Every day, my mother Vera took the bus downtown to the factory where she spent eight grueling hours manipulating the heavy machines that were used to make fine sweaters for people who could afford them. In the summer, sometimes, the temperatures soared into the thirties and the heat made her swoon, but she was forced to carry on for what anyone would consider a laughable salary. On those steamy days, she boarded the bus home in sweat-soaked and cheap polyester clothes she bought at KMart. I was 16 and in high school when my mom took that job. Because she worked shift work, she left a freezer full of Swanson concoctions for me to make for dinner. I came to detest frozen food, particularly the processed mystery meat that was lauded as "real" beef and turkey and slathered with gravy full of salt and sugar. Vera took that job after my grandparents died and we were forced to move into an apartment in city. It was a long way from the farm where I spent my...
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