hamburg area historical society—a poetry reading: thursday, september 7 at 7 p.m.

the hamburg area historical society is hosting a poetry reading for the labors of our fingertips: poems from manufacturing history of berks county as a program for its members and the public on thursday, september 7 at 7 p.m. in the community room of hamburg area high school at 701 windsor street, hamburg, pa 19526.

hamburg's own betty kunkel from the second volume of poetry in this project will be the special featured guest for the evening. audience members will have the opportunity to meet betty and ask her questions about her memories in her former knitting mill jobs in hamburg. she is also mentioned in the poem of betty yeager in the upcoming third and final volume of poetry for this project, as a unique tie-in for her across 2016 and 2017 work in this community effort of preserving memories of seniors through interviews and poems crafted from this local history-hugging.

EDIT: on the eve of this event, i just heard word that betty yeager will be at this poetry reading as well and that the two bettys will be carpooling together. so it'll be an even more worthwhile event.

(below is betty kunkel, and pictured second is betty yeager)

 

here is betty yeager's poem, since betty kunkel will be a part of this poetry reading to share her conversational reflections about her time paralleled with a friend and co-worker of the same first name. (i keep finding myself wanting to say, two bettys walk into a knitting mill...oh spins on jokes.)

* 

betty yeager, hamburg borough | born: 1933

i picked up my man at the church picnic. they had put me

in charge of soda bottles at zion moselem lutheran church

that warm afternoon, so many lines of seasoned gravestones

behind us as we shared our smiles back and forth, savored

sunshine, any sudden breezes from wind and forest, specific

to the old dirt of earth in richmond township. william yeager

and his friend, john setzler, they were thirsty. initial flirting

began by the time william took a sip or a few, maybe a crisp

cola. after we married in 1951 or 1952, he became a truck

driver for burkey underwear company in hamburg, often

making trips to and from their warehouse down the road.

i had a job there, too, put binding on the top of the flatlock

seams on the crotch sections of what men wear under their 

slacks or to sleep when our world switches on its quiet signal

for restful silence. some say, the barn door’s open, a way

to snicker about the region i sewed. i trimmed the straps off

in this anatomy of the front, delicately deliberate motions

with my scissors. sometimes we ventured to the hamburg

diner on state street on a friday around lunchtime. a creek

runs behind our old mill. it’s still there. you didn’t have

time to joke on the clock. you had to get your work done.

another betty—betty kunkel, worked there, too. i’d seen her

at church in our girlhood days, always in vibrantly-patterned

dresses, hand-sewn by her mother, from old feed bags, some

of them flowered, others checkered. on saturday nights, her

parents took  her to zern’s farmers’ market to buy young

plants to raise on their land, that drive about an hour long.

a poetry reading with berks bards as a third and final anniversary in august.

as a semi-introduction to the weekend, i shared poems from my third and final upcoming book of poems on manufacturing history of berks county at goggleworks in the city of reading at the first thursday poetry event hosted by berks bards, before its community open mic this august.

in 2015 and 2016, berks bards invited me to share poems from volumes one and two of the labors of our fingertips: poems from manufacturing history of berks county. so a third and final time in 2017 for the next and last book in this project made for a nice way to move into august. volume three will be out in late september.

oliver carter joined us as my special guest for the evening. i knew he'd have some great details to share from his jobs from before he retired. he answered the audience's questions about memories in his poem and some outside of it, from the main interview which helped to shape these lines. the poem crafted from his recollections is below, followed by scenes from the community open mic.

*

oliver carter, shillington borough | born: 1939

as a boy, i’d grown used to that hard hum, the rumbling

resonance of the railroad—in our house near seventh and

cherry streets. once we moved away, i had trouble sleeping

at night, those sounds, that vibrational pulsation missing.

back then, i can remember at least six movie houses along

penn street, one along fifth street in the city of reading,

a whole different spine to the downtown buzz and blur

of life, now history. i cooked meals through szabo food 

service, inc. for western electric for a few years. then

two months after my wedding, the military changed

the rules, said married men could forgo the draft. but

they already had me in their ranks—trained in the u.s.

army in fort jackson in georgia. i taught men exactly how

to operate combustion and diesel engines on missile sites

in fort belvoir, virginia, served as second in command 

in managing electricity at a power station by north star 

bay in thule, greenland. by 1965, i came home, took

a job at polymer plastics, extruded that material. ford

motor company gave us a fairlane model, challenging 

us to see what components we could redesign in plastic

for lighter weight in a single car, cheaper cost—bolts,

tubing, gas tanks. i left there for cartech, its buildings

along a bend in the oldest water around, the schuylkill 

river. i went from laborer—in the melt shop, hot mills,

rolling mill, annealing—to foreman, then supervisor

of the wire drawing department, after early days spent

extruding coils and rods, not cutting them but reducing

their size by stretching them through a custom die. once

i managed people, decided who would get what job each

day across the latest project, i understood how delicate

and complex it is to attempt to distribute work evenly,

to do a job well without racism dripping through some

complaints, guys taking orders from a man whose skin

isn’t quite like that of their own majority. yet most knew 

we were all just working to get through our days, put food

on our tables at home, hoping to have the energy to love

our kids, wives—in between overtime, slumber in blankets.