Brushing her hair from her eyes she entered the gates of the factory holding her picture ID so the security guard could see it as she and the other employees passed by. Her dredlocks and beads slipped back and forth over her shoulders when she turned her head to enter an opened door into the facility. Tall and fit her gait matched that of the men; hers was a forward thoughtful measured stride; the full cut of her black multi-strapped and zippered pantlegs amplifying her every step. Her chalky white and olive skin stretched tightly across a round cheeked clear complexioned face, wide nose and full lips; her eyes an expressive dark brown like the color of her hair that day something that was subject to change it would be apparent as the weeks and months pass by. As if apart from this adjoining crowd its other members impatiently milling about or wandering away toward the confectionary machines and restroom facilities a short distance away she sits down by herself her denim jacket across her lap her backpack on the floor beside her and brushes back her hair. She's familiar with waiting a long time; she’s calm and observant of the factory around her with all its bustling activity, its noise, its lights; she sees hundreds of people working by bending stretching, turning — then turning back again; working picking up small parts and tools with their gloved hands and reaching for more. She looks past forklifts driving by their yellow strobe lights flashing; their back-up alarms beeping, hauling material from somewhere to somewhere else. Intercoms repetitively call names and numbers over the din; forklift horns beep, backup alarms sound, vehicles slow then speed on; amid strains of Bruce Springsteen songs, Alabama, Creedence, ACDC, heavy metal rap, rock, screamo, hip-hop, familiar and new lyrics and in the background beat multiple sound systems on every assembly line, she thinks to herself for the music alone she’s going to like this place. She glances toward a change in the crowd as it reforms around two people with clipboards and rises to her feet. Gripping her jacket and backpack in her hand she rejoins the group listening for her name to be called as others walk away down a wide yellow-striped aisle the whole length of the building.
Comment on Parental Rights 1869-1940 I finished the second installment of my grandfathers biography I wrote in the Wannaskan Almanac for today, late yesterday evening. http://wannaskanalmanac.blogspot.com/2020/08/thursday-august-6th-2020-parental.html I had worked on it for a good day, by Wednesday, including a few hours on Tuesday too, and in my waning energy for it decided just to wrap it up, rather than keep slogging through dozens of transcribed interviews, page after page, searching for some item that would fit my story, chronologically. In truth, I wanted to be writing something fun. It wasn't like I wasn't interested in what I was mired in; I enjoy a good slog once in awhile myself, but my dilemma was how do I keep it interesting to others and not get bogged down? I could've just copied pages ...
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