Part Two!
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 2025, 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.
