Carol Schaal '91M.A. | July 14, 2017
“The last person who did this job,” the floor manager told me, “mangled several fingers in the machine. So do not reach into it!”
Good to know.
The summer of my 16th year was the summer of teen-age angst. Or, as my mother would comment later, it was the summer I wanted to get away from home. Getting away from home meant heading 30 miles south to live with Aunt Jo and Uncle Bob and their four kids, my cousins, and work a decent-paying summer factory job to save up money for college. Such a rebel I was.
My first 15 minutes in the wire factory were a blur of walking around as a foreman showed me the various operations. The whole thing looked scary, and I wondered what job I’d get. I also got a hint of workplace rules when the foreman glared at two women who had been chatting and said sternly, “Hey, enough talking,” as we walked by their station.