Love Is In The Air, Sweet, Sweet, Love. . . .I'm A Working Girl. . . .#11

I was sad when George left to return to San Diego after our first
weekend together in our new home. I was happy, though, to know
that I would be very busy and the week until he came home again
would pass quickly. Even though he and I had done much to get
settled in and make our little apartment warm and cozy with
pictures, decorations, and other personal items, there was still
much I could do to make it our own.

I had a quilt Mother had made us and one from families in the
Panaca Ward. Both of them could be used as bedspreads and
would be beautiful. Lee and I had fun shopping for curtains and
some decorative throw pillows that would match the quilts. We
also found curtains for the living room and kitchen and a bright,
colorful shower curtain for the bathroom. I wanted to surprise
George when he came home.

I walked the neighborhood to get familiar with it. I checked out
the little combination grocery and hardware store near us and
found a post office within walking distance from our apartment.
I was a little disturbed to see that even though our apartment was
nice and the complex was well kept, the neighborhood seemed a
little rough. There was a large population of Hispanic and Oriental
people in the area and there were stories of gang activity between
them and rival Caucasian youth. When I walked alone, I was often
nervous as I observed them loitering around. I determined not
to let this bother me as I had met some nice people in our complex,
and Jack and Lee were near.

Each morning, I purchased several newspapers so I could search
for job opportunities. I found very few. With the Korean war
going on and so many military families in the area, there were
more people searching for work than jobs were available. I was
limited with no car, to only be able to look for available positions
within a radius that I could walk or use the public bus system.

It was very discouraging. If possible, I wanted to find a job that
would use my secretarial skills, and for one so young, my resume
was good. However, there were older, more experienced women
wanting the positions that were available. I had applied at two
businesses where I was told I would be placed on a waiting list to
be called when something became available.

In the meantime, we enjoyed our weekends together. George
worked for Jack installing carpet on many of the Saturdays. This
gave us a little extra money which helped us do some of the things
we wanted, and needed, to do. Even though he was working, we
still seemed to find time to explore our surroundings. We rode a
bus to the beach. We found a lovely park nearby where we could
stroll and eat a picnic lunch. We were invited to Sunday dinner
at Jack and Lee's and got to know Lee's family, the Shinpaughs.
They accepted us as part of the family and Mom and Dad
Shinpaugh became like foster mom and dad to us. They were
sweet, kind people. Dad Shinpaugh and Lee's brother Coy,
worked for Jack and George soon became good friends with them.

Sunday dinners were a family tradition with the Shinpaugh family
and most Sundays would find us eating dinner at Jack and Lee's, Coy
and Barbara's, or one of Lee's sister's homes. Her sisters, Elsie Mae,
Vonna, and Mary, all lived nearby. Mary and her husband Bob,
were mine and George's age.

George and I decided that I would have to start looking for a job
at one of the fast food restaurants near us. We were not happy
about this, but I needed a job. There was also a cafeteria near one
of the housing complexes and business malls that catered to the
civilian government population that were associated with the
military. So, with that in mind, I applied for the necessary food
handling card from the Health Department and had the necessary
tests for tuberculosis and hepatitis and was immunized for
hepatitis.

I was hired at the cafeteria but several days before I was to start
work, I was called by one of the businesses who had placed me
on a call back list. The business was Cal-Gems, Inc. They were a
clothing factory that made women's clothing. They were located
on Westminster Blvd, which was a straight shot easy bus ride for
me. When I went for another interview, they told me there were
two openings which would be available upon deployment of the
women's service husbands. They could not tell me exactly when
this would take place but said they had liked my resume and the
personal information I had provided them. They asked me if I
would be willing to take a job on the production lines in the
factory until one of these openings became available.

I was overwhelmed at the prospect of this. The production floors
in the factory seemed to me to be hubs of noise, confusion, and
"over the top" activity. I would be assigned a locker and issued
a kit containing a pair of scissors, pins, needles, gloves, ruler,
tape measure, marking tape and pencils. I would start at the
tables where the patterns were placed on the materials, pinned,
and cut. At this time, I was told that my "scissors" were my
number one priority. I would only be issued one pair. If I
damaged or lost, them, I was out of a job. Just like that, no
excuses, no arguments, lost or damaged scissors, no job!

It was a frightening position for me. Most of the workers on
the factory floor were Hispanic or Oriental. They had been
doing this work for long periods of time. It was hard for me to
wrap my mind around the concept that I was a factory worker,
these women were good at their job. They were self confident,
fast, and efficient. For the most part, they were kind, friendly,
and helpful. Few of us were Caucasian. I think many of them
felt sorry for me. I did not speak either language and knew
just a few high school Spanish words and phrases. They talked
so fast in their native languages that my head spun. I was sure I
could not do this, but I wanted that secretarial job when it
became available.

It was not long before they advanced me from the cutting
tables to the sewing machine. Now, this was scary, indeed!
The never ending noise from the busy sewing machines
never let up. It was an assembly line scene. I started doing
straight seams. That, I could handle. It was challenging,
however. We had a quota and were expected to complete our
required number of pieces each hour. It became more difficult
as I advanced. Each was a challenge for me; facings, darts, and
plackets. It was piece work and we were paid accordingly. If
we made a mistake, it didn't count as a completed piece. At the
end of each pay period, we received a detailed sheet which
showed completed pieces, minus our messed up ones.

I was scared to death when I realized that I would soon be
advanced to my worst nightmare; pockets, pleats, and zippers.
I had realized that even though I was a temporary floor worker,
being held in reserve by general management, the supervisors
on the floor would not be cutting me any slack. Was I a
nervous wreck? You bet! I lived in anticipation of hearing the
closing bell ring each afternoon. When it rang, we had twenty
minutes to finish the piece we were on, remove the thread and
bobbin from the machine, brush the lint from it, give it a
squirt of oil, and tidy up our area. And then, the sweetest music
that was heaven to my ears, the ding ding ding of workers
punching out.

I prayed fervently each night that a job opening would happen
before I had to face the "Grim Zipper", and it did! I was called
into the main office and told that an opening was available and
they hoped I would accept it. I would be taking some dictation,
transcribing, typing, and simple bookkeeping, consisting of
entering the days debits and credits into a ledger. My main
responsibility would be to prepare the daily bank deposit. For
several weeks, I was trained and always prepared it with my
immediate boss and another worker. We always worked as a
pair. It was top security, and it was scary. We had to be bonded.
After the other employees left, our purses, lunch boxes, and all
personal items were taken from us before we were locked into a
tiny office. We could not leave on our own. After the days receipts
were counted and the deposit slip completed, we entered a code,
a different one each day for security purposes. This rang a bell,
which brought a manager, who unlocked the door. After the
manager checked everything, a Brinks truck picked up the
deposit. We were then given our purse and personal items and
cleared to go home. I enjoyed this job very much and my salary
of $2.50 an hour was certainly better than being paid by the
piece with my speed on the sewing machine.

This sounds a bit "other worldly and clandestine", but it soon
became ordinary to me. Most importantly, I was off the floor
and away from the noise and chaos I associated with it. I did
realize, however, that it was not really chaotic, but was very
disciplined, smooth running, and efficient.

In retrospect, you would have thought that I would become an
expert seamstress and would love to sew. Neither happened. I
was never more than mediocre at this, and even though I did sew
for my children when they were small, I never really enjoyed it.
I had a feeling of sastisfaction, however, as I realized I had
braved the "refiner's fire", and I had survived. It also made for
some interesting story telling, especially the time I sewed my
finger to a seam. Bloody ouch!

And so, life moved on. I went home tired every day but with a
sense of accomplishment and anticipation as I looked forward
to the weekend when George would be home.

To Be Continued. . . .