Every time I get the urge to complain about my job, which is more often than it should be, all I have to do is get in my car and ride around my hometown of Griffin, Ga. to remind myself that I really don't have it too bad.
Griffin is littered with the ghostly remnants of textile mills, which have sat empty for years since most of those jobs moved to Mexico and China, where people are willing to work for a few dollars a day.
The mill sites now consist mostly of dilapidated, falling-down buildings, abandoned railroad tracks and overgrown parking lots. One of them used to have a sign on the outside that said "future lofts", but I can't imagine anybody wanting to live in such a place.
There was a time when cotton was king in Griffin. Everyone in my family, but me, worked at a textile mill, or cotton mill, as we called them, at some point. My father did, before he moved on to an assembly line job with General Motors; my mother did, both my brothers did, my grandmother did. If you lived in Griffin, odds were high that somebody in your
family worked at a mill.
And it was hard, nasty, unforgiving work. When the whistle blew, you could see the workers walking out of the mill slowly, fatigue riding on their shoulders, lint clinging to their clothes and their hair. The word "linthead" was used to refer to these workers in a derogatory way, but anybody who ever said that should be ashamed. Including me.
I can remember on a few occasions going into the mill with my mom, and being overwhelmed by the roar of the machinery, and all the dust and lint flying through the air. My mom would tell me stories of people getting hurt at work, losing a finger in one of the machines or burning themselves on a hot piece of equipment. It makes the times when somebody heats up smelly food in the microwave in the breakroom seem like not such a big deal.
I’m not saying I haven’t had a couple of crappy jobs along the way. I worked at one newspaper with the biggest collection of miscreants and single-helixed morons you’re likely to see this side of a traveling carnival. I’ve worked long hours for low pay before, but nothing like the backbreaking factory work everybody else in family knew at one time. The closest I came to that was a summertime job picking apples, and at least I got to be outside.
I didn't know what I was going to be when I was growing up, but I knew one thing for sure - I was not going to work in a cotton mill. It just didn't look like much fun. I looked down on it then, but now I greatly respect the people who climbed out of bed every morning, trudged into those dusty, noisy sweatshops and put in an honest day's work, day afterday.
And I know my parents hoped that I never would have to work there, and that's part of the reason why they did - to make a better life for their kids. And for that, I will always be thankful.
Griffin is littered with the ghostly remnants of textile mills, which have sat empty for years since most of those jobs moved to Mexico and China, where people are willing to work for a few dollars a day.
The mill sites now consist mostly of dilapidated, falling-down buildings, abandoned railroad tracks and overgrown parking lots. One of them used to have a sign on the outside that said "future lofts", but I can't imagine anybody wanting to live in such a place.
There was a time when cotton was king in Griffin. Everyone in my family, but me, worked at a textile mill, or cotton mill, as we called them, at some point. My father did, before he moved on to an assembly line job with General Motors; my mother did, both my brothers did, my grandmother did. If you lived in Griffin, odds were high that somebody in your
family worked at a mill.
And it was hard, nasty, unforgiving work. When the whistle blew, you could see the workers walking out of the mill slowly, fatigue riding on their shoulders, lint clinging to their clothes and their hair. The word "linthead" was used to refer to these workers in a derogatory way, but anybody who ever said that should be ashamed. Including me.
I can remember on a few occasions going into the mill with my mom, and being overwhelmed by the roar of the machinery, and all the dust and lint flying through the air. My mom would tell me stories of people getting hurt at work, losing a finger in one of the machines or burning themselves on a hot piece of equipment. It makes the times when somebody heats up smelly food in the microwave in the breakroom seem like not such a big deal.
I’m not saying I haven’t had a couple of crappy jobs along the way. I worked at one newspaper with the biggest collection of miscreants and single-helixed morons you’re likely to see this side of a traveling carnival. I’ve worked long hours for low pay before, but nothing like the backbreaking factory work everybody else in family knew at one time. The closest I came to that was a summertime job picking apples, and at least I got to be outside.
I didn't know what I was going to be when I was growing up, but I knew one thing for sure - I was not going to work in a cotton mill. It just didn't look like much fun. I looked down on it then, but now I greatly respect the people who climbed out of bed every morning, trudged into those dusty, noisy sweatshops and put in an honest day's work, day afterday.
And I know my parents hoped that I never would have to work there, and that's part of the reason why they did - to make a better life for their kids. And for that, I will always be thankful.
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