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For Chicagoans, 25 degree temperature is practicallyjacket weather in the second week of January.But we had been standing on the frozen concretesince early morning, and the persistent wind off the lake was beginning to penetrate the layers of clothing we had thought would sustain us through another day on the picket line.

It was my 2nd Chicago public schools teacher's strike, and I was having private doubts about the entire union thing, and my future, and about my three year old daughter in her snowsuit, standing so close to the burning trash barrel.

I probably should never have brought her, but my wife had gone downtown for some temp workat an office building, and I'd promised our union representative that I'd be out for the early shift, wanting to do my part to preserve the teachers' contract that the Board was reneging on.

I also figured that some picket line duty today would excuse the absence I planned for later in the week,since I frankly couldn't afford the gas for the daily commute.We hadn't been paid in three weeks, and latest word from Board headquarters on LaSalle Street, was that negotiations had stalled, and no more meetings were planned.

Thus far, the mayor was keeping his promise not to interfere.And on last night's news, one of the independent city councilman was quoted on his opinion that unions were what was wrong with the country, gumming up the workings of government, discouraging investment and progress in the private sector,and bullying the citizens and taxpayers to fatten its union coffers.

No expert or insider, I wasn't clear on the politics.I knew only that something wasn't right about my individual "coffer" being empty, though I averaged ten hours a day as a paper grader, policeman, counselor, attendance officer, surrogate parent, and referee.Oh, and teacher, too—almost forgot the good part, though by now I was wondering whether it was worth it for me, my students, my family, and my little girl by my side, who was likely inhaling far too much of the smoke from the smoldering tree limb sticking out the top of the barrel.

Just now the shiny Oldsmobile gliding between the gates of the parking lot, did not draw the usual shouts and sign waving from those of us on the picket line, since we recognized the vehicle and the man inside, our school principal.

We watched him park, and instead of heading toward the building entrance, he headed our way, balancing a large white box in his left hand, his right hand buried in his coat pocket for warmth.

He handed the box to our union rep, who, in turn, passed him the megaphone.

He said he hoped we were keeping warm, and made a joke about passing out the "long johns" he had brought us from the bakery on 87^th street.And then he said something I still remember after all these many years.

"If I werea teacher, I'd be out here walking the line along side of you."

We were fighting for what we'd already earned, he explained, and he hoped we prevailed, because if we didn't, he feared he'd lose some of the "best teachers in the city,"and then what would be the prospects for recruiting new teachers to his school next year, let alone ten years from now.

Neither side loves of a strike, he said, but the same way the Board has the right to bid out jobs for the best price possible in a free market, workers should have the right to bargain for the best wage possible, and then to make sure their contract is honored.

"But today I'm your principal, and I hope you understand I have to go through those doors."

I think I would have applauded if I weren't holding Jacqueline's hand, and I was surprised that no one else did, either,though picket protocol probably prevented it.Nonetheless,I could see in their eyes what his words had given them.

I stuck it out as a teacher, remaining at that particular school for the next two decades.Things got better, then worse, including four more strikes in the next ten years, and then better again, and we were able to help our three children get through college, all of whom, including Jackie who survived the smoke from the elm tree, became teachers themselves.

Two years ago, after Janet, the youngest, graduated with honors from the University of Illinois Graduate School, she eschewed opportunities from outlying suburban districts, instead taking a position at a Chicago high school, because she said she loved the city, and this was where she studied and trained, and where she was most needed.

And I think about it all on Labor Day,about the union's importance to my family,and about the wisdom of the man ostensibly on the opposite side, but, in truth, on the side of the children, and of the city's future, on that cold January morning.

David McGrath left Chicago Vocational High School in 1990 and still teachesat the University of South Alabama.

Published September 1, 2008