By Ann Farabee

When I was growing up, I lived in a mill house on a hill. For anyone who does not know what a mill house is, for us it was a house owned by Cannon Mills, which was rented out to their employees. Both of my parents worked in Cannon Mills, so we actually rented two different houses over the years when I was growing up — and both were on a hill. One only had a fence separating us from the mill. In the second house, we were still within hearing distance of the mill horn that blew at 7 a.m., 3 p.m., and 11 p.m., so that everyone would know that it was shift change.

That chain link fence was filled with cotton that had blown over from the mill, but was stopped by the fence from reaching our yard. All day and all night, we could hear a dinky riding around the mill, taking or picking up towels or supplies to deliver to the workers.

We could hear the noise from the mill 24 hours a day — but it was the livelihood of our family and for most of the families in Kannapolis. Kannapolis means “city of looms” and most of the citizens seemed to have worked in the mill at some point. College students were hired during the summer, and the pay was more than we would have received at other jobs.

I not only worked in the mill four summers during college, but I also worked there a couple of summers after I graduated from college and started teaching.

It was hard work, but I loved the repetitiveness of my job as a twister. Walking in through the gates of the mill to Number 7 Spin for my third-shift job (11 p.m. -7 a.m.) always seemed a bit sad, because I passed by those who were walking out through the gates from their second-shift job to head home. Their eight hours were over and my eight hours were just beginning. They always seemed a bit more upbeat than I was at the moment.

Yes, I was called a twister, but I actually operated six long rows of twister machines. My role was to walk around the twisters looking for broken threads, which seemed to be everywhere. I had to tie the two threads so that the threads from the spools stayed connected. The twister machines were super loud, even though we wore earplugs. Eight hours a night was spent walking up and down the rows fixing those broken threads. I took breaks when my two coworkers told me to, and that was whenever they needed to stop to smoke. Smoking took place at the smoker, which was a round pipe that was placed in the floor, where the ashes could be dumped. I always joined them at the smoker — not to smoke — but to hear their stories about everything under the sun — or in our case everything under the moon.

Because of Charles Cannon and Cannon Mills, I was able to make money to help pay my way through college, but even more than that, I was part of a community of workers like none other.

As important as working on that twister machine was, there was something special about being in Cannon Mills in the middle of the night, working alongside hundreds of others, in what I was told was the largest textile factory in the world.

I probably learned as much from that summer job as I did during a year of college.

I learned how to work with a team, how to work hard and to do my best in the workplace.

I learned how to have a boss and I learned how to operate a twister.

I learned to appreciate the value of employment and I learned that I would have friends everywhere in life.