From the Picket Line

Written in Hazelton, PA, in the summer of 1946 by 21-year-old Nancy Richter, field representative of Amalgamated Clothing Workers, CIO

As I entered Santa’s house, a little girl flew by calling to me, “They’ve already started!”  This was to be a big event, this preparation of spaghetti sauce and meatballs on the eve of our picnic, arranged to break the tedium of a long strike.

In the kitchen, sure enough, the bustling and doing had already begun.  Large bowls of chopped meat mixed with egg, green pepper and other things stood ready for use.  A deep pot of tomato sauce and Italian tomato paste bubbled and boiled on the stove.  The fat was crackling in a pan, waiting to fry some meatballs.  Someone was grating the Italian cheese; someone was stirring the sauce.  There was a wonderful hot smell of cheese, tomatoes, garlic, fat and meat.  Santa had two other helpers, and many wide-eyed little on-lookers in her big kitchen.  We three helpers plunged six sun-burned hands into the chopped meat and began to “squeegy” it into small patties.  We were cooking for about 150 people, so there was plenty to do.  Our hands were all gooey with meat, our faces red from the heat of the stove.  Santa was bustling about, telling us “Not so big; make them smaller!” and plunging the unfinished patties into the hot fat.  We were all having a great time.

Then, in walks a representative of our rival, the ILG, International Ladies’ Garment Workers Union.  A young male organizer and two chairladies from women’s garment shops.  One was Santa’s cousin, so they made a self-assured entrée.  These people and other representatives of the I.L.G. have been bothering Santa almost every night since the strike began, and have phoned her often at outlandish hours.  She told me her nerves were about to give way, she had been pestered so much by them.  

We ignored the new guests.  Santa said, “What do you want now?”  But her tone was not stern enough for them to take offense.  They sat down in our bustling kitchen.  The organizer, saying he hadn’t eaten home-cooked food for months, gobbled up three newly-made meatballs with sauce and bread.  He took off his coat and settled down for a long, pleasant visit.  He was a very good-looking, suave young man, and would have been quite likeable if he had come on other business.  

“Mr. ILG,” as I called him, started talking to me, making little pleasantries, asking was that beautiful convertible mine?  Where had I gone to school, etc.  It turned out that he had graduated from the university that I attended, University of Michigan.  He also was a close friend of a very liberal minister whom I had known at college.  What a pity that we couldn’t sit down and discuss our common interests, perhaps have a “date” that evening.  He was an emissary from my past life, the first person from my world who had crossed my path here in the wilds of Pennsylvania.  But I was peeved and angered by his intrusion on our pre-picnic night.  I didn’t want to talk about sociology, economics and universities here in the presence of all these factory workers.  (I never mention anything about my background, the fact that my mother is a successful corporation lawyer in Pittsburgh.  Instead, I play up my “years of work in a shirt factory in Elizabeth, New Jersey.”  That impresses them.  I don’t mention that I burned every shirt I tried to iron because I had never ironed anything in my life!)

So I gave up making meatballs and took him on.  I told “Mr. ILG” that this is a factory making men’s polo shirts, therefore under our jurisdiction, the workers were all signed up with us.  They wanted us to represent them.  Why didn’t the International Ladies Garment Workers concern themselves with women’s wear and leave the polo shirts to us, etc?  I finally said, “These people don’t want you!  Leave them alone!”  I felt I had to come on strong.  Pete, our Business Agent, later said he would have kicked them out.  During the argument, many people drifted in, including Santa’s nine brothers.  Three hours later, they left to catch the last bus back to Hazelton, PA.  The organizer said he hoped there were no hard feelings and wished us a good time on our picnic.  We had a good time, in spite of our nightly intruders.