When I feel inclined to moan ...

I've blogged about work misery this week and it's got me thinking about an old memory.

Down by the buggy, muggy, swampy edge of a certain river near my city, stand the ruins of an old factory, a textile mill. Nothing but blackflies and cottonmouths inhabit the place now, with its roof long away crumbled away.

A few years ago, a resident of the nearby town shared some letters with me, written a century ago by a relative of his who once worked in that mill.

And when I think my job is tough, I remember what She endured.

She worked from dawn to dusk and often beyond, six days every week, in whatever uncomfortable clothes Ladies wore back then -- in a blazing hot hellhole of a factory where Her every breath, day in, day out, drew in lung-destroying bits of fiber and dust. Around Her, the satanic machines roared constantly -- and no one had any concept of hearing protection.

If She were to lose a finger or worse, they'd show Her the door.

I have naught of which to complain.