Years ago, my father told me of the summer he worked “on the line” at Chatham Steel — across from his father. Dad told me of the oil baths that his father would dunk the molten steel into — after the formed metal parts came out of a pounding press. My grandfather was very deaf, by the time I knew him, because of that pounding noise. Dad said that when he looked up one day, at that factory, and saw his father’s face drenched in oil an sweat, he knew “why he drank.”