Amerigo Vespucci

It dawned on me in the last few days that I don't think the president knows the history of how America was named. I say this, not because it is all that big of an issue, the crazy grandpa in the White House who pushes to rename things, the Gulf of America, Lake America, and possibly the American Ocean, but because it illustrates not only his lack of knowledge of history, specifically that of our country, but also the dearth of knowledge that so many of his acolytes (and, to be honest, most Americans for that matter) exhibit when they talk about our shared history.

So, while I would bet dollars to donuts that if asked, DJT would not be able to answer which explorer America was named after, it is also true that most Americans do not know as well, nor do they know how it came to be that the "new world" discovered by the Europeans in the late 15th, early 16th century was named America.

Obviously, the answer to that first question is embedded in the title of the post. But before we get into that, let's not ignore the following facts (not hyperbole, or conjecture, facts).

People had been living in the "Americas" for about 23,000 years, possibly longer. If you wish to read an informative article concerning some of the research into who and when people first came to this area of the world, I found the following article very interesting.

https://scienceinsights.org/who-were-the-first-inhabitants-of-north-america/ 

So, in reality, our country was called any number of different things by the people who lived here for far longer than it was called North America, let alone the United States of America. 

And, for those of you who have forgotten, or were never taught this, the Europeans who sailed across the Atlantic starting with Columbus in the late 15th century were not the first people from the "Old World" to navigate to this side of the world. 

It has become established history that the Vikings used stopovers in Iceland and Greenland to reach North America, specifically, the area now known as Newfoundland, Canada, almost 500 years prior to Columbus and the other more famous European explorers. 

Here is an article about the Vikings if you are interested.

https://www.odysseytraveller.com/articles/vikings-north-america/ 

Of course, knowledge of the Vikings did not exist in the time of Columbus. In fact, many people of that time, including Columbus himself, thought that by sailing east from Europe he would reach Asia. Which, technically was true, except that they didn't know there was a huge land mass in the way.

So, if you are wondering why the Indigenous people of the Americas were referred to as Indians, it is because Columbus thought he had landed in the West Indies so he referred to the people he "discovered" there as Indians. In fact, that name went on to be used to label all the Indigenous peoples who were found by the Europeans when they landed in North and South America. 

In other words, for the vast amount of human existence, at least from the standpoint of the European perspective, the land encompassing the United States did not exist, not in maps of the world, not in educational materials in Europe, not in any of the intellectual circles of the day. 

That thought, is pretty dizzying, if you think about it. 

Like most of you, I was taught the historical ditty

In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue

As a way to remember who was the first European to land in the Americas. Of course, that wasn't quite accurate, (see Vikings link above), but it made for a good story and aligned with our prejudices to believe that before Europeans, the Americas were just sitting there, waiting for the divine intervention that would inspire brave explorers to sail the unknown oceans. 

At this point, if you are wondering just how this continent was named America, and not Columbia or Christoland, well that is where the story of Amerigo Vespucci comes into play.

Vespucci was also an explorer during the time of Columbus. He also made a few voyages across the Atlantic, although just how many has been cause for debate since his death.

What does appear to be true however, is that he sent correspondences, and had better access to the influencers of the day who "made the news", so to speak. And the maps. So, once it was determined that Columbus had not actually reached the West Indies/Asia, the realization that a "new world" had been discovered swept Europe. And, as it happened, some of this speculation and realization was inspired by Vespucci's letters and those who he contacted. 

The following link goes into great detail about this process, and explains it far better than I just did. If interested  

https://www.understandingitaly.com/amerigo-vespucci.html 

So, what do you think? Did you know the reason why we are called the Americas and not the Columbias?

For me, I had learned about Vespucci somewhere during my education, elementary or high school, I don't remember, although still found the details of the story as related in the "understandingitaly..." link above extremely fascinating.

But, again, do you think the president knows? I sure would like a reporter to ask him. Would he say we were named after Columbus? Perhaps America was his middle name? Or, if he knows about Vespucci, would he know why he got the credit?

In the end, it often reminds me how silly this renaming business is when I remember the story about the two very serious fleas who were arguing about who owned the land they lived on, all the while not knowing that the "land" was the fur of a dog, or cat, if you prefer.

Anyway, a toast to Amerigo Vespucci, merchant, explorer, source of all that denotes the greatness of America. Perhaps once he learns (or remembers, if I were to give him the benefit of the doubt) that it was Vespucci who our great continent was named for, DJT will have a great golden statue "like no one has ever seen before" erected in his name. 

Hopefully, he won't believe the internet rumor that Amerigo's real first name was Albericus. Then he will have to start all over

Gulf of Alberica

Lake Alberica

Albericus Ocean  

 

Be Here Now 2

In my last post, I mentioned my happy surprise at encountering two mentions of a philosophy of living, although not by the name I associate with its tenants; living in the present, or Be Here Now.

After posting it though, it occurred to me that living in the present certainly seems applicable to young people, as I was when I first learned of it, and retired people like myself now.

That it struck a chord in me when I read those two disparate articles when they reminded me of my youth, perhaps in itself confirms that living in such a way is far less practical when one is a young husband, or just starting a career, or a new parent, or even a new home owner. While stopping to smell the roses is still a legitimate endeavor, regardless of the real world pressures that we all face, it is also much easier to worry less about the future when one is young and immortal, or older, having arranged the dominoes in such a way that enjoyment of the present is achievable.

All that being said, and certainly there is fodder worthy of debate in the idea that it is far easier to live in the present when your biggest concerns are where the next party is, or how to spend your retirement next egg, it also struck me that far too many people are just not happy with their lives. 

When contemplating the statistics of unhappiness, that almost 100,000 Americans took their lives in the last two years, 2024-2025, that another 150,000 died from drug overdoses in those same two years, that roughly one third of marriages end in divorce (and that number has dropped after peaking in the 1980's), and that various surveys place the percentage of people who are unhappy with their job over 50%, with job dissatisfaction pushing 75% in some areas of employment, the simple fact is that a large percentage of people, on any given day, are not happy with a major component of their lives. And I didn't even research the percentage of people who are struggling with their health! 

In other words, how is it possible to Be Here Now, if here, sucks!

Further then, is it a fairy tale to suggest this philosophy?

I have no words of wisdom here, no pithy response to someone who might laugh at a philosophy extolling the enjoyment of one's life, one's experiences, when that person struggles to make ends meet, has chronic health issues, has recently lost their partner either through divorce or death, or simply hates their spouse, their job, their various life situations. 

I often say to people who struggle with the current state of affairs in our country, with the daily examples of government incompetence and downright theft of our mutual resources, the ongoing destruction of our planet and its environment, the exaltation of selfishness and cruelty on display almost daily from our current administration, that my current motto is

Global anxiety, personal happiness

the idea being that we stay awake and aware to what is happening, but not let it intrude, too much, on our daily happiness, our daily attempts to smell those roses, enjoy those sunsets, revel in those times with our friends and family. 

But even that is a bit of a cop out, as, all those circumstances that create anxiety in the first place, whether personal or global, will never be solved by simply acknowledging them, without action towards resolution. 

I guess the only real profundity is seeking balance, and while that might include difficult discussions about one's relationships, one's career choices, one's mode of recreation, even one's reflection on whether life is worth it or not, a life that ignores either the past, present or future, focusing on one realm over the others, is doomed to be unhappy.

Am I saying, Be Here Now, when you can? 

Is that good enough to shrink the number of Americans who kill themselves directly, or slowly, who remain in unhappy circumstances for fear that the grass on the other side will be even less green, who purposefully or unconsciously live in a fetal ball, far removed from reality for fear of being overwhelmed?

Perhaps "keep on truckin" is OK, as long as we recognize that we are truckin with a purpose of our own making, and not as twigs floating in a mighty river with no means of slowing, turning, or going back.

 

   

 

Philosophy From the Past

For those of you have been reading the "chapters" from my based-on-a-true story future novel, you may have surmised that my youth, while not atypical of those of us born in the late 50's, was also not traditional. 

Like most of my cohorts, I spent a number of years "seeking myself". While I graduated from a private high school, sent there by my well- intentioned parents to learn with the best, to be exposed to one of the best high school educations, to be challenged where I may not have been in the local public or parochial high schools.

And, I was, to a degree although I will always maintain that attending a high school without young women, at least for me, only made them seem more out of reach. As if my choices were to put them on a pedestal or seek to sexually conquer them. It took until I made women friends in various work environments, and among the group of young people with whom I spent my early 20's, to begin to see, and interact, with women as if they were individuals. While the good news is that I am still learning this, the bad news is that I have missed countless opportunities to relate to women in ways outside of the stereotypes that were ingrained in me from my birth. 

During those years, late teens to early twenties, I traveled across America by bus, pedaled around Pennsylvania to visit my friends in college, and hitchhiked across this great country. I did a lot of drugs, met a myriad of people in my travels, and even followed a guru for a few years, making two trips to Miami for a convention of his followers as well as going to various programs in the area.

And I was open, very open, to some of the teachings of Timothy Leary and Ram Dass, especially those associated with the philosophy best described as Be Here Now.

Imagine then my (happy) surprise to be reminded of that way of thinking, way of living, not once, but twice this past week.

The first was brought to me by an article in the October edition of The Atlantic, a short essay by Ian Bogost called "The Missing Ingredient Of Modern Life."

The main point of the article is that people have lost their ability to experience wonder. In fact, the secondary title of the article is "Why we need wonder." 

He bemoans the notion of maxxing, not necessarily because he believes that people shouldn't strive to be their best, to attain your very focused goals. No, his concern is that in fixating on the goal, we forget to enjoy the process. 

For instance, by maximizing our time by using Instacart to shop, or DoorDash to receive our dinners, we miss out on the actual experience of shopping or going out to dinner. We miss out, not only on the simple pleasure of making a list, then choosing the groceries and sundries that we need to make our meals to sustain our health, but we also remove the possibility of meeting someone at the store we haven't seen in a while, or just meeting someone new. 

I very often think about this when I hear very rich people, and/or most politicians tell us how things are, gas prices, food prices, the balancing of child care and work, etc, when I know that many of them haven't pumped their own gas in years, send their assistants to the stores for their needs, have nannies to watch their kids. Perhaps if they actually mingled with their constituents where they live, and not just at a rally, they might have a better feel for what is really going on, what really matters to the most of us who do the actual living and dying in America.

Bogost does not go into that aspect in his article, that is all me, but he does touch on the Be Here Now philosophy by reminding us of the simple pleasures we all experience every day but frequently fail to appreciate. 

The warmth of a mug of coffee in one's hand, sliding your feet into the plush softness of slippers in the morning, hearing the crunch of the gravel under your feet are a few he names.

For me, breakfast on the back porch on a clear fall day, the smell of a newly mowed lawn (not withstanding the sneezing that will follow), picking tomatoes and peppers from our backyard garden, even sitting at the computer and paying the bills. 

I often laugh when I see the outrageous celebrations that occur multiple times during any sporting event, bat flips after a home run, crawling on the ground after a QB sack, man piles on the mound after winning a league championship. A few times I have attempted to high five someone at work after we emptied the skids of groceries onto the appropriate U-boats, then pushed them out to their respective aisles, but I am generally met with amusement, as if our work was any less amazing that our sports heroes' on field accomplishments. After all, no one gets fed after a home run, but our every day work provides our customers with food to sustain them.

The other reminder came just last night as I was reading "An Unexpected Life" by Gloria Steinem, and came from the quote she uses to introduce her chapter called "Hope Is a Form of Planning: Then and Now". 

The quote is from Howard Zinn.  

"The future is an infinite succession of presents, and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory."

To be honest, I knew very little about Ms Steinem, other than the basic facts that she was a feminist, that she helped establish MS Magazine, that she has been an outspoken advocate for, not only equality for women, but for all minorities. 

Her book, so far, has fleshed out these basic facts, in addition to providing me information about her childhood, her early life before she became a writer, and of course, the influences which helped her define who she wanted to be, and who she ultimately became. Even more so, I learned of her affinity for Indigenous peoples, especially their belief in living in harmony with mother nature as opposed to dominion over her.

And, of course, her very detailed understanding of the, dare I say it, lie, that we are taught from day one, about how a patriarchal society is part of god's plan, or just the way it is supposed to be, or "natural", all the while being used to suppress half of the population. 

Sadly, and perhaps not unexpectedly, after multiple decades of progress for the female half of our population, we are in the middle of a backslide as men try, again, to exert control over women's bodies as a way to control their lives, their opportunities. As I have written more than once, Steinem mourns for the loss of innovation, energy, and progress towards a more fair and equitable existence for all of humanity that just did not happen due to the mistaken belief that women are only good for making babies.

One of the most glaring examples of gender bias, which I did not know, involved the Mercury 13. Most people (of my age or close to it) most likely recall the Mercury 7, the men chosen to be our first astronauts but just as likely have never heard of the women who were also trained to be astronauts, the Mercury 13. (Feel free to Google it if you are curious).

Needless to say, we don't know about them simply because our study of the past is called history, as it is filled with anecdotes and tales of men's accomplishments. Just as it was determined that sending women into space did not make for good optics, despite, in more than a few ways, that they were better suited for space travel, we are neck deep in the stories of men's achievements but must delve deeply to learn about those of women.

So, to return to the premise of this post, whether you want to call it being mindful, or being in the present, or taking time to "smell the roses", it all reminds me of Be Here Now, which itself, most likely mirrored a philosophy which one could argue traces its source back to the beginning. 

Just new words for the same idea, that of being present in your life, and living to appreciate the simple fact that we have all been blessed with the opportunity to experience everything, and to do so with other voyagers.    

 

Robber Barons and Tech Bros

Yesterday, Nora and I ventured down to Wilmington, Delaware to visit the Hagley Museum.

But first, I was able to get a free pass (for both of us) through a program offered by the Chester County Library System. Although I have a Pottstown address, we live in East Coventry Township which is part of Chester County. As I mentioned in my two posts a few years ago when I was called for jury duty, we are at the northern end of Chester County, surrounded by Montgomery County locales where we do much of our shopping. 

Anyway, the free pass program is wonderful! We have made use of it a few times now, which has provided a double win by not only allowing us to visit some places for free, but has introduced us to historic, and fun destinations that we were not aware of. So, in addition to fueling my reading habit by requesting books to be sent to my local library from all over the county, we are also utilizing the system to plan day trips. 

It makes me laugh when I recall a recent text sent to me which stated that "free has no value". For me, the free library has tremendous value, and for Nora and I, these free passes have provided a number of pleasant days. 

So, the Hagley Museum. 

It is actually referred to as the Hagley Museum and Library and is located in New Castle County, Delaware. It is part of the DuPont family of historic sights in the Wilmington area. 

(I asked why it was called the Hagley Museum, and not the DuPont Museum, by the way. Apparently, it was decided that the name Hagley, which was very famous in that area at the time, might attract more tourists than the Dupont name. Perhaps the passage of time has negated that supposition as, to be honest, I didn't know it was related to the Dupont family until accessing the website, and of course, going there.)

To be honest, I wouldn't even call it a museum, and we did not spend any time in the library, although we didn't try to go to that building. While the Visitor Center has a wonderful collection of exhibits about inventions and innovation, the bulk of our time was spent traversing the grounds, by foot and by shuttle bus. For those of you who might want to visit but are less mobile than you would like, the shuttle buses run every 20 minutes from all of the stops, so don't stay away on that account.

In addition to being able to walk at our own pace through the grounds, able to stop at the various informative signs along the way, and to wander around one of the "workers" villages, there were also demonstrations featuring the machines employed at the time, and a wonderful guided tour of the ancestral home. 

Today we think of DuPont as a humongous corporation diversified into an assortment of business ventures. But originally, their business was black powder, a product used during war and peace times, as blowing up things can included entrenched enemies as well as mountains to create highways or rock to clear land. 

Of course, processing black powder is very dangerous. We were given a demonstration of its power when one of the guides took just a pinch and blew a hole in a rock wall about 6 feet wide. 

Just kidding!

He did light up a bit to demonstrate how loud it was when detonated but it was certainly safe, and my requests to almost every guide we met for a dime bag were met with smiles only.

The impetus for this post was due to the obvious respect, almost worship in a few cases, that the guides had for the Dupont family. They were quick to point out that the workers were paid wages well above those of other people who toiled in the region at the time. That there was much documentation of ship's passage for workers' families being paid for by the company. That the family was very generous in donating land for the many historic areas that dot the northern Delaware area. That they even paid for roads to be built for the general public to use. 

At one point, a tour guide gushed that she didn't know what Delaware would be today without the influence and largesse of the Duponts.  

As I mentioned above, the processing of black powder, is very dangerous due to explosions which occurred multiple times per year and killed a few hundred workers, but also deadly by just the simple fact of being exposed to two of the ingredients, potassium nitrate and sulfur, which certainly did a number on the workers' internal systems. 

So, while the Dupont family could be admired for treating their employees better than some, providing plots to grow food, helping them to bring relatives to America, building structures for them to live in, even allowing the widows of killed workers to live on site with a pension for expenses, the huge sums of money derived from the labor stayed mostly in the family. 

Were they the worst of the robber barons of the Industrial Age who make enormous fortunes on the backs of the immigrants of the time? It appears not, based on what we were told yesterday. 

But the massive fortune made until the site's closure in 1921 were also not liberally shared with the people who did the hard work, many of whom paid for it with their lives.

Still, like Carnegie, Rockefeller, Vanderbilt, Morgan, etc, many of those men, and their descendants, gave back to their communities, and their nation. America is strewn with museums, libraries, and various charitable organizations that were funded, are still funded, with the money earned in those days when labor unions did not exist, when workers lost their jobs when they couldn't work, even if the disability occurred while working, when 60 hours weeks with only Sunday off, was the norm.

While it may be debatable if America would be what it is today without the genius (and ruthlessness) of those bigger than life men, it is just as true that without the labor of the hundreds of thousands of nameless workers, again, mostly immigrants, who built the skyscrapers, dug the tunnels, laid the railroad tracks, our country would also not be as it is now.

Which brings us to today's robber barons, the tech bros.

I don't know how history will judge these people, Zuckerberg, Musk, Bezos, Ellison, Huang, etc. Perhaps, like their cohorts from the late 19th, early 20th century, they will attempt to buy their way to heaven, and positive historical notations, by leaving foundations, parks, museums, libraries, perhaps even well financed settlements on the moon. Perhaps, like Warren Buffet, they will pledge to donate obscene sums of money to good causes.

I imagine that anyone alive in 1890, or 1910, who lost their livelihood to nefarious business practices, or their husbands to dangerous working conditions, may have never imagined that the source of their pain and suffering might one day be revered for their generosity. 

Whether today's giants of industry will someday be spoken of in reverent tones for the positive legacies they leave is anyone's guess. I would like to think that the everyday working man is more aware, has access to more information about the negative aspects of these super rich men, certainly more so than regular people did during the Gilded Age. 

But then again, if control of information is used as a gauge, then perhaps we are no better off than the workers of past generations. Especially when we consider that a few of the tech bros I named above own and control some of the most influential, and accessed, news sources today. It certainly makes it easier to be prominent, and admired, in the news when you can bend it towards your own particular viewpoint.

In the meantime, visit a museum, even those that might present a biased viewpoint towards its founder, because even those open your mind to a wider perspective. 

And, above all, push our public servants towards striking down the Citizens United Supreme Court Ruling of 2010 that is enabling, at a frightening rate, the ability of the 1% to control the narrative, not to mention, buy off those we elect.    

Chapter Three : Working with Dad

                                         Rachel's Dad

                         Chapter Three: Working with Dad 

My first "job" was working with my father delivering knives. Yes, those sharp, metallic tools you use to cut with, in this case, the cutting being done by those who toil in our local delis, restaurants, grocers, anywhere that utilizes a knife (or scissors to cut chickens - I won't say what parts) to prepare food for our consumption. 

My dad and his brother, my uncle Ernie, inherited the business from their father, who worked with his brother to start the business in the early 20th century. 

My uncle sharpened the knives in the "shop" while dad delivered them, mostly within the city boundaries of Philadelphia, PA. 

Like my older (male) cousins before me, and even a few uncles when they were young adults, from about the age of ten, I was his "helper", a name I often heard used to describe me, as in "Are you the new helper?". This entailed checking for cross traffic when he needed a second set of eyes to navigate the truck, such as backing into an intersection, pulling the required knives for the next "stop", and even delivering the knives in a cardboard box for those stops that were easy in, easy out, and only needed 5 or less knives swapped out, old, dull ones for sharp ones.

I mostly worked the summers, but also during holidays. I generally only worked the Wednesday and Friday routes, and sometimes Monday, the other two days being in parts of the city that my dad had designated "too dangerous" for us helpers.

We rose around 5 AM, had breakfast, then drove to the shop. in the beginning from our home in the Mt Airy section of the city, then from Horsham when we moved there in 1970. 

I was paid $2 a day, in the beginning, eventually capping at around $25 a day when I occasionally went with him as a young adult. The work day included lunch, at the Savoy Restaurant in Center City on Wednesdays, at a Ginos (hamburger chain) on those occasional Mondays, and either at my grandmother's (Nonna, whose home was located on the same property as the shop) or, as a treat, a takeout cheesesteak from Dalessandros in Roxborough, on Fridays. The fact that the steak shop was owned by a family member by marriage, I didn't know until many years later.

Since Friday was a half day, in terms of deliveries, my dad would spend time in the shop sharpening saws after lunch while I would hang out with my cousin Denise who lived with her parents in my Nonna's home, or just with my grandmother if Denise wasn't around.

It was incredible opportunity to experience life in the real world yet with the protection of my dad, in addition to time with my paternal grandparents (until my grandfather died not too long after I was allowed to work with dad), and my aunt Rose, uncle Lou and cousin Denise.

Little did I know that my experience was unusual for the time, and frankly doesn't seem to exist at all anymore. I would like to think I understood how special those times were, and perhaps I did to the extent that a young boy of 10, 12, 14 years old can. 

I do know that I enjoyed the times watching the city streets zip by outside the door of the delivery truck, the feel of the wind in my hair (what there was of it as, as a child, crewcuts were the thing while my parents controlled the length of my hair, the days of my hair to the middle of my back still many years away). And I also know that I appreciated spending time with a man who was quite different at work than at home. He clearly enjoyed the work, for the most part, and certainly enjoyed the social aspect of sharing the latest joke, or news headline, with his customers.

Again, without knowing it then, I got to know my father as a person, not just a parent, and that in itself is priceless.

When my uncle retired, as he was two years older than dad, half of the overall route was sold, providing a small nest egg for my uncle while also allowing my dad to work the remaining half. He spent half his time in the shop, the rest on the road to maintain the business for a little while before he too could step away from it.

I can't say I ever considered taking over the business, nor do I remember any of my siblings contemplating it, and while I believe my dad would have liked his business to stay in the family, he was a father first, and understood that it was a hard life, certainly not for everyone, and he would never push his dream onto a son who did not share it. As wonderful a man as one can imagine.

Again, much of this was lost on me as a preteen, then teenager. I remember doing a lot of reading while waiting for him to return to the truck as many of the stops were one and done. It was only when there were two places relatively close that I went into action, or if the stop was so small, so quick, that he could send me in as he assembled the knives for the next few stops. This certainly saved time, and some steps for him.

After a number of years working at none career type jobs, as will be detailed in a future chapter, I decided to go back to college. It was while in an English Comp class, in 1985, that I wrote the following story about my dad.  Although I wrote it using a fictitious narrator, it was composed with the knowledge I gained, first hand, in those days when I was a "helper". 

As my dad approaches the time for him to pass from this life to what lays beyond, from myself, all of his helpers, sons and nephews alike, and from those he served faithfully all those years who may no longer think of him but who were positively effected by his life, and, of course from his immediate family, relatives, and many, many friends, here's to you dad.  We love you and will miss you terribly.


                                                       

                                        The Knife Man



I am standing inside my front door on a cold, October morning with a cup of hot chocolate. I’m up before the sun, awaiting Joe Pugnetti’s arrival. Today, I will go “on the job” with him, a job I’ve often wondered about in the fifteen years of our acquaintance. He pulls up in his station wagon and beeps the horn. I close the door behind me, walk briskly to the waiting car, and we begin the twenty minute ride from our suburban neighborhood to Philadelphia.

Joe is one of the nicest neighbors on our block. If I need a hand with a backyard chore, or want to borrow a tool of his – “no problem”. On most weekends he is outside working on a car, building something, painting or just maintaining his property. At those times, like today, he is rarely at a loss for a good conversation. Today, as we drive to the shop, we discuss a recent hijacking at sea.

We pull into a narrow driveway which widens into a parking area just wide enough for two cars to fit. Joe parks within inches, on my side, of an outside heating oil tank, a few strides from the shop. Apologetically, he tells me to slide out from his side.

Joe is a knife grinder. Along with his brother, they operate a small business providing knives to restaurants, butchers, supermarkets and grocery stores within the city of Philadelphia. Joe delivers the knives from a step-van truck while his brother sharpens them at the shop. Joe’s day consists of a pattern of “stops”, a different route for each day of the week. At each customer, they provide a previously determined number and type of sharpened knife while removing the dull ones from the last delivery. In essence, these customers rent sharp knives from their business. For Joe’s part, he has been delivering knives for thirty-five years, fifty-one weeks a year, 45-50 hours per week.

The shop is a small, darkened rectangle with an oily, heavy air about it. Along two of the walls are boxes of recently sharpened knives and various grinding machines, foremost of which is the whetstone or grinding wheel. Replacing this wheel of stone is done every eighteen months by three men and a winch.

The left side of the shop is dominated by the delivery truck which Joe is loading. He indicates four boxes near me and asks if I can bring them over. All are heavy but within my ability to lift. Within the truck the knives are sorted by type and stored in boxes like the four I have helped load. The wooden boxes are arranged onto metal racks, one on each side of the truck, two levels high. This storage system dominates the interior of the truck, leaving very little room for passengers. As we back out of the shop down the driveway, it occurs to me that I am stationary within a vehicle loaded to the gills with very sharp objects loosely stacked in boxes, without lids.

As we drive the twenty minutes south on Broad Street towards the first stop, the sun rises and the city begins to awaken. Traffic has thickened and people are hurrying through the streets into the stores. Joe is in and out of the first few shops very quickly. “In the early morning, no one wants to talk”, he explains. “They’re too busy”.

Joe is an excellent driver. He maneuvers down boulevards and alleys with equal ease. His parking skill is demonstrated at the third stop when he perfectly backs into a space, with one attempt, which someone in a two-door car has just passed by.

At each stop, Joe moves to the back of the truck and selects the knives. There are at least five or six different types, as far as I can tell, each with a different use. Additionally, the width of the knife blade differs as the action that sharpens a knife also removes or wears away a bit of the blade with each weekly grinding. As a result, the newest knives have the widest blades, the older ones, thinner blades, and, again, each level of thickness results in different uses. Joe carries up to ten knives in one hand, handles in the palm, blades between his fingers pointing to the ground. For stops which require more than ten knives, he uses a wooden box, without a lid. He moves smoothly through crowds, the knives seemingly an extension of his body. “I’ve never cut anyone”, he states proudly.

His hands, however, are another matter. They are rough and heavily callused with thin scars here and there. Today, he wears a small bandage on his right index finger. But he has never gone to a hospital for treatment, preferring butterfly bandages that he keeps stocked in the truck. “It’s a part of the job, like blisters on a golfer’s hands or cramps in a writer’s”.

About 10:00, it starts raining. The weather can be a negative factor in Joe’s day. All precipitation effects traffic flow, adding travel time between stops. The point is illustrated by a ten minute backup of vehicles wading through a small lake which had formed under an overpass. Also, Joe walks twelve to fifteen miles a week from vehicle to store, within stores, and back to the truck so any extreme weather increases the annoyance level. “In the summertime, this truck becomes a metal sweat box but since this is a stop and go business, I’ve never had one air-conditioned. For me, extreme heat is far worse than the cold”.

Joe symbolizes the work ethic which built America; he is on his route every day, healthy or sick. He shares this value with the predominantly small businessmen who comprise his clientele. Also, Joe emphasizes the personal aspect of his service. Frequently he emerges from a store laughing aloud or calling a “Take it easy” over his shoulder. At other times, I catch the end of a conversation about politics, sports, even basic philosophy. They are blue-collar opinions emphasized with gestures and rising voice levels. “I especially enjoy the social part of the job. My customers encompass all ages, races and opinions, and in dealing with such a wide range of people, it makes me a better person, a bit more tolerant. Also, when it is time to raise the prices, my customers accept it more easily. We understand each other”.

This relationship can also pay off in a more serious way. At lunch, Joe relates a story of getting jumped by two “young punks” after money. One slammed his hand with the knives against the truck while the other rifled his pockets. They got less than they might have because Joe’s customer burst from his store waving a gun. Joe’s savior was a Korean grocer who spoke little English but knew Joe as his knife man.

This kind of potential danger via the cash and carry aspect of the business is Joe’s biggest concern. “Every year there seems to be more senseless violence. I worry about myself but mostly I worry for my family. I still have four kids at home, and one is only five years old. Who’ll take care of them if some dope-filled junkie kills me?”

When we finish eating, Joe walks to the counter to pay our bill. He is 6’2” tall with an outdoorsman’s upper body, yet I recall the hurt in his eyes, the hurt of a sensitive person who worries about the uncontrollable dangers of life.

By one o’clock, the sun is out again. I go into a few stores to watch Joe in action. He walks purposefully, stopping at various stations within the store, exchanging sharp knife for dull. In dank, dark basements, he roots around for knives. In the hectic kitchens he blends in and out of the chaos, even exchanging hellos with some of the busy workers. I am more in the way than useful, but in those few shadowings of Joe, I witness a form of artistry in the way he performs his job.

Later in the day, Joe lets me “serve” one of his customers by myself. He hands me a box with five knives, tells me to put four at the butcher block and the smallest one at the register. “In this area, many store owners keep a sharp knife with the cashier, to discourage robbery”, he explains. Inside, I am initially attacked by five sets of eyes, but they relax with I exchange the knives at the butcher’s block. At the register, I am given the last knife along with their payment, and asked with some sarcasm if I am the helper today.

Back at the truck I recount my experience and ask him about the helper comment. “My kids and my nephews have been my helpers in the past. I start them at eleven or twelve, and they assist me in the summer and on days off from school. I can’t pay them much money, so by sixteen they get a real job. But in those few years, I am able to experience something that few fathers can – I can take my kids to work, to work”. He turns to me, taking his eyes off the road for just an instant. “It is a very rare opportunity; to have your son’s be a part of your world, of the world which supports them and the entire family. They may not understand it as it is happening, but I know it will stick with them forever”. Joe turns his head frontwards again, but before it has turned completely, I catch what I think is a small tear at the corner of his eye.

This brief glimpse of Joe, the father, underlines even more the hurt he exhibited at lunch. Being able to properly take care of his family is Joe’s biggest concern, his prime motivation for working.

Back in the shop, we unload the truck. Joe sharpens a few saws which is a minor part of the business. He relates his pole-climbing days in the Army as the saw sharpener scrapes between each and every tooth. As retirement approaches, he sometimes regrets not going to Philadelphia Electric or the phone company to make a career from the skills he learned in the service. There is no grinder’s union or pension to supplement his future social security checks. Only the judicial use of the lump sum gained for the eventual sale of the company. Also, Joe’s brother will retire before him, so Joe will need to perform both aspects of the business for a number of years. It will be even more hard work at a time when age will begin to take its toll. At this point in his life, it would have been easier to have worked for a large company. “I did not go to college, never even finished high school, so I emphasize education to my kids. I am a bit sad that none of them will take up the old man’s business but very glad that I supplied them with the opportunity to choose their own paths”.

On the way home, Joe makes one last stop at a local restaurant in our area. He walks across the lot from the car somewhat slower than this morning but comes out smiling and a step faster. He tells me a joke the cook just told him and we share a big laugh at its punchline.