I live in Westchester, and work in New Jersey. Cross over on the Tappan Zee Bridge; it’s a 45-minute commute on a good day. On a bad day it could be anything at all…
To help pass the time, and because along with my wife and my daughter my best Friend in this whole wide world is still my Mom, and because she always, always has my back and always, always will, and because I love her more than any mere words will ever be able to describe, I call my Mom on my way home from work every day. OK, almost every day; four out of five, at the very least.
Over the years it’s become a nice, comfortable routine for both of us. I know I enjoy it. I’m pretty sure she enjoys it too...at least, I think she does...she picks up the phone every time...
Most conversations, I just tell her about my day, and she tells me about hers. It’s pretty standard stuff, as I have the most boring job in the world, and she doesn’t get out much these days; she suffers from macular degeneration, and is virtually housebound. Some days we bore each other to tears. But sometimes I learn something about her that takes my breath away.
She told me this story recently...
She was 19 years old; it was 1946. Going to college was not an American birthright back then, as it is now. She was living with her Mom and Dad in Brooklyn, a young professional, commuting back and forth to her secretarial job in a small Manhattan law office. Things were looking up: the war was over (just); she had a steady job in the big city, she was young and pretty and able to buy herself some nice clothes for the first time in her life.
One day her father took sick. He rarely took sick, and she could not remember him ever missing a day of work before. But on this day he had to stay home in bed. He worked in downtown Manhattan, and he asked my Mom if she could stop by his office on her way home and pick up his paycheck for him. My Mom was only too happy to oblige; she wrote down his work address.
As she rode the subway that afternoon, my Mom realized she didn’t know much about what her father did for a living. She knew he was in the garment industry, and that he made men’s suits, and that his office was downtown...and that was it.
She found the address he had given her, and made her way up the stairs, up and up, and up. There was the right number on the heavy metal door, and she knocked, and knocked again. She pushed open the door and “wham!” The heat and noise and stench were like a slap in her face. All at once, much too late, my mom realized where her father went every day, all day, for the nineteen years of her young life: the proverbial sweatshop, of the very worst variety. She peered around, shouted over the din, and finally found someone in charge, who pointed out her father’s sewing table. There was the envelope with ‘Harry’ scrawled on it. She picked it up and hurried out, holding her breath the whole time. She hopped on the next train back to Brooklyn.
When she arrived home she walked in to her father’s room and burst into tears.
“What is it sweetheart? Did you get lost?”
“No, Father.”
“Did they not give you my pay?”
“Yes, they gave it to me, Father.”
“Then what is wrong, my Love? Why do you cry so?”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me what you did and where you worked before!?”
My Grandfather smiled and said: “Do not weep, Little-one. Didn’t you notice where my table is? It is the very best table in the whole shop, the very best: I can see the window.” |
