The Tate Family

The Tate Family

Has anyone ever asked for your help, then acted as if you were a nuisance? That is my co-worker Steven’s attitude on Thursdays when it’s time to count inventory. He loves to stand still with the clipboard, the inventory list, and a black pen and have you crawling over the materials to calculate the rolls and estimate how much thread is necessary for the rest of the week, month, and the end of the year. Instead of writing with a pencil because everyone knows you’re bound to find at least one or more items out of place and have to change your tallies. The boss doesn’t mind a little eraser dust but gets frustrated when the reports have crossed out numbers.

Steven has worked at Tate Fabrics since the 60s before most bosses, co-workers, and computers. He has probably forgotten more than we will ever know and could still work circles around all of us. He lords that over us when any of the machines break down. The bosses don’t know how to fix them and must call the maintenance specialist if Steven isn’t working. This sets production back until the machine is back up and running. We make fabrics for draperies and furniture; ship them to factories like Armstrong, Lazy-boy, and Burlington.

I was in school when I began on nights fifteen years ago. I was a factory worker until we went digital and computerized. I understand the codes and software as well as he knows the machinery. Primarily, I work 7-3 Monday thru Friday in the computer room until I have to change the run on Sunday nights. On Sundays, I come in at 3 pm and reprogram each machine for the week.

 I love my job because I don’t have to interact with the other people who work at Tate’s; unless it’s payday or inventory day. On Monday evening, I thread the payroll information before I leave to run after 11 pm. First thing on Tuesday, I change the paper in the printer to the pink check roll with the blue border. After the check roll is aligned, I hit the print button and watch checks for supplies, payroll, and dividends generated for people in-house and worldwide. Usually, about 1500 checks are printed per week but in December; the company rewards every employee with a 1% dividend check if you have been with the family for six months or more. I know you’re saying only 1%... think about it a million-dollar-a-month generating company. My first dividend check was $450, and I had only been there for eight months and was only doing work-study while in college.

After my work-study evaluation, I was offered a permanent position in the Tate family. The company funds each employee to further their education and matches their deposit in a savings account twice a year. You could take the day with pay or work for double payment on your birthday. Back then, I was into music and would win the local radio contest so frequently that the DJ restricted my winning to once a week. When the ladies in the office next door to the computer room discovered that the DJ had limited me, they all agreed to give me their information to keep up the winning streak.

This was the 90s before ID thefts were prevalent, but they trusted me tremendously. It made me more nervous than the office pool. What if my winning streak waned? I would return the paper every day after the contest because I wasn’t the only computer tech that worked in this CPU room; it was obvious what they would have in their hands, and I didn’t want to give anyone the opportunity to steal or the chance to accuse me. The family trust was at stake! I guess I didn’t trust my office mate as much as they did me.

My thoughts were: if it crossed my mind, it probably crossed theirs too.

My boss once mentioned that he had passed by a radio in the factory during a contest with some executives from the corporate office and recognized my voice. He said the executives didn’t know it came from the CPU room. This information gave me a safe way to get out of the agreement with the office pool without revealing any trepidations. The family trust can remain intact.

Rumors that the Tate company was closing at year’s end had been circulating for two years, so people worried about it weren’t paying attention this time. The company has never just hit us with changes without warning before. We have a down period yearly, and the plant would close for a week or two. Usually, the bosses would tell us to take our vacations the first week. The second week would be justified as an upgrade to the facility so that maintenance and cleaning hours were divided between anyone who chose to work a few hours a day. Only a few people would work during the maintenance week. It was mandatory for Steven’s guys.

That was the only time all production was halted. Those massive looms were quiet, and the binding machines were cool. I didn’t realize how much heat those machines generated until I went in to collect the data so I could run payroll. The plant felt desolate, like an abandoned old Western city after the posse had robbed the saloon and killed the sheriff. The only lights on in the factory were over the exit signs. 

I knew Steven and his crew were working somewhere in the plant, but I didn’t see anyone until I reached the die-cast machine. Someone was on the floor before the device; if he hadn’t moaned as if in pain, I would not have looked or said anything. Are you okay? He was clutching his left arm and not answering, just moaning. I called 911 and stayed with him until I heard the sirens. I instructed them to take him to Martha Jefferson Hospital.

After feeding the data to the mainframe, I retrieved Steven’s file to notify his next of kin that he was at MJH-ER, to find out he listed me as the person to call in such situations. Putting on a game face, I rushed to MJH to check on my “father.” To find out he succumbed to a massive stroke.

The staff said he never regained consciousness, but after checking his wallet looking for information to contact family, they found this handwritten note: If you’re reading this contract, my only family Kimberly Walker at 434-975-0—3, and tell her to check my work file for a sealed Manilla folder addressed to her.

Returning to work on Monday, I had to deliver the news of Steven’s death and deal with the envelope’s content.

Inside I found:

1)      An insurance policy

2)      A copy of two birth certificates: his and mine

3)      A letter from my mother

4)      A copy of Mom’s death certificate

5)      A bill of sale for three cemetery plots

6)      Two bank accounts

Also, another letter addressed to me:

“Forgive me; I wasn’t father material in 66. I was a drunk, self-centered, and suffering from PTSD. Your mother was the love of my life, but she needed someone who could provide for you all. I have taken care of everything. Just call Bell’s Mortuary. I wanted to say something every Thursday, how does one, between counting spools of yarns and yards of fabrics, ‘say I am your dad,’ so I just enjoyed reporting with you.”

Moral of the story: family can be anywhere.