I was thinking about my mother today, as I often do on the cusp of a birthday. It's a way I have of marking time, examining my own life against another's benchmarks. When my mother Vera was the age I will be on July 2nd -- 56-years-old -- she was working in a sweltering factory in St. Catharines making fine knit sweaters for the well-to-do. There was no air conditioning at Warren Knit, which had its factory above the shops on St. Paul Street, the main drag of my home town. Often, the temperature would reach into the 40s, an unimaginable working condition for a woman nearing her third act. Vera also worked shift work, which added stress to her already over-loaded system. But she never complained, just came home and downed about six beers and smoked a pack of cigarettes; maybe she'd watch a bit of television. By the time she reached 56, the heavy and difficult job was taking its toll. Vera had a hard time walking the few blocks to the bus and her back was in ruins, t...
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