Yep, I Worked 30 Years in a Factory

This is the only picture I have of me at Dana.
It's an unofficial coffee break. I'm on the
right wearing an apron. On the left is Mike
Barrows, with whom I had many good
conversations and laughs. (circa early 90s)

Recently I had a phone conversation with a friend, Joe Murphy. He was the human resources manager where I worked (Dana Corporation, Lima, Ohio). 

He mentioned something to me he prefaced by saying, “This is in no way a criticism.” Oh, boy when you hear those words, it’s typically worse than criticism. However—it wasn’t. He thought it was strange that I never mentioned in any of my bios the 30 years I was employed by Dana Corporation as a machine operator. He explained that would make me a more interesting and intriguing writer to read. 

In my reply, I said I wanted my bios short; I write and I’m from northwest Ohio. I now live in Boise, Idaho. As I think about it, that sounds quite empty.

When speaking to people face to face I’m quite proud of my choice of employment for thirty years. I came in contact with some of the most incredible people—factory workers. Many artistically and intellectually gifted. Many compassionate, caring, and insightful. 

When I retired, the company had a pizza party for another retiree and me. They told me I could invite five people from the plant to the party. I could only narrow it down to fifteen. I started my list with at least double that. If I’m not mistaken, the company acquiesced at ten. And to restate I had three times that many in mind.

The looming question, at least in my mind, if you like them all so well, why not acknowledge where you worked and write about them?

Almost two decades ago I started to write about where I worked and the people worked with. I stopped. Last year I started writing about a place where I worked in the early 70s. I stopped. And even though I planned both endeavors to be works of fiction, I found it drained me emotionally. I wanted to write objectively but being too close to the situation put me in a state of constant doubt of objectivity and truthfulness. 

My second book, The Desperate Summer of ’62 was as close to autobiographical or true to life as I’ve come. I rewrote it several times. I removed actual events. I suppose in some way to bury them forever. Events and characters were rearranged and absorbed into other events and characters. 

Back to my bios. If I went to Harvard or Princeton, that would not be included in my bios. I’ve always wanted my writing to stand on its own. I didn’t want people to read my work because they were intrigued by a somewhat less-than-literary background. 

After further consideration, I will embrace my 30 years as a machine operator at Dana Corporation. I have never been ashamed of it, but I have never acknowledged its value and relevance to my life as a writer or person.

In some way what I write is, in part, a testament to the good people with whom I had the pleasure of working with, learning about, and growing from. I will adjust my bios.