Spinning Room Lightweight

The Mill was good about giving summer jobs to students. In my interview I stated the reason for wanting a job: I was interested in textile design and I wanted experience in the process of textile manufacture. What I really wanted was a summer job which paid well.

At 5:45 am on my first day, I had doubts about just how much I wanted this. I thought wryly that I had also wanted to ski in the Alps. When my brother, E.C., was in the Army, he sent pictures of people skiing in Switzerland and it looked like fun. Working in the mill looked like fun, too. People in Cooleemee did it every day. Before the whistle blew for a shift change, I saw workers gathering around the market, sitting on the rail, laughing, and having a good time. I don't remember any women there, but it never occurred to me that there would be any difference in the mindset.

As I joined the crowd at the gate, I noticed that the people coming out didn't seem to be as exuberant as those going in. Those leaving looked tired and regardless of hair color, everyone came out with hair grayed by lint, giving the appearance of having visibly aged during their work shift. Clothing was covered with flecks of cotton, which faded the colors, and there were dark patches of sweat circling the sleeves of shirts and dresses.

Do I really want to do this? I don't think so. Could I just duck out? I don't think so. Tatums were not given the option of avoiding a situation just because it was difficult, and that was true even for the youngest member of the family who was known for getting by with more than her two brothers and sister put together. Forcing myself forward, trepidation accompanying each step, I blended with the others and entered the immense mill, an intimidating structure.

Everyone went their designated way, but I had to ask directions to the spinning room. The steps up to my work location seemed to warn of what I was in for. They were black, oily, and concave in the center of each tread, having been worn by years of workers trudging to their assignments.

The spinning room was huge. Rows of big, ugly, greasy, gray machines were lined up almost as far as one could see, but it was the noise that was so daunting. Any conversation had to be yelled in another's face or ear. I wondered if anyone had even been lost in there and never found.

I looked for the Overseer, who acknowledged my existence, but gave no indication of being delighted at having this new responsibility who, at best, would not cause too much havoc. Passing the inconvenience to one he knew wouldn't object, he gave the new employee to Miss Jenny Sedberry, a tiny, energetic dynamo with a big smile and a bigger heart.

As I looked down at this little woman, I was ashamed of my apprehension. If a person, perhaps four times my age and just over one half my size, could put in eight hours of work, I surely could, too. My optimistic opinion of my ability was unwarranted, but it gave me the courage to put my doubts away and make every effort to learn from this lady.

My job was to keep the thread on the spools connected with the roll of cotton coming through the rollers. The trick was to grab the spool, which was rotating so fast it was like a blur, and yank it off before it had the chance to burn the skin off your hand.

This wasn't a problem for Miss Jenny, but a BIG problem for anyone doing it for the first time. If you were ever successful pulling that spool, and still had skin on your hand, your next job was to connect the broken thread to the cotton between the steel rollers without a big glob of cotton where the two were connected, and in the same motion, get the spool back to its rotating spindle.

Miss Jenny could do this and make it smooth as a gesture. For me, I had to stare at the spinning spool for a long while, willing it to slow down (to no avail), grab it, then jam the string to the cotton between the rollers...gasp at the big slub where they connected....then pop the spool back on to its spindle. It must have been a sight watching me do this. It occurred to me that grabbing that spool was like getting eggs from under a setting hen. It had to be done just right or suffer the inevitable punishment. Miss Jenny was patient and encouraging, and I was determined to not disappoint her. She actually thought I could do this.

As the day wore on, the temperature and humidity steadily climbed. Fans in some windows ran. They were a good idea, even though they simply seemed to move the steamy air around. The machinery, with constant running, became very hot, giving one more thing to be wary of...Don't touch it.

I didn't realize how tense I was until I became aware of something nudging my foot. Sure this was something else dangerous, I jumped back, scared to death, to find a man with a big friendly smile who motioned for me to move aside so his two side-by-side brooms could sweep the accumulated cotton in the aisle and under the frames. I came to look forward to visits from "Pose" Head, who usually had something kind or funny to say.

The only place to escape from the machinery was the smoking room or the rest room. No one offered to take me to the smoking room, but Miss Corie (Cora) showed me how to run cold water over a paper towel and let it rest on the back of my neck, while another towel was dampened to wipe the lint and sweat off my face and arms. It was amazing how refreshing this was.

As the first shift finally came to a close at 2:00 p.m. there surely couldn't have been anyone happier than I to leave that heat, that noise, and that nervewracking effort.

And yet, walking out with the real workers was surprisingly satisfying. I actually felt like one of the gang. I had put in eight hours, too. I wore the lint like a badge of courage, and I was proud. When Miss Jenny smiled and said, "You did just fine, we'll see you tomorrow," I knew I'd be back. I wished I could go sit on the rail outside the market, but I knew my place, so I headed home to the farm. --Ellen Tatum Young