because it has dimension, we accept it as a block of wood. But do we really have proof that that block of wood is really wood, or a block for that matter.

Once upon a time long, long ago, my dad had a group of riders he took to his factory job every morning from Monday to Friday. Door to door service, each lady would climb into her assigned seat in the station wagon, with her little brown lunch bag and say a simple: “Good morning, Tony.” These riders were women who worked the machines of a manufacturer of children’s play clothes, simple natured; their jobs required a learned skill that needs only to be accurate and fast in assembling their part of the garment. They sat at a sewing machine, their heads down at 9:00 A.M. and except for a half hour lunch break and two 10 minutes coffee breaks, didn’t lift their heads again until the whistle screeched at 4:30 P.M.

All the women were “old maids” as they were called for their unmarried status, and the fact that they accepted their designation with resignation lent to their aura sadness. Though their jobs were considered menial, to them it was life and death to have. Being paid piecemeal, each eyed what the other had. The ladies working wardrobes where simple by need and plain by design yet sufficed to meet the challenge of their daily routine. All the women were to put it mildly: unattractive in looks. None of the ladies could drive, and if it weren’t for Dad, would all be taking the bus to work everyday.

Entertainment was a cheap and inexpensive sit in front of the TV, no dates, no restaurants, no vacations to anywhere but washing windows or cleaning a house, sadly those were the experiences they related to my Dad when he asked; “How was you vacation, or weekend?” Conversations centered on their jobs or TV shows they watched, or maybe a family member that was doing something out of the ordinary.

I remember those days and how special I felt that I was only working in the factory for the summer, anxiously awaiting the fall and the return to college classes, smugly knowing that I would not turn out like them, that I would have an education and be “Better” than they were.

One day I graduated college, took a job in the city and started a career, I climbed up the ladder, taking on raises and new positions, soon realizing how I missed those days of working in the summer. The meetings in my career were full of strange people waiting for answers, judging my work, criticizing my approach to a marketing problem rightfully or wrongfully, working long hours or overnight, made me wish for the security of the simple life these ladies had, how all they needed was to do a simple task and no one would question it.

I often wondered if when I left them for college, if they didn’t snicker and think: “Poor bastard.”