Those Stinking Heroes | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: Those Stinking Heroes | Previous Challenge Entry
By LINDA GERMAIN
04/08/25
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We just called it the shoe factory. My mother worked there during the war—the big one. She was barely seventeen. I asked a lot of questions about those days before she passed away at ninety-seven. She never faded into any signs of dementia, so her memories were sharp and fascinating.

Her job, for a while, was to cut leather to fit over foot-shaped devices called lasts. These basic design forms are still essential for making shoes.

She wasn’t sure about the mysterious processes that preceded the eventual arrival of stacks of leather from the tanning place to the cutting room. It was easier to pretend busy cobbler elves took care of that part of the unpleasant business. She assumed the product was delivered in the night to be ready for the assembly lines by morning.

Because it was wartime, most of the steady women workers were wives, mothers, and even grandmothers of military personnel already overseas.

After exceeding production for a few weeks, she was transferred to what she called the “dressing” line. Again, she more than met production as she applied permanent polish to the nearly finished shoes. Knowing her standard for doing things right the first time, I can imagine she paid attention to every detail.

There was no air conditioning, so the screened windows were open in warm weather and the workers could be seen from the sidewalk. She remembered that one scatterbrained girl always forgot her special pass to get in the main entrance and would borrow someone else’s through the window.

One odd order she said she couldn’t explain involved a large batch of sturdy black shoes reported to be for Russian women. That puzzled both of us. It might have been an interesting story, but no one asked.

The loud factory steam whistle blasted out every day at noon, which meant lunchtime for the workers and a reminder for the rest of the town to take a break. Years later, after I came along, that piercing whistle was still making sure everyone was wide awake at midday!

In a strange contrast, but still somewhat of a surreal connection, on the other side of town was a meat packing plant. Some days a distinct “aroma” would waft for miles from whatever was in progress to provide meatloaf for tables. Again, it was easier to not think about the goings-on.

As a small child, I would ask about that awful smell. Since I was still enamored with Disney’s animal characters we saw at the movies, raw details were best blurred. The reality was lovingly sugar-coated for me.

So, on one side of town animals were being readied for food in ice-cold conditions. (Years later, my cousin worked at that packing house and ended up with pneumonia). On the other side of the same town, my mother would not have had a job without the hides removed from such a place. Synthetic materials were rare. Leather was the standard.

The point is, somewhere there were special folks with the amazing skill and fortitude to do an odious job who were willing to get the cowhides prepared for leather factories. Perhaps tanning is mostly done with machinery now, but from what little I have learned it has always been an unbelievably dirty job, even in Bible times.

Holy Scripture confirms that leather was used for everything from saddles to tents, and of course, for sandals. The hard-working tanner could not help how filthy, smelly, and unclean he would become. I doubt if he was invited to many community affairs. Nonetheless, his nitty-gritty job was the basis for producing useful items. It’s just one of those thankless occupations that is rarely appreciated because we don’t want to think about the back story.

Ditch diggers, septic tank cleaners, muck rakers, and especially tanners do the disgusting jobs most of us would never consider, no matter what.

I like to picture my beautiful, very young, red-haired mother happily dressing all those pairs of shoes as she blissfully did not consider where the process began. She was hyper-focused on doing her part well.

On the other hand, I’m thankful for the unsung tanners who provided the soft, supple, clean hides that prepared the way for my mother’s special touch and the customers, even in foreign countries, who were blessed to receive her anonymous efforts.

There’s something satisfying in knowing that the seemingly unimportant part we play in a job can affect our fellow humans, and sometimes even their shoes.
_____

*True

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