Every morning, even when the bitter-cold wind howled and the
snow swirled just outside his bedroom window, he got up to go to
work.
My dad was a pipecoverer.
So was my Uncle Jack and my Uncle Bill. Combined they had about
100 years of service and dedication to the asbestos workers
union.
Every morning, even when the bitter-cold wind howled and the snow swirled just outside his bedroom window, he got up to go to work.
My dad was a pipecoverer.
So was my Uncle Jack and my Uncle Bill. Combined they had about 100 years of service and dedication to the asbestos workers union.
My other Uncle Bill was a professional photographer. He shot weddings almost up to the day he died – even after having both feet amputated.
I worked as a pipecoverer’s helper for five summers and three winter breaks to help pay my way through college. It taught me just as much, maybe more, than my years at Southern Illinois University.
Much of the time I worked with my dad was at Bethlehem Steel in Northern Indiana. The searing heat and acrid smell of the white-hot coke ovens still burn fresh in my memory, despite being 30 years ago.
Some of it was fun, especially working on the Sears Tower in downtown Chicago with my Uncle Jack and a cast of funny characters. I was able to stand and take in the wondrous view from the 100th floor – before the walls were even finished.
But most of the work was in suffocating heat or bitter cold, in dirty and dangerous conditions. You seemed to always work inside in the summer and outside in the winter.
My dad never let any of the guys running the jobs show favoritism toward me. He wanted me to take that money and go back to college with it, to get the degree he was never able to earn.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t proud of what he did for a living. It was a good wage and it kept us in a clean and comfortable house, living modestly but safe and happy.
My dad had fierce pride in Local 17. So did my two uncles and their many friends in the trades. They were examples of the best side of union work.
They showed up on time every day ready to do their job. They didn’t call in sick unless it was really bad. I can’t remember my dad ever missing a day of work.
Another lasting memory is how he would finish a boiler with cement, canvas and paste, smoothing out even the smallest wrinkle with his trowel. Then he would stand back a few feet, just like Picasso or Renoir, and look to make sure it was just right.
The gritty steel mills were no different than a loft in Paris. This was his craft and he put his heart and soul into it, even if the soot and steam would destroy its outward appearance in a matter of hours.
He taught me that you have to work hard to earn your pay. You have to get up every morning, even when the bitter-cold wind howls and the snow swirls outside your bedroom window.
Even when you would much rather rest your weary body or fight off that nagging cold or stay home and watch TV.
Here’s to all of you in every job and career who make this country great by working hard and being such a good role model, just like my dad and uncles were to me.
Happy Labor Day.
