A tale of unions for Labor Day

When Gogo left the Army, he went to work for Pittsburgh Plate & Glass. Some years later, when my dad was in college, there was a lot of trouble with the labor negotiations. Gogo was management and was resented by the Teamsters: his safety was threatened.

Mimi would go out in the evening with her flour sifter and make a ring of flour around the car. Really, I've always been impressed with this. And in my mind I can see her bent over, muttering prayers, spinning the sifter handle and walking backwards around the car.

My dad and his cousin arrived late at night for a visit. They had not been sitting in the living room for long when there was a knock at the door: the police had put my grandparents' house on their patrol, and he was there to check out the strange car in the driveway. My dad showed his license. "Okay," said the policeman, pointing at my cousin. "But who's that guy?"

Gogo's comment about this whole period was usually "bah!" I think he had some sympathy for the Teamsters, if none for the belligerence.

The summer of Gogo's memorial service, I had just started a library job, but it was a unionized library---so I, with my stick arms and my days spent with dusty books, was a Teamster. I was sitting at the dining-room table one night after dinner and mentioned this.

Dad said, "A Teamster! Your grandfather is rolling in his grave!"

I crumbled.

"Don't you dare say that!" Mimi said, "He would be very proud of his beloved granddaughter!"

Poor Dad felt so awful.

(Yes, my Foot-in-Mouth Syndrome is congenital.)