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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Inspirational
- Subject: Contests
- Published: 03/16/2026
Glory Days
Born 1947, M, from Colorado Springs, CO, United States.jpeg)
“…We have forgotten our former states, except in early spring when we slightly recall being green.” -Rumi-
Fred Nemo sat at the kitchen table staring into his coffee as if gazing into a crystal ball, a thoughtful, distant look in his eyes.
“So, what do ya’ wanna do today?” asked Catherine, flashing an expectant smile at her deeply contemplative husband.
“Ehh,” managed Fred with scrunched lips and a quick non-committal shrug.
“It’s a nice spring day! C’mon, old man, we could walk one of the mountain trails—or take a couple of turns around the lake; you know, look for turtles and see which birds are migrating through the area.”
Once again, “Ehh,” was the response, this time accompanied by a pouting lower lip that partially covered his salt and pepper moustache.
Catherine eyed her husband with great concern, and looking for a way to break through asked, “Now, Fred Nemo, you feelin’ okay today love?”
“Ahh, yeah… umm, I mean… I think…but yeah, I’m cool. Just feeling a bit nostalgic. Stuck in the past, you know?”
“Ooooh,” she cooed. “You thinking about past spring adventures, like jumping in the back seat of your car with various teenaged girlfriends?” A knowing, inquisitive look swept across her face, one meant to tease while daring him to get into the details.
“What did folks used to say?” she baited him while enticingly batting her eyelashes, “Oh yeah, ‘in spring a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love.’”
“That’s girlfriend. Singular,” corrected a suddenly alert and cautious Fred. “Besides,” he continued, “she broke up with me in the spring…the Ides of March to be exact. ‘Et tu, Trisha?’”
“Trisha, huh?” baited Catherine, flashing twinkling blue eyes and a salacious smile. “She sounds yummy.”
“Wait, what, nope, we’re not going there,” said an increasingly wary and defensive husband-- one eager not to awaken that “green monster” he knew lay dormant behind that perfectly aged, ever-lovely, sweet face of the woman he loved.
“Uh-uh,” he protested. “That, my dear, was a lifetime ago…maybe two. Let’s just say if I had met you back in a day… girl… you and I would have torn the fabric off that back seat.”
“Oh, you shameless rake,” she teased, planting a kiss below his receding hairline and asking, “So what’s really going on with you anyway?”
“Aww, I was just missing my union shop-steward days and the struggles we confronted. And you know what, both events I’m thinking about happened in spring. Part of the job of being a shop steward meant getting the members active and organizing them to help defend our contract with state government. You know,” he said, giving her a knowing nod, “getting into what former Congressman John Lewis used to call ‘Good Trouble.’”
“Catherine, considering this, replied, “Yeah, that was before we met. I mean, I knew you were a shop steward and something of an activist. So, come on, fill me in.”
“Well, one spring the entire membership went on strike for a week. We stood strong and eventually won a more favorable salary package and greater protection for our retirement benefits. That was really something, a statewide strike of blue-and white-collar workers hitting the streets, picketing state facilities, chanting and marching together. The people were determined and we won! It was terrific.”
“But my absolute favorite action happened a couple of years later. This one didn’t occur in the streets, but on the shop floor. The thing is, shop stewards usually handle mundane, everyday concerns, small violations of the contract, members being treated with disrespect, etc. But it was different this time.”
“It’s the 1980s, right? We’re smack in the middle of the Crack epidemic and the AIDS crisis. Children were being born addicted to drugs or with AIDS… sometimes both. Our agency was responsible for family services and especially protecting children. But our social workers were overwhelmed trying to deal with the explosion of cases.”
“So, management realizes they need more ‘boots on the ground,’ more social workers. But rather than hire and train new workers, they come up with what they saw as a potential solution. They unilaterally decided to send former, experienced caseworkers, who had long since risen into administrative positions back into the field. Many of these workers hadn’t practiced social work in years, some a decade or more. Obviously, the times and challenges workers confronted had changed. All were scared they might make client decisions that would hurt the families they were being asked to serve. Many were just plain angry at being treated so callously.”
“Suddenly another shop steward and I who represented the union in our building were deluged by a bunch of middle-aged white-collar workers, virtually all women, who wanted us to do something…anything.”
“We met with this group of about two dozen employees who were worried about taking any traditional union action, like a walk-out, that might jeopardize their jobs. These were folks who during their careers were used to getting along, not rocking the boat. They wanted to express their opposition to the plan in a dignified, respectful way.”
“So, what did you do?” asked Catherine, reaching across the table and grasping Fred’s hand.
“Well,” continued Fred, “we came up with a plan meant to show management the faces of the individual people they were attempting to reassign.” Forcing them to see just who they were sending back to the field. Looking them in the eye, making them see how much the workers aged and to consider the experience and knowledge the agency would lose by moving them out of administration.
“So, we jumped into elevators and traveled to the management suites. We knew the director of our agency had an ‘open door policy’ for staff to come in and talk. We assembled everyone outside this office and had them march slowly, in silent witness, to the open door and stand there for a few seconds, looking at the director…. saying nothing but speaking volumes. The message was, ‘look at me, this is who I am, someone who once served families and children for years, and now does her best work right here, in these offices. The times, the culture, and all of us, have changed and we are no longer qualified to handle these new social situations.’”
“And they marched one by one to the open door. No one lost their cool. No one got angry. No one said a word. Dignified and determined, they just stood and stared at the man behind the desk, someone just like them who also had risen through the ranks.”
“And it worked!” exclaimed a smiling Fred. “The very next day, management rescinded the proposed reassignment, deciding to hire and train new caseworkers. No bridges were burned, everyone went back to work, and I must tell you, we shop stewards were very proud of the members and what we accomplished.”
“Wow!” exclaimed Catherine. “No way. You’re making this up,” she said, squinting suspiciously at him.
“Way. I ain’t lying. We really pulled this off. Union Strong, love. That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” he chirped excitedly.
“Too cool,” said Catherine, patting Fred’s hand and smiling admiringly.
“Good trouble,” she mused. “Hey, maybe that’s not all in the past. I mean, there is another ‘No Kings’ rally happening this spring. We could break out our American flag, make a couple of cool signs and join the rally. You’ll feel like a kid again. Me too. What do ya’ say?”
“Okay,” chirped Fred…and smiling with eager eyes proclaimed, “As long as we don’t have to talk about Trisha.”
“Deal,” agreed Catherine, giving him a look that clearly said, ‘you nasty boy.’
THE END
© 2026 Gerald R. Gioglio
Authors note. The banter between Catherine and Fred is pure fiction. The two union events occurred in New Jersey, back in a day.
Gerald R. Gioglio is the author of the antiwar memoir, Marching to a Silent Tune: A Journey from We Shall to Hell No. Available from ActaPublications.com, and at Amazon.com.
Fred Nemo sat at the kitchen table staring into his coffee as if gazing into a crystal ball, a thoughtful, distant look in his eyes.
“So, what do ya’ wanna do today?” asked Catherine, flashing an expectant smile at her deeply contemplative husband.
“Ehh,” managed Fred with scrunched lips and a quick non-committal shrug.
“It’s a nice spring day! C’mon, old man, we could walk one of the mountain trails—or take a couple of turns around the lake; you know, look for turtles and see which birds are migrating through the area.”
Once again, “Ehh,” was the response, this time accompanied by a pouting lower lip that partially covered his salt and pepper moustache.
Catherine eyed her husband with great concern, and looking for a way to break through asked, “Now, Fred Nemo, you feelin’ okay today love?”
“Ahh, yeah… umm, I mean… I think…but yeah, I’m cool. Just feeling a bit nostalgic. Stuck in the past, you know?”
“Ooooh,” she cooed. “You thinking about past spring adventures, like jumping in the back seat of your car with various teenaged girlfriends?” A knowing, inquisitive look swept across her face, one meant to tease while daring him to get into the details.
“What did folks used to say?” she baited him while enticingly batting her eyelashes, “Oh yeah, ‘in spring a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love.’”
“That’s girlfriend. Singular,” corrected a suddenly alert and cautious Fred. “Besides,” he continued, “she broke up with me in the spring…the Ides of March to be exact. ‘Et tu, Trisha?’”
“Trisha, huh?” baited Catherine, flashing twinkling blue eyes and a salacious smile. “She sounds yummy.”
“Wait, what, nope, we’re not going there,” said an increasingly wary and defensive husband-- one eager not to awaken that “green monster” he knew lay dormant behind that perfectly aged, ever-lovely, sweet face of the woman he loved.
“Uh-uh,” he protested. “That, my dear, was a lifetime ago…maybe two. Let’s just say if I had met you back in a day… girl… you and I would have torn the fabric off that back seat.”
“Oh, you shameless rake,” she teased, planting a kiss below his receding hairline and asking, “So what’s really going on with you anyway?”
“Aww, I was just missing my union shop-steward days and the struggles we confronted. And you know what, both events I’m thinking about happened in spring. Part of the job of being a shop steward meant getting the members active and organizing them to help defend our contract with state government. You know,” he said, giving her a knowing nod, “getting into what former Congressman John Lewis used to call ‘Good Trouble.’”
“Catherine, considering this, replied, “Yeah, that was before we met. I mean, I knew you were a shop steward and something of an activist. So, come on, fill me in.”
“Well, one spring the entire membership went on strike for a week. We stood strong and eventually won a more favorable salary package and greater protection for our retirement benefits. That was really something, a statewide strike of blue-and white-collar workers hitting the streets, picketing state facilities, chanting and marching together. The people were determined and we won! It was terrific.”
“But my absolute favorite action happened a couple of years later. This one didn’t occur in the streets, but on the shop floor. The thing is, shop stewards usually handle mundane, everyday concerns, small violations of the contract, members being treated with disrespect, etc. But it was different this time.”
“It’s the 1980s, right? We’re smack in the middle of the Crack epidemic and the AIDS crisis. Children were being born addicted to drugs or with AIDS… sometimes both. Our agency was responsible for family services and especially protecting children. But our social workers were overwhelmed trying to deal with the explosion of cases.”
“So, management realizes they need more ‘boots on the ground,’ more social workers. But rather than hire and train new workers, they come up with what they saw as a potential solution. They unilaterally decided to send former, experienced caseworkers, who had long since risen into administrative positions back into the field. Many of these workers hadn’t practiced social work in years, some a decade or more. Obviously, the times and challenges workers confronted had changed. All were scared they might make client decisions that would hurt the families they were being asked to serve. Many were just plain angry at being treated so callously.”
“Suddenly another shop steward and I who represented the union in our building were deluged by a bunch of middle-aged white-collar workers, virtually all women, who wanted us to do something…anything.”
“We met with this group of about two dozen employees who were worried about taking any traditional union action, like a walk-out, that might jeopardize their jobs. These were folks who during their careers were used to getting along, not rocking the boat. They wanted to express their opposition to the plan in a dignified, respectful way.”
“So, what did you do?” asked Catherine, reaching across the table and grasping Fred’s hand.
“Well,” continued Fred, “we came up with a plan meant to show management the faces of the individual people they were attempting to reassign.” Forcing them to see just who they were sending back to the field. Looking them in the eye, making them see how much the workers aged and to consider the experience and knowledge the agency would lose by moving them out of administration.
“So, we jumped into elevators and traveled to the management suites. We knew the director of our agency had an ‘open door policy’ for staff to come in and talk. We assembled everyone outside this office and had them march slowly, in silent witness, to the open door and stand there for a few seconds, looking at the director…. saying nothing but speaking volumes. The message was, ‘look at me, this is who I am, someone who once served families and children for years, and now does her best work right here, in these offices. The times, the culture, and all of us, have changed and we are no longer qualified to handle these new social situations.’”
“And they marched one by one to the open door. No one lost their cool. No one got angry. No one said a word. Dignified and determined, they just stood and stared at the man behind the desk, someone just like them who also had risen through the ranks.”
“And it worked!” exclaimed a smiling Fred. “The very next day, management rescinded the proposed reassignment, deciding to hire and train new caseworkers. No bridges were burned, everyone went back to work, and I must tell you, we shop stewards were very proud of the members and what we accomplished.”
“Wow!” exclaimed Catherine. “No way. You’re making this up,” she said, squinting suspiciously at him.
“Way. I ain’t lying. We really pulled this off. Union Strong, love. That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” he chirped excitedly.
“Too cool,” said Catherine, patting Fred’s hand and smiling admiringly.
“Good trouble,” she mused. “Hey, maybe that’s not all in the past. I mean, there is another ‘No Kings’ rally happening this spring. We could break out our American flag, make a couple of cool signs and join the rally. You’ll feel like a kid again. Me too. What do ya’ say?”
“Okay,” chirped Fred…and smiling with eager eyes proclaimed, “As long as we don’t have to talk about Trisha.”
“Deal,” agreed Catherine, giving him a look that clearly said, ‘you nasty boy.’
THE END
© 2026 Gerald R. Gioglio
Authors note. The banter between Catherine and Fred is pure fiction. The two union events occurred in New Jersey, back in a day.
Gerald R. Gioglio is the author of the antiwar memoir, Marching to a Silent Tune: A Journey from We Shall to Hell No. Available from ActaPublications.com, and at Amazon.com.
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