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.
My 1972 Toyota Land Cruiser A life changing event. I've had asthma all my life and it limited me somewhat until 1972, when after an event on a remote Canadian lake I was rushed to Dryden Area Hospital for emergency treatment of a pneumothorax /lung collapse. Early one morning, my dad and I left Des Moines, Iowa on 1530 mile round trip fishing expedition to Stormy Lake, Ontario; stopping in Roseau, Minnesota to join six family members: My uncle Martin and aunt Irene Davidson of Roseau, their son Jack Davidson and his 8-yr old son, Jeffrey, of Thief River Falls, Minnesota, and Jack's older brother Dean Davidson, and his 11-yr old son, Larry, of Clive, Iowa in addition to their two two vehicles, one with a boat atop it. We were pulling a one-wheeled trailer behind my brand new 1972 Toyota Land Cruiser to handle extra gear. Leaving Roseau as the last vehicle in the three car caravan, we headed off toward the...
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