The Statue

New York Harbor, 1885. Only 20 years after the Civil War.

Bubs had traveled a long, LONG way to be here, hoping to get hired as part of the auxiliary metal-working crew that would help assemble the world’s most famous statue.

Competition was stiff. Everyone wanted this job.

A big-bellied foreman surveyed the long line of hopeful laborers. When the foreman’s eyes landed on skinny Bubs, he laughed.

“Heavensakes, son,” said the foreman. “You don’t look old enough to shave. You sure you’re in the right place?”

“Yes, sir.”

The other applicants laughed.

“What are you, twelve?” said the foreman.

Bubs said nothing.

At age 23, Bubs looked like he was an adolescent. But he had worked the steel girders on exactly 28 buildings and three truss bridges. Bubs had been laying rivets since his 14th birthday.

“Your mama know you’re here?” said the foreman.

“Yes, sir.”

This got another laugh from the group. But Bubs did not break a smile.

“Do you say anything besides ‘yes, sir,’ kid?”

“Yes, sir.”

The foreman looked at his clipboard

“Well, Bubs, you have any idea how many beamwalkers die each year on my clock? Have you ever laid a rivet in your life?”

“Yes, sir.”

The foreman shook his head. He held up a hammer. “You want this job, kid, I’m gonna need a little proof.”

In a few moments a full-scale competition was underway. A gaggle of competing American ironworkers crowded beneath a tall unfinished steel skeleton. They were competing for a job.

Young Bubs buckled a leather harness around his waist. Nearby ironworkers were running bets on how fast Bubs would be eliminated.

“Gentlemen, you have three minutes! First man to give me five rivets gets a job!”

Five rivets in three minutes. Even your veteran riveter could only install one rivet per minute.

The foreman wound a stopwatch. Bubs loosened his shoulders. He placed the tongs and hammer into his toolbelt then shook hands with his “feeder,” a man cooking red-hot rivets over coals.

Riveting was a two-man job. One man operated the coal forge; the riveter swung the hammer and shaped each rivet with his shoulder muscles.

“On your marks…” shouted the foreman.

Go.

The crowd never knew what hit them.

Bubs scaled the iron column like a superhuman. His hammer pounded each rivet faster than you could scratch your nose.

Men on the ground watching Bubs lost their smiles. And their bets.

After one minute, Bubs laid four rivets. After two minutes, he’d finished nine. When the clock ran out Bubs had driven 13 rivets into the iron.

None of his competitors had even come close to four.

Men applauded him and took turns congratulating the young man, some still shaking heads in mock disbelief.

Even the foreman was rendered mute.

This diverse crew would go on to help European craftsmen erect the iron framework of a titanic statue that would be covered in 350 forged copper plates, secured with 300,000 copper rivets.

The neoclassical sculpture would stand at 305 feet. Her Torch of Freedom would greet 12 million immigrants between 1892 and 1954.

Steamship immigrants would later report that the statue was the first thing they saw from sea. Most newcomers would weep when they first laid eyes on her.

Not because of her appearance, but because of what she stands for.

The foreman clapped Bubs on the shoulders.

“That was quite a show,” the foreman said. “You start tomorrow morning. You and me’s gonna build the most American thing there ever was.”

Bubs wiped the slick sweat from his face.

“Danke schön,” Bubs said.

Happy Fourth of July.