~ Part One ~

They used to call Union City the “Embroidery Capital of the World”—and back in the day, that was no exaggeration. The whole place buzzed with the rhythm of stitching and steam, and in 1963, I stepped right into the middle of it, young and ready.

That was the year I started hand die punching. I was just a kid, really, but eager to work. My job was to take those long rolls of embroidered patches made on Schiffli Stitch embroidery machines, and some were 20 yards, some 40 yard rolls—and cut out the emblems by hand, one by one, using steel dies and good old-fashioned elbow grease. The patches came in all shapes and styles, but the most common were the 2-inch baseball emblems, clean and simple. Others had details so fine you had to slow down just to make the cut right. They used a butcher block table with a rubber mat on top and you would use that to place and cut the emblems on.

We were paid by the dozen, and the price depended on the patch. Some jobs were quick money, others were slow and brutal—but either way, you learned to spot what paid and how to work smart. And the more experienced you got, the better your rate—and the more respect you earned.

But that first week? I didn’t care about any of that yet. I worked over 40 hours—hustling, sweating, doing my best to keep up—and when payday came, I got handed $35.00. Doesn’t sound like much now, but back then? For a kid? That was huge. I felt like Rockefeller.

I remember grabbing that envelope and practically floating down the avenue, straight to the Army and Navy store. That was the spot. You could smell the canvas and leather from the sidewalk. I bought myself some clothes—nothing fancy, but I bought them myself. With my own hard-earned money. And let me tell you, I walked out of there ten feet tall.

That moment stuck with me. It wasn’t just about the job, or the paycheck. It was the feeling—that quiet fire inside that says, I did this. I earned this. That’s the kind of pride a timecard can’t measure.

For over 25 years, off and on, I kept at that work. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was real. And it paid well for 16 year old kid! I had to go and get working papers from the city in order to work at that age, put I made good money after awhile that’s for sure!—especially once you knew your way around a die and could move with confidence.

We weren’t just cutting patches. We were building something. A life. A skill. A city’s identity.

Union City stitched the world together—and I helped cut it free.

Most of my early work was in Union City, but after a while, I took a job in a shop just over in West New York, New Jersey. It was only a short ride away, but the atmosphere felt like another world.

That shop? All relatives, except the women. My uncle was the shop steward. My father worked there, my cousins, in-laws, the whole place was like a family reunion. We were all men working the die cutting while the women were off to the side station tables hand-cutting embroidery lace with special scissors, fast and neat, like it was second nature.

It was a stricter operation, no question about it. You had to punch in at the time clock the minute you stepped through the door. No coffee breaks, no small talk. You worked eight hours, and the only real talking happened at lunch—if anyone felt like talking, that is. It was heads-down, work-hard, keep-moving kind of energy. Not unfriendly, just.. old-school. Respect came through effort, not chatter.

We were still paid by the dozen there, just like before. But you had to hustle. No room for mistakes, and no dragging your feet. You could hear the snip of the scissors across the room like little sparks in the silence. And the rhythm of the die punch—whump… whump… whump—was the only music playing.

Over time, though, things started changing. The embroidery business, once booming, started to die out. Overseas companies could do it cheaper, faster, in bulk. One by one, the old shops closed. Some tried to hold on with smaller crews, new machines—but the glory days were fading.

Funny thing is, now in 2026, there’s a whole new crowd making a living from embroidery—people with multi-head machines in little shops, even in their own homes. They’re stitching emblems for teams, businesses, clubs—just like we used to—but they’re doing it solo, digital, fast. And honestly? I tip my cap to them.

But me? I’ll always remember the hum of the floor, the clang of the time clock, the sharp smell of cut thread and oil, and the pride that came from working alongside my own blood, shaping fabric into something useful, something lasting.

We made something with our hands. We earned our pay. And we stitched a piece of ourselves into every patch we cut!