Don't Sing at the Table

by Adriana Trigiani

  Eventually, ceding to my grandfather’s illness, they sold the Yolanda Manufacturing Company in 1967. They had been in business for themselves for twenty-four years. Later, when we talked about the closing of the factory, it was with great sadness on Viola’s part. They closed the factory on March 15, 1967. Ironically, one year later to the day, Michael Trigiani died. Viola lost her husband and her factory in close proximity, responding to the loss of both with her typical pluck: she went back to work.

  While Viola retired from the Yolanda Manufacturing Company, she did not officially from the workforce. Within a year of my grandfather’s death, she found herself back on the machines, subbing as an operator in a friend’s blouse mill. She became a factory temp, and loved it. When she reached the age of seventy-two, she was thrilled, because that’s the official age when the United States government waives income tax. She could put in an eight-hour day on the machine and keep the tax money. The drive and ambition that had served her all of her working life now came with a bonus at the end, and she reveled in it.

  One by one, the bustling, busy, profitable, family-owned factories closed in Northampton County until only a few stalwarts remained through the 1970s, pushing hard, using the old manufacturing model as long as they could, until the work was no longer there. By the mid-1980s, most manufacturing had decamped overseas for cheaper labor and materials. By the early 1990s, most of the mills were closed. The small towns punctuated with mills became bedroom communities as younger generations moved to more populous cities, seeking work.

  Today, when you drive through my grandmother’s stomping grounds in Pennsylvania, you see the abandoned factories, nestled among weeds, with broken-out windows and empty parking lots. Once-vibrant operations with names like Rose Marie Fashions etched in cursive letters on factory doors are gone. Small business was personal in those days, and often you honored a mother or a daughter by naming the factory after her. The entrance doors painted with signs indicating the operations within: office, cutting room, shipping, have peeled off with age.

  The mills that sustained these communities are gone.

  When I was in college in the early 1980s, I asked Viola to ask the current owner of her factory building for her sign over the door, which had remained there twenty-five years after she had sold the building. A few months later she gave it to me, rusted, with nail holes in it, but there is no mistaking the original grandeur: in bold white the name of her company, on a field of bright red. You could see the sign from a distance, a poppy against the gray sandstone. “Why do you want this, Adri?” she asked me. “I want to remember your mill,” I told her.

  The loss of the mill and all it represented was a blow to our family, and by extension, and no less devastatingly, to our country. Here we are, years later, and the effects of the loss remain vivid. Imagine a time when a machinist and a seamstress, one with a sixth-grade education, the other less, could join forces, form a partnership, start their own mill, employ a diligent workforce, and thrive.

  The entrance to Viola’s mill. Note the sign over the door.

  Imagine a time when you could fulfill a lifelong dream, after years of experience working for others, walk into a bank, and secure a loan to start your own business, building upon the knowledge that comes from making a living from the labor of your own hands.

  Imagine a time when you could operate the business, and provide a community with steady jobs, buy a home, and educate your children. My grandparents did all of that, and as a sidebar, they were active in their community. They helped to build a convent for the Salesian nuns and subsequently a school in Roseto, with their fellow Rosetans, who pledged, at that time, a great deal of money, because they believed in education—and put their money where their hearts were. When I read the ledgers now, I am so proud of them. They gave generously to causes they believed in. I never knew the extent of their philanthropy in financial terms until I studied the ledgers, because they never talked about these gifts, but I certainly understood their emotional commitment.

  In later years, Viola could not understand how our country would succeed if we weren’t supplying our people and the world’s people with products we had made here, with our own hands. She knew that her small factory affected hundreds of lives, and the income of countless families, from the machine operator who placed the collar at her station in the mill in Martins Creek to the salesgirl who earned a commission selling that same blouse, off the rack, on the floor of Macy’s.

  Every stratum of worker benefited from American-made goods. We demonstrated through our own efforts goods of quality, durability, and excellence. As immigrants, we were assured jobs, and once having mastered the skill, we could turn around and teach it to others. We were, in a sense, our product, as we defined it: consistent craftsmanship and excellent results, which meant American in the marketplace.

  Further, my grandparents were prudent as they set the price of the blouse, knowing that to oversell the goods or undersell them, too, had a ripple effect. The idea was to stay in business by offering the best quality for the best price, not to overprice and lose the deal altogether. Short-term greed was never a viable long-term solution in business. The point of going into business was to remain there for many years. This commitment to stability was good for everyone: from the career operator to the summer hire who might go off to college in the fall, with actual experience working a trade under her belt.

  Even though my grandmother rose from operator to owner, her own family and my grandfather’s family was populated with union operators who put in thirty years and upward on the machines, providing income for their families. Some were widowed, others provided a second income to their husbands’ paychecks. The women I knew growing up worked outside the home, and were proud to do so, year after year. It gave them a sense of accomplishment and sustenance. I never knew anything but working mothers, and was well aware that my mother had a career before she had seven children. It seemed that everyone worked, and that work made life better. It wasn’t just about the paycheck—though that was important. A job well done led to a sense of accomplishment and enduring purpose: to feed the family’s bottom line.

  Child care for working families was a constant part of the discussion, and a priority for my grandmother. Viola would take three years off when my father was born; six years later she took two years off when her twins were born, and only six months when her fourth baby was born, as this was the summer before they opened the Yolanda Manufacturing Company. Years later when she wrote down her story, she remembered these dates clearly. They had been negotiated and discussed within her family. Viola used all avenues of child care available to her—family members (my grandfather’s cousin Zizi Mary and others), neighbors, and even nuns.

  In 1988, after a slew of office jobs and second jobs to provide additional income, I got my first job writing for television comedies. I saw Viola’s factory model in effect in an entirely different venue. A television network, through the support of advertisers, provided programming, hiring writers, directors, producers, actors, stagehands, designers, their crews, down to craft services, the folks who make a wagon of snacks for the actors and crew as they rehearsed to make television shows. Beyond these hires, once the show was made, the ripple effect of jobs extended to the graphic designers, distributors, and local affiliates who were employed and lived off the central idea, that we are making shows here, to entertain and enlighten, but also to advertise products that the audience will buy as a result of viewing the show.

  Thousands of families lived off of the creation and distribution of our shows. Soon enough, by the mid-1990s, with cheaper programming (sounds familiar) on the boards and with a restless public clamoring for real-life antics instead of scripted shows, the model sank, and with it quality programming that had been the backbone of network and cable television for years. Some might argue that we deserved to fail—we got too big, or maybe the quality wavered in many instances.

  However, we do ourselves no favors when we destroy the ability
to provide goods and services to a buyer by overpricing ourselves or undercutting our product with watered-down versions of what we create. And yes, some survive the seismic changes that come with destroying one model in order to create anew, but more often than not, we don’t. It is true that we wind up with less product, less shows, and less artisans employed in the long run. We certainly don’t survive stronger, with more jobs to offer. We all lose. When the jobs are gone, we have learned the hard way, they are gone.

  If Viola were young today, she would invent her own new business model and manufacture goods her own way, with a small workforce, providing a niche product to the American consumer. I know it would involve clothing, and that whatever she built would be of excellent quality. There’s something wrong when you can buy a new pair of wool pants more cheaply than it costs to dry-clean them. No wonder we buy so much clothing; it isn’t built to last, because we don’t expect it to. My sisters and I still wear Viola’s coats, and imagine, they are over sixty years old. It’s called vintage now. I marvel at the seams, the pocket insets, the collars, the lining, the cuffs, the covered buttons—the magnificence of an everyday garment, built American.

  Chapter Four

  Storefront Couturier

  Lucy with her daughters Ida and Irma, sons-in-law Michael Godfrey and Anthony Trigiani, and son Orlando. Lucy made the three dresses in this photograph.

  While Viola’s business trajectory went from machine operator to eventual owner, the same was not true for Lucy. She never worked in a factory again after her stint in Hoboken. Instead, she became a storefront couturier, and an alteration seamstress for hire at the local department store.

  Lucy preferred creating for the individual client. She never tired of the challenge of one-of-a-kind creations, but she fretted about pleasing her customers. In the custom clothing business, the pressure was as real for Lucy as the factory life was for Viola. A jittery bride could wield as much pressure as a buyer under deadline to deliver goods in the garment district. The stakes may have existed on a different scale, but the anxiety and pressure to please were the same.

  Lucy’s work was an ever-changing landscape, depending upon who walked into her shop. She had a stable of regular customers, for whom she regularly built skirts, blouses, dresses, and coats. Lucy handled all kinds of fabric, from the most sumptuous to the washable and workable. She used her basic knowledge to adapt to current trends but gently guided her customers back to classic shapes and styles. She enjoyed making the customer happy and witnessing the transformation of a customer who would try on the garment in the final fitting, and turn to Lucy, thrilled with the results. Lucy never missed the rote sewing that she had done as a machine operator in Hoboken. A custom seamstress, a couturier, was free to be original and manage her own time.

  It was so much fun to be with Lucy while she worked. Like Viola, Lucy would give me a magnet to collect pins from the cracks in the floor, or keep me busy sorting buttons from her button box. When Lucy tried to teach me how to sew, I was lousy at it. I don’t know if I didn’t have the patience, or that it was as simple as a preference for the outdoors, but it soon became clear that I wasn’t going to be a seamstress, even an amateur one. If she was displeased with my lack of focus, she never let on. I may not have learned how to build a garment, but the things she taught me in her workroom apply to any creative endeavor. It begins by choosing the best possible elements.

  Choose the best fabric.

  The differences between burlap and velvet, satin and denim, corduroy and silk, are obvious to the touch. It is also apparent that particular fabrics suit certain clothes created for different occasions. So, to begin, fabric creates a context for a creation. Fabric indicates where you’ll wear the clothing, whether it’s day or night, formal or sporty, to witness a sacrament or attend a fish fry. Fabric also says what colors you love to wear, and what textures appeal to you against your skin. Fabric is about climate and season, covering up, or exposing, movement and carriage. Fabric acknowledges your station in life and what you think you deserve, whether you are handmaiden or queen, farmer or land baron.

  For Lucy, there was only one choice: you should have the best, whether the end result was work overalls or an evening gown. Satin façonné should be worn by the village bride, so the gown might last for generations to come. The factory worker should wear a cashmere sweater in the drafty mill, because it’s the wool of the highest quality, and therefore it lasts. Cashmere is also durable, and the most comfortable wool against the skin; it adapts in fluctuating temperatures, and does not pill. A child should wear brushed corduroy coveralls, because it’s the most sturdy material, a washable cotton that holds color through the hand-me-down chain.

  A fine-gauge cotton is easier to press, a strong silk holds its shape, a thick velvet is sumptuous and also warm. Lucy believed if you used the best material, the garment would make a statement. Choose the best fabric once, and you’ve chosen quality, and therefore simplicity. No need to shop and buy ten items, when one beautifully built garment made of the finest fabric would serve your purpose and have you look forward to wearing it. Lucy thought the most deserving of elegance were the folks who provided it. Nothing made her happier than to build a beautiful garment for a woman who would appreciate it, someone like her, a working woman.

  Lucy and her daughter, Ida, in the Progressive Shoe Shop showroom in 1972, in Chisholm, Minnesota.

  Nobody has to see how many times you rip out the hem.

  There isn’t a workday that goes by that I don’t consider this bit of wisdom. Lucy ripped out hems, over and over again, until the seams were straight and perfect. She spent hours draping fabric to show off its texture and create the perfect shape. Each fitting improved the garment, and Lucy would not rest until she was satisfied with every stitch. Details mattered.

  The results of your hard work should appear effortless. The most glorious creations seem to appear in full out of nowhere. That’s the sign of a craftsman. Creating something from nothing is a triumph of imagination and skill. When you sew a stitch, it should be so small that it disappears into the fabric, and becomes part of the whole. The smaller the stitch, the better the seamstress. I imagine words in a novel like stitches. Words should flow seamlessly, without a tug or a pull to take you out of the thought itself.

  Aim for sprezzatura, elegance that is neither forced nor dictated, that comes from within, effortlessly like zippy dialogue, and is an extension of the person, not words for the sake of them. Description, like sartorial details, should inspire a mood—the way a covered button blends into a coat, never breaking the line, or by contrast how a brass button on the same coat turns it into a uniform. The smallest details make a difference. They change the message.

  Once you cut the pattern, do not stop until you’ve sewn the last seam.

  There are all kinds of seamstresses, as there are levels of craft in every profession. Some seamstresses like to have several projects going at once. They cut several patterns, stack them up, then plow through them, assembling them on the machine. Not so for Lucy. She cut one pattern at a time and then would sew until the garment was complete. Lucy did not rest until a particular garment was finished, every seam perfect, pressed and steamed on the hanger, ready for the customer. Then, she’d start the process all over again with the next job.

  Lucy finished what she started. She liked to work methodically, without the distraction of the next job tugging for her attention. Chaos was for the circus. Three rings of action with trapeze artists flipping overhead might be entertaining, but it didn’t get the job done. The execution of a good design takes focus and concentration. It may be easier to cut a pile of patterns first, and then sit for long stretches and sew, but Lucy was having none of it. When I asked her why, she told me that she could not do her best unless she focused on one garment at a time. She felt a sense of completion when the job was done from start to finish. She was satisfied when the customer came to pick up her garment, tried it on, and was pleased with the fit. The thril
l of being done never left her.

  As much as I juggle projects day to day, I never work on two projects simultaneously. I finish one project before starting a new one. There is nothing more exciting than finishing, except the day when a brand new project begins. As Lucy laid out the fabric on the cutting table and pinned the pattern to the material, so it is when I start a new writing project. I surround myself with the elements of the subject I plan to write about: maps, letters, postcards, swatches, tools, photographs—all manner of research clutter my desk to inspire me as I go. Like pattern pieces, small bits of dialogue, stretches of description, are woven together that will eventually become part of the whole. Writing is, in a sense, sewing, and description is the overlay of embroidery that gives a sense of movement and scope, style and distinction.

  Lucy embodies sprezzatura.

  People remember details more than the dress.

  Lucy’s goal was to provide simple elegance. She was curious about what was in style, and would cherry-pick ideas from popular trends, but only if those ideas served the customer and the overall design of the garment she was making for her.

  Lucy was interested in new ideas and different techniques that might make her garments more beautiful. But she also knew that honing skills she already possessed would make her work better. Lucy believed in multiple fittings, because then she could see her work on the customer and make adjustments. Proper fit was more important than executing the latest style of sleeves. Lucy did not believe in cluttering a garment with extraneous ruffles, bows, pleats, and piping. She believed tacked-on adornments gave a garment a homemade look. Instead, she worked with the grain of the fabric, ruching for texture, and used inventive techniques like attaching a single layer of tulle under the hem of cotton pique to frame the skirt. Lucy’s combinations were often surprising—seersucker with a trim of striped ticking, or a floral chintz placket on denim coveralls. She knew whimsy, and occasionally indulged in it; but for the most part, what you got when you went to Lucy was classic styling.