MIllville, NJ
I grew up in Millville, NJ, and I'll probably be writing more about that later, but probably not as eloquently as Carl Sandburg wrote about it in the early 1900's. Even a century later, it reminds me of the working class kids I grew up with. This is from "In Reckless Ecstasy", published in 1904 by Asgard Press, Galesburg, IL. It is public domain.
Millville
Down in southern New Jersey, they make glass. By day and by night, the fires burn on in Millville and bid the sand let in the light.
Millville by night would have delighted Whistler, who loved gloom and mist and wild shadows. Great rafts of wood and big, brick hulks, dotted with a myriad of lights, glowing and twinkling every shade of red. Big, black flumes shooting out smoke and sparks; bottles, bottles, bottles, of every tint and hue, from a brilliant crimson to the dull green that marks the death of sand and the birth of glass.
From each fire, the white-heat radiates on the "blowers," the "gaffers," and the "carryin'-in boys." The latter are from nine to eighteen years of age, averaging about fourteen, and they outnumber the adult workers. A man with nothing, hailing from nowhere, can get an easy job at fair pay, if he has boys who are able to carry bottles — many men in Millville need no suggestion from Roosevelt — boys can carry bottles and girls can work in the cotton-mills near by.
The glass-blowers union is one of the most perfect organizations in the country. The daily wage runs from five dollars to twenty, dollars, and from four to eight hours is a day's work. But the "carryin'-in" boys work nine and ten hours and get two dollars and a half and three dollars a week. Passing back and forth in the pale, weird light, these creatures are imps in both the modern and the old-time sense of the word. They are grimy, wiry, scrawny, stunted specimens, and in cuss-words and salacious talk, they know all that grown men know. In the use of the ever surviving, if not ever fitting, superlative, "damndest," they are past masters all.
Their education has consisted mainly of the thoughts, emotions and experiences that resulted from contact with "blowers" and "gaffers," besides views of a big, barn-like space lit up by white-hot sand. This has been their universe at those times of day when they were most alive, most wide-awake, most sensitive to impressions. The manufacturers have endowed a night-school, but (the teacher told me) the boys cannot keep their heads up and their eyes open during the sessions, therefore their brains don't make much headway—God help them!
Yes, I think, God help them, for their eyes remind me of shriveled pansies, and I can't resurrect pansies, I can only see that the pansies have good soil to grow in, pure water, fresh air, sunshine, stars, and dew; and for companions they should have roses, carnations, asters, violets and sweet-peas - and pansies that are likewise not shriveled. Brother Shawgotch will lead us in prayer.
Down in southern New Jersey, they make glass. By day and by night, the fires burn on in Millville and bid the sand let in the light.
Millville by night would have delighted Whistler, who loved gloom and mist and wild shadows. Great rafts of wood and big, brick hulks, dotted with a myriad of lights, glowing and twinkling every shade of red. Big, black flumes shooting out smoke and sparks; bottles, bottles, bottles, of every tint and hue, from a brilliant crimson to the dull green that marks the death of sand and the birth of glass.
From each fire, the white-heat radiates on the "blowers," the "gaffers," and the "carryin'-in boys." The latter are from nine to eighteen years of age, averaging about fourteen, and they outnumber the adult workers. A man with nothing, hailing from nowhere, can get an easy job at fair pay, if he has boys who are able to carry bottles — many men in Millville need no suggestion from Roosevelt — boys can carry bottles and girls can work in the cotton-mills near by.
The glass-blowers union is one of the most perfect organizations in the country. The daily wage runs from five dollars to twenty, dollars, and from four to eight hours is a day's work. But the "carryin'-in" boys work nine and ten hours and get two dollars and a half and three dollars a week. Passing back and forth in the pale, weird light, these creatures are imps in both the modern and the old-time sense of the word. They are grimy, wiry, scrawny, stunted specimens, and in cuss-words and salacious talk, they know all that grown men know. In the use of the ever surviving, if not ever fitting, superlative, "damndest," they are past masters all.
Their education has consisted mainly of the thoughts, emotions and experiences that resulted from contact with "blowers" and "gaffers," besides views of a big, barn-like space lit up by white-hot sand. This has been their universe at those times of day when they were most alive, most wide-awake, most sensitive to impressions. The manufacturers have endowed a night-school, but (the teacher told me) the boys cannot keep their heads up and their eyes open during the sessions, therefore their brains don't make much headway—God help them!
Yes, I think, God help them, for their eyes remind me of shriveled pansies, and I can't resurrect pansies, I can only see that the pansies have good soil to grow in, pure water, fresh air, sunshine, stars, and dew; and for companions they should have roses, carnations, asters, violets and sweet-peas - and pansies that are likewise not shriveled. Brother Shawgotch will lead us in prayer.
My husband was born in Quinton He didn’t know about The Battle there
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