I was raised in Michigan during the era when Walter Reuther advocated for workers’ rights, universal health care, public education, and affordable housing and the UAW was seen as a sacred, progressive union in my home. He and George Meany cofounded the AFL-CIO in 1955. Unions brought prosperity to middle class families, many of whom were part of the auto industry. So, strikes were an inevitable but good thing, as they brought equity and prosperity to people living in my neck of the woods. Crossing a picket line was unforgivable and unthinkable, until it affected my ability to survive.

In 1967, I started my first post-college job teaching English at Niles East High School in Skokie, Illinois. As a late summer hire, I had no time to get grounded in school politics. I’m pretty sure I automatically joined the teachers’ union because it was a reflex to do so, given my upbringing. My memory is hazy about this, but at some point that year, negotiations between the school board and the teachers’ union stalled, and the teachers authorized a strike. I don’t even remember what all of the issues were. I assume higher pay was one of them, as I was earning $6,000/year.

But here’s the thing. My meager salary as a teacher was also putting my husband through medical school. We had no savings and were living paycheck to paycheck. I was in a panic, trapped between my reverence for unions and workers’ rights and the need to receive my full salary to survive. Would I cross a picket line for that paycheck? As a new teacher, I knew that action would make me a pariah. Thankfully, the school board settled at the last minute averting the strike. Thus, I was never forced to cross a picket line to survive financially.

I remain pro-union politically, and it is easy for me to sympathize with Hollywood writers, actors, Starbucks baristas, and auto workers. But other strikes are a bit more painful to support. Medical personnel and teachers are ones that come to mind. Teachers’ strikes are always hard because children are the ones most harmed. Still, my heart is always with the teachers, especially the ones who forego their salaries for extended periods of time. Having been there once, I don’t know how I would have survived. On the other hand, as a parent and grandparent, I have felt the pain and disruption these strikes bring to children and working parents.

In retrospect, I would like to think I would not have crossed that picket line in 1967. It still shakes me to this day that I’m not 100% sure.

When I worked for ASI in Chicago in 1978, Indiana was my territory. General Motors was a national account, controlled by an account manager who had the relationship with the corporate office in Detroit, but I had several satellite accounts including Delco in Kokomo, an hour north of Indianapolis. My contact person was a mid-level manager named Dick Marshall, on whom I called early in my tenure with the company. He was tall, lanky, fair-haired. I had learned in my recent sales training to set my new contact at ease with the “warm-up”: ask some questions about what he liked to do and perhaps reveal a bit about myself as well.

I quickly learned that he was a classic Corvette aficionado. He collected, restored and showed them. His face lit up as he spoke of them. He invited me to have our next meeting at his home (right next to the plant), so he could show his collection to me. I accepted his offer.

As soon as I got home to my apartment, I called Dan in Boston (my resident car expert; yes, we were a commuting couple for 16 months) and asked him to tell me EVERYTHING about Vettes. There was no “google” 45 years ago. Dan complied and I learned a bit about GM’s finest sports car.

A few weeks later, Dick and I had a business meeting on the couch of his small living room. I instinctively felt I could trust him and that trust was well-placed. His home was not much bigger than the HUGE attached garage he led me to. It housed four cars: a white 1953 Corvette, in pieces all over a tarp, in the process of being restored; two red 1964 Vettes with a white insert, which were his every day, driving-around cars.

1964 Corvette Sting Ray

And the piece de resistance of his collection: a yellow, 1966 fully restored Sting Ray (like the one in the Featured photo). It was impeccable, PERFECT. You could eat off the engine block. This car, he showed in concourses and shows. It was his pride and joy. I was not allowed to touch it. He didn’t drive it. To transport it, he would put it up on a trailer.

We continued to have an excellent relationship for the nine months that I was in that territory and he signed a small contract with me. But he was up for a promotion that took him to Detroit. Housing costs were different there and he wound up selling off his collection. I think it broke his heart.

I was home in Detroit for Thanksgiving that year with my parents. I went over to my favorite cousin’s later in the evening. Her father, my dad’s oldest brother, had been the assistant comptroller of GM for years, though now long-retired. I told him my company wanted me to make a courtesy call at GM because of my familial connections. The man I was supposed to call on had been hired by Uncle Art (I think his name was Tom, but I’m not sure after 45 years). Uncle Art said it was fine to use his name when making the appointment.

And so, a few weeks later, I did just that, saying that Art Sarason’s niece, Betsy Pfau, would like to call on the gentleman to pay respects from ASI. I stayed with my folks and asked my dad how to get to the Renaissance Center, which was built long after I left the area (this event took place before GPS). Dad’s directions weren’t quite good enough and I was sailing past those towers, still on the highway, and had to figure out how to double back and find my way, but I did get there. I always allowed myself “getting lost” time.

I was shown into Tom’s office. He greeted me brusquely. “What is your relationship to Art Sarason?”, he demanded. I held up my briefcase, which had my monogram ESP embossed in gold letters (a going-away gift from my previous company), “Do you see that ‘S’? It stands for Sarason. Art is my uncle.” Well, the man became a pussycat, asked after my uncle, for whom he had great respect and the meeting went quite well.

monogram on my briefcase

After that, I visited Dick Marshall in the same building, just to say hi. He looked ashen, though he was certainly happy to see me. He was so unhappy to be in Detroit, missed his cars terribly (he was driving a Buick LeMans, heaven knows why). We talked about an hour. He felt he had made a big mistake, but there was no turning back. It was clear to me that he had left his heart and soul behind when he sold those Corvettes, even for a big corporate promotion. He had left perfection behind. I never heard from him again.

Malcolm

I never imagined that after decades of friendship we and Malcolm would become estranged,  but regrettably it happened.

He and my husband Danny roomed together in college and remained very close.  Mal was the most sophisticated one in their crowd  – he bought his clothes at Brooks,  went to Dunhill’s for his pipe tobacco,  and for years rented shares in summer houses in the chic Hamptons.

After college Mal went to Harvard for an MBA, and then worked as a business consultant,  eventually running his own firm.  He dated many women over the years but never married and lived a peripatetic life,  traveling on business a good part of every month while living with his widowed mother in the New York suburbs.

When he was not traveling he’d often meet Danny for lunch and just as often we three would have dinner together.   After his mother died we’d invite him to join us for holidays,  and when he sold her house I helped him pack for his move to an apartment in the same town.

Then a dozen or so years ago Mal suffered a stroke and could no longer work,  and it seemed his life began to spiral down.  He’d refuse our invitations and we saw him less and less.

Then one day Mal called to say he could no longer manage on his own,  and was moving to an assisted living facility,  As he had no family and considered us his closest friends,  he asked our help with the move, and hoped we’d find a home for his cat Lily.

Of course we said we would,  and arranged to meet him at his place.  Over the years we’d seen him at our home or at restaurants,  and so when we arrived at Mal’s apartment we were shocked to see that our once fastidious friend had become a hoarder practically living in squalor.

So unexpectedly we found ourselves handling not only the packing and the logistics of his move,  but hiring a company to thoroughly clean out the apartment.  Mal then told us he owed many months of back rent,  and in fact was broke.   And so we paid not only his moving and cleanup expenses,  but his back rent as well,  and found a home for his cat.

But the day we helped Mal move into the assisted living facility was the last time we saw him.  He made it clear that our visits would not be welcome,  and since then has rebuffed all our overtures,  and stopped responding to our calls and emails.

At first I was angry at his seeming ingratitude for all we’d done for him.  But I realized of course it was Mal who was angry –  at his own helplessness and dependency,  and at the loss of the accomplished and active life that had once been his.

And so for all those years of friendship we had shared,  I forgave him.

– Dana Susan Lehrman