Archive
11/18/10
Factory Man
That fiery, sleeves-rolled-up man, who always called me "boy," That 150%-pure-Italian perfezionista, Who, born in the Calabrian hill town of Montauro, Came, with his father, to Boston's North End, in the early thirties, Shined shoes, on the streets, when just ten, Then apprenticed to a Jewish tailor, From whom he learned how to grade patterns, shade fabrics, Sew a man's and lady's suit, from scratch, And eventually, three decades later, Landed a manager's position with Biltwell Co., of St. Louis, Running the firm's five trouser-manufacturing plants...
That five-foot-six, 135-pound behemoth of a man, That grander-than-lifesize giant of a white-and-blue-collar man, Into whose work-centric life I happened... That man with the Mount Vesuvius temper, Whose assistant I became, for a transformative decade and a half, And who, during my rigorous tenure of willing servitude to him, Taught me the virtues of the strictest of work ethics, Instructed me how to conduct myself with decency, honesty, "Play no favorites," mete out justice, With the utmost adherence to rules company and union, And always with those exaggerated hand and facial gestures...
That mythical hero and mentor of mine, John Gulla, With whom I commune, this 58-degree November afternoon, In St. Joseph's Catholic Cemetery, in Farmington, Missouri, Sitting beside his headstone, amidst brittle oak leaves, My hand stroking the incised letters of his name, earthly dates, Communicating with his consecrated spirit, To let him know that my soul is yet in touch with his And that I've come to remind him how much I still love him, For inviting me to share that magical factory-passage, During which he bestowed, on me, his vital presence, Entrusting me, ultimately, with the essence of his immortality.
11/18/10
|
|||
|
|||
