19 September 2007

The names Steve, Steve Dore





















In my former life I'm pretty sure I was a longshoreman. I definitely have the body for it - and a very deep love for the fashion - but I definitely do not have the patience of mind a/k/a the discipline and I give these guys all the credit in the world for what they do; its an old, wonderful, amazingly thankless job that isn't easy. I sit in an office all day while these guys get blisters and callouses on their earlobes unloading giant crates of shit so you can buy more shit with the money u make in your office... with the corporate AC in July and the corporate boilers in February. I don't front on longshoremen, ever. I admit I can only fantasize.

The words stevedore, docker, and longshoreman can have various waterfront-related meanings concerning loading and unloading ships.

The word "stevedore" originated in Spain or was it Portugal ? It entered the English language through its use by sailors. It started as a phonetic spelling of Spanish estibador or Portuguese estivador = "a man who stuffs", here in the sense of "a man who loads ships", which was the original meaning of "stevedore"; compare with the Latin stipāre = "to stuff".

In the UK, men who load and unload ships are usually called dockers while here and in Canada the term longshoreman, derived from "Man-along-the-shore" is most common.

In usual present-day United States waterfront word usage, a stevedore is a man or a company who manages the operation of loading or unloading a ship. A stevedore typically owns equipment used in the loading or discharge operation and hires longshoremen who load and unload cargo under the direction of a stevedore superintendent.

"Loading and unloading ships requires knowledge of the operation of loading equipment, the proper techniques for lifting and stowing cargo, and correct handling of hazmats. In addition, workers must be physically strong and be able to follow orders."

In earlier days, men who load and unload ships had to tie down cargoes with rope. A type of stopper knot is called the stevedore knot. The methods of securely tying up parcels of goods is called stevedore lashing or stevedore knotting. While loading a general cargo vessel, they use dunnage which are pieces of wood or nowadays sometimes strong inflatable bags set down to keep the cargo out of any water that might be lying in the hold or are placed as shims between cargo crates to keep them from shifting during a voyage.

I wanna work with rope and shims and crates and knots in the cold and drink even more coffee than I do now and have that nice calloused, wind burnt, rough skin on my face. I really tried hard to get a job like that, man. I even wrote a letter to the ILA. I'm still waiting to hear back. I like the idea of making an "honest living"; trading in your hours and sweat and toil for a handful of dimes. I'm gonna go listen to YDL now.



"Today, the vast majority of non-bulk cargo is transported in shipping containers. The containers arrive at a port by truck, rail or another ship and are stacked in the port's storage area. When the ship that will be transporting them arrives, the containers that it is offloading are unloaded by a crane. The containers either leave the port by truck or rail or are put in the storage area until they are put on another ship. Once the ship is offloaded, the containers it is leaving with are brought to the dock by truck. A crane lifts the containers from the trucks into the ship. As the containers pile up in the ship, the workers connect them to the ship and to each other. The jobs involved include the crane operators, the workers who connect the containers to the ship and each other, the truck drivers that transport the containers from the dock and storage area, the workers who track the containers in the storage area and as they are loaded and unloaded, as well as various supervisors. Those workers at the port who handle and move the containers are likely to be considered stevedores or longshoremen."



Because they work outdoors in all types of weather, these workers adopted a type of cap that has a snug fit, is warm, and is easily put away in a pocket. These are a type of beanie or watch cap called variously stevedore's cap or stevedore's hat.

Before containerization, freight was often handled with a longshoreman’s hook, a tool which became emblematic of the profession in the United States.



Traditionally, stevedores would have no fixed job and turn up at the docks in the morning hoping to find someone willing to employ them for the day. London dockers and deal porters called this practice "standing on the stones", while here it was referred to as "Shaping".


now THAT'S a hard style

In 1949, reporter Malcolm Johnson was awarded a Pulitzer Prize for a 24-part investigative series titled Crime on the Waterfront published in the New York Sun.














This material was fictionalised and used as a basis for the vastly influential film, On the Waterfront starring Marlon Brando as a longshoremen, and their working conditions figure in the film's plot. Playwright Arthur Miller was involved in the early stages of the development of the film, as his play A View from the Bridge also deals with the troubled life of a longshoreman.

Maybe we could set up some sort of job-swap thing; I could go be a longshoremen for a few weeks or months or days and a longshoremen could come take my job and sit at a desk all day, lock documents and blog. Any takers?

2 comments:

josephchiarello said...

Joseph A. Chiarello
THE AMERICAN STEVEDORE
Sept. 14, 1925 – Nov. 1, 1992

Joseph, 7th and last Child of Diego & Pasqualine Chiarello, dedicated his Life to:
• His Family …… Gloria, Wife of 44 years
• Gloria, Joseph, & Lisa …… his children
• The Docks of The Port of New York as a Stevedore
________________________________________

Sometimes, the only way we can begin to know who a person was is by gathering all the experiences from the people whose lives he touched. As I watched Dad’s Family, Friends, and Associates from the Waterfront stand in front of him while he was laying in wake these past few days, I saw tears of loss, tears of memories, tears of love erupt in front of him … Tears driven from beneath by the mixed confused totality of all our visions of being with him. If we were to stop and unwind those tears, we might find many dear moments which would help to explain why we loved this man so much … why we feel so much right now.

I would like to share one of those moments with you.

As a Boy of eight, I would sit on the white sandy beach at the shore of Lake Winnipesaukee in Center Harbor, New Hampshire on a summer’s Friday afternoon. I would stare at the road on the opposite side of the lake and hope to catch a glimpse if a red, 1958 Buick station wagon.

Every summer weekend, Dad would drive seven hours from New York to be with his family in Grandpa Chiarello’s compound of houses. My part of his weekend usually meant waking him up early Saturday morning, hopping into his car, and driving to the bait and tackle store in Meredith. In that dark, damp shack, Dad would kid and laugh with the store’s owner, while I would peer my curious head into the vats of crawfish, minnows, and worms. Once we got our tin can of a dozen night crawlers, we would return home, gather our fishing rods and load up the ‘LENA’ – our 16 foot, 1934, Mahogany Chris Craft Runabout. I loved that boat. I loved the smell of the varnished wood, the smell of the gasoline, the smell of the bleached ropes. I loved my Dad.

Together with the ‘LENA’, we would speed a mile into the Lake and then slow down to a black and white buoy marker, drop anchor, and drop our baited hooks into the Rocks below. Dad would try to catch the evasive, prized Bass while; other sounds would takeover – sounds of wet line winding in and out of the fishing reels, sounds of quiet water lapping against the boat, sounds of quiet love between a father and son. I felt warm. I felt safe.

What Dad gave to me came from the depth of his goodness and love. It was something that was natural to him. Something that he gave knowingly and unknowingly to all his family and even to many friends and associates …. What he gave us was this little spot to retreat to. This place where it is warm and safe and quiet. This place to recharge our spirit and then to open the door and live life with our eyes and hearts wide open.



FOLLOWING THIS SERVICE, JOSEPH’S HEARSE DROVE TO RED HOOK, AND ENTERED THE LAST REMAINING OPERATING BROOKLYN PIER. THE LONGSHOREMEN HAD WASHED AT LEAST 20 FORKLIFTS AND LINED THEM UP LIKE SOLDIERS. AS THE HEARSE PASSED THE LONGSHOREMEN, MANY NODDED GOODBY. THE HEARSE PROCEEDED ALONE ONTO THE LONG PIER THAT REACHED TOWARDS LOWER MANHATTEN. LOOMING TO THE RIGHT, THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE SILENCED ALL OTHER SOUNDS WITH ITS NOONDAY HUMS OF TIRE ON STEEL GRATE. MY FATHER STOOD TALL FOR 1-MINUTE AT THE END OF THE PIER.



…… Eulogy given by his son,
Joseph Chiarello,
November 4, 1992
St. Anselm’s Church
Brooklyn,

15 years later....
joe@koralbros.com

josephchiarello said...

Joseph A. Chiarello
THE AMERICAN STEVEDORE
Sept. 14, 1925 – Nov. 1, 1992

Joseph, 7th and last Child of Diego & Pasqualine Chiarello, dedicated his Life to:
• His Family …… Gloria, Wife of 44 years
• Gloria, Joseph, & Lisa …… his children
• The Docks of The Port of New York as a Stevedore
________________________________________

Sometimes, the only way we can begin to know who a person was is by gathering all the experiences from the people whose lives he touched. As I watched Dad’s Family, Friends, and Associates from the Waterfront stand in front of him while he was laying in wake these past few days, I saw tears of loss, tears of memories, tears of love erupt in front of him … Tears driven from beneath by the mixed confused totality of all our visions of being with him. If we were to stop and unwind those tears, we might find many dear moments which would help to explain why we loved this man so much … why we feel so much right now.

I would like to share one of those moments with you.

As a Boy of eight, I would sit on the white sandy beach at the shore of Lake Winnipesaukee in Center Harbor, New Hampshire on a summer’s Friday afternoon. I would stare at the road on the opposite side of the lake and hope to catch a glimpse if a red, 1958 Buick station wagon.

Every summer weekend, Dad would drive seven hours from New York to be with his family in Grandpa Chiarello’s compound of houses. My part of his weekend usually meant waking him up early Saturday morning, hopping into his car, and driving to the bait and tackle store in Meredith. In that dark, damp shack, Dad would kid and laugh with the store’s owner, while I would peer my curious head into the vats of crawfish, minnows, and worms. Once we got our tin can of a dozen night crawlers, we would return home, gather our fishing rods and load up the ‘LENA’ – our 16 foot, 1934, Mahogany Chris Craft Runabout. I loved that boat. I loved the smell of the varnished wood, the smell of the gasoline, the smell of the bleached ropes. I loved my Dad.

Together with the ‘LENA’, we would speed a mile into the Lake and then slow down to a black and white buoy marker, drop anchor, and drop our baited hooks into the Rocks below. Dad would try to catch the evasive, prized Bass while; other sounds would takeover – sounds of wet line winding in and out of the fishing reels, sounds of quiet water lapping against the boat, sounds of quiet love between a father and son. I felt warm. I felt safe.

What Dad gave to me came from the depth of his goodness and love. It was something that was natural to him. Something that he gave knowingly and unknowingly to all his family and even to many friends and associates …. What he gave us was this little spot to retreat to. This place where it is warm and safe and quiet. This place to recharge our spirit and then to open the door and live life with our eyes and hearts wide open.



FOLLOWING THIS SERVICE, JOSEPH’S HEARSE DROVE TO RED HOOK, AND ENTERED THE LAST REMAINING OPERATING BROOKLYN PIER. THE LONGSHOREMEN HAD WASHED AT LEAST 20 FORKLIFTS AND LINED THEM UP LIKE SOLDIERS. AS THE HEARSE PASSED THE LONGSHOREMEN, MANY NODDED GOODBY. THE HEARSE PROCEEDED ALONE ONTO THE LONG PIER THAT REACHED TOWARDS LOWER MANHATTEN. LOOMING TO THE RIGHT, THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE SILENCED ALL OTHER SOUNDS WITH ITS NOONDAY HUMS OF TIRE ON STEEL GRATE. MY FATHER STOOD TALL FOR 1-MINUTE AT THE END OF THE PIER.



…… Eulogy given by his son,
Joseph Chiarello,
November 4, 1992
St. Anselm’s Church
Brooklyn,