Friday, March 19, 2010

1983 - Wrong Number


Finally... the kind of story eveyone likes... a short one... in fact, from what I heard... a tiny, little one...

1983 – Wrong Number

Larry? I’ve got a call. She says it’s your wife. Should I put it through?”

“Why would she be calling me? Uhh… Sure, Shirley. Put ‘er through.” A click and a new voice came on the line.

“Larry, is this you?”

“Yeah?”

“You bastard! If you think you can just walk out and I won’t care you are 100% wrong! You suck!” I was in shock as the friendly female voice suddenly turned vicious. “Do you have any consideration at all for me… or your kids? I don’t know how you can think you can spend the night with another woman and I won’t notice! I don’t know how she can stand you, anyway! You’re a lousy lover with a tiny little dick, which is appropriate ‘cause you are such a little dick anyway. If you think…”

“Excuse me?” I tried to break into her rant. The voice didn’t sound familiar and certainly was not my wife.

“…you can buy jewelry for her and take her on your supposed business trips without me noticing… you… I pay the damn bills! What kind of an idiot are you that you would try…”

“Uhh, excuse me, but…”

“…to get away with these kinds of bills for hotels in town and jewelry shop that I’ve never even been to! And what the hell were you doing in a TJ motel? I pay the stupid credit cards! What…”

“Excuse me, hello?”

A pause… “Hello? Is this Larry?” her voice was much quieter and uncertain.

“Yes, I’m Larry, but… What Larry are you calling?”

“I’m calling for Larry Doe (real person, not his name). Did I get the wrong number?” The voice was even quieter. I’m sure at this point she didn’t recognize my voice any more than I recognized hers.

“Ahh, I think I saw him this morning, hold on and I’ll transfer…” A dial tone sounded in my ear. I now knew a lot more about Larry Doe than I wanted to and, although I may have been a bit surprised…

She may have been quite-a-bit more embarrassed.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Rant: One Nation Under God

Ahh, my first real rant. Take it or leave it.


Dear Friends –

Not long ago I received the following message from one of my many friends:

“I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO THE FLAG, OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, AND TO THE REPUBLIC, FOR WHICH IT STANDS, ONE NATION UNDER GOD, INDIVISIBLE, WITH LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL!

I was asked to send this on if I agree or delete if I don't.

It is said that 86% of Americans believe in God.

Therefore I have a very hard time understanding why there is such a problem in having "In God! We Trust" on our money and having "God" in the Pledge of Allegiance. Why don't we just tell the 14% to Shut Up and BE QUIET!!!

If you agree, pass this on, if not delete. .

I AGREE!!!

PLEASE KEEP THIS GOING, EVEN IF YOU HAVE PASSED IT ON BEFORE!!

Please send this on after a short prayer!!!

Prayer wheel for our soldiers, sailors, and airmen...please don't break it.”


Unfortunately, for them, this pushed one of my many buttons. My reply was:


I know you just sent this along to several people you thought might be interested but that, unfortunately, makes you a handy target for a rant.

You see, I chose a third option besides "pass-it-on" or "delete". I chose to express my opinion.

What happened to people thinking for themselves?
This whole God in public "thing" is a tempest in a teapot and blown WAY out of proportion.

No one has the right or power to "make" me say anything I don't choose to say.

I stopped saying the "under God" part when I was about 8-years old and beginning to think for myself - including (oh-golly should I say this?) questioning if God was superstition or fact. As I wasn't sure, I was not going to pledge to a being I wasn't sure existed. My opinion on that may or may not have changed, it is my own business... ...but my rights have not.

I didn't ask my parents, I didn't tell my minister, I didn't get permission from my teacher. I made my own decision and followed through on it.

I don't need permission to stop saying part or all of the pledge and I don't need a law to try to force me to say it.

My dad used to say your rights stop at my eyes, ears and nose - just as my rights stop at your eyes, ears and nose.

I shouldn't be forced to watch what I don't want to watch, which is why I have control over my cable box and the ability to walk away or change the channel.

I shouldn't have to hear what I don't want to hear, including obscenities that insult my sense of propriety as this is not free speech, and it is basically rude and thoughtless of others. Most often, if I am offended, I walk away.

I should not suffer physical abuse because another person cannot control their anger.

Likewise I should be restricted from trying to force my weird point of view upon anyone else. Of course I am allowed my opinion but you don't have to listen to it as one of us could be wrong and it is as likely to be me as it is you. We should all make our own decisions for ourselves as long as it is within the law and the law is just for ALL.

I have known those that refuse to pledge to anything - this is also their right - we do not, yet, live in a theocracy or a police state that tries to regulate what we think or say.

So I say:
Pray before each meeting, before each game, before each class.
Put your cross, you’re Buddha, your star or your ashram anywhere you want.
You can even put it next-door to me.
I don't have the right to tell you not to.
Just don't try to force me to participate.
It is your right to worship anyway you desire and my right to refuse if I disagree.

Come on!! Buck up people. Start making your own decisions, stop trying to force your opinion down everyone else's throat and stop waiting for the government to regulate every little thing you do.

Here's a weird thought you can ignore or take to heart - start thinking for yourselves.

Of course this is just my opinion...and I may be wrong.

Thank-you,
- Larry

BS - You may, of course choose to delete this, pass it on or reply with your own opinion. You decide.

Friday, March 5, 2010

1969 - A Little Pressure

I've been under various kinds of pressure in my life. The pressure of a deadline, the pressure of a baby on the way or the pressure of waiting for the diagnosis of a loved one. There's the pressure of getting all of the various components of a meal served all together, with everything on-time; let's include the pressure in the steamer used to assure the flash-steamed veggies are cooked to perfection. There's the pressure of waiting for news of an international meeting or the outcome of a distant battle...

1969 - A Little Pressure

“L
ooks like you’ve gotten some wisdom teeth in need of removal,” the doctor said. I had gone to the Dixie (AD-14) for some dental work. As a repair ship they rarely got underway usually moving from one “permanent” port to another. This time we were in Sasabo, Japan. “Your wisdom teeth are deforming the placement of your other teeth. Your mouth just isn’t big enough for all those teeth… they’re gonna have to come out.”

I wasn’t concerned. I had had mostly good experiences with dentists. This, despite experiences with my boyhood dentist. More about that in a moment, but, for now, I had no concerns. “Ok. Let’s go for it,” I said preparing my head for some invasive dentistry.

The dentist left to prepare an anesthetic and prepare his instruments for the upcoming work. In a few minutes he came back with the tray of needles, anesthetic and instruments he would be using on my teeth. Seeing the tray brought me back to my boyhood dentist and an incident that has stayed with me all these years.

Our family dentist was a fellow Moose Club member and was used by many members. He had a second-story office downtown Zion so Mom would drop me off and do her shopping, stopping by later to pick me up and continue home. I still recall every time a dentist arrives with the tray my boyhood dentist arriving with a similar tray although his was slightly different from any tray I had seen since as my boyhood dentist always, every single time, brought a big horse needle and syringe which always was accompanied by remarks that drew my attention to the big instrument. After a few minutes of threatening and joking he would put it away and hit me with the much smaller and much more appropriate needle. I’ve often thought back to those days and wondered why he used the same tired joke every time. I’ve come to the conclusion he thought seeing this huge instrument served to help calm the patient when the actual needle was revealed.

I’m not sure how valid this tactic would be as it mostly just scared me and I didn’t see any relationship between the fake and the real. In fact the time I am recalling he had done his horse-needle thing and laughed and joked about it until he told me to open in preparation for the procedure. I noticed he hadn’t given me any pain-killer but assumed he knew what he was doing and I probably didn’t need any for whatever he was going to do. He had fired up the drill when I heard Mom in the outside office. “Doctor! Doctor!”

He shut the drill off and rolled off his stool into a standing position, after which he walked to the front office. As his was a 1-man operation, there was no receptionist so he had to respond personally. I heard mom tell Doc that I had forgotten my jacket then the conversation got quieter and more difficult to hear. Next thing I knew Mom was standing next to the chair and telling me to put my jacket on, we were leaving. I was later to find out, overhearing the adult conversation that evening, that the smell I simply figured as the doctor’s standard breath was whisky. We changed dentists after that although I have no recollection of the new dentist… probably because he didn’t use the horse-needle joke and was competent enough to give me no unpleasant memories.

I was drawn back to my situation on the Dixie. The doctor instructed me to open wide and he shot me with the appropriate amount of Novocain. After a few minutes he began working on my mouth and I relaxed into the chair with eyes closed and feeling very comfortable as, like I mentioned previously, dentists, despite my early experience with one, never bother me. I remain this way to today although even this removal didn’t go as smoothly as I had assumed it would go. I week later I would begin to feel the pressure of a dry socket and retuned to the dentist who saw no problems and released me to go back to work in preparation for some time at sea. A dry socket was later explained to me as a pocket of air that has been trapped inside the wound as it healed over the top. I was told the air inside the wound prevented the internal healing and caused the incredible amount of pain I was feeling. As I was at sea for around 30-days it was a miserable 30-days during which the ship’s doctor looked at the problem but could not see anything that caused him any concern. I was in a constant fog resulting from the pain but still managed to get my job done as required. This continued until one day before leaving the gun-line for a friendly port, and standing in the chow line, I noticed what I thought was a piece of steak, from our last meal, stuck between a couple of back teeth. Gripping it with my fingernails I pulled it time and time again failing each time to get a grip that would hold as I tried to pull the invader from between my teeth. I had been trying this obsessively off and on for a few hours but was always unsuccessful in getting a good grip until, this time; I managed to get a firm grip… and jerked.

Pain!! Sharp pain!! Then... hu.hu.huh... relief... Amazing, comforting, warm, happy relief. I had pulled the stitch out of the socket and the constant dull throbbing pressure that caused the constant pain had disappeared. I was told I had a huge smile showing through my bloody lips. The blood stopped almost immediately and the socket healed perfectly within a couple of days, but all of this was still to come and I, having no ability to read the future was still relaxed in the dentist’s chair as he worked away on my impacted wisdom tooth. He had pulled and pulled to no avail announcing that my roots must so long they must be wrapped around my “damn jawbone.” He left for additional instruments and the excitement of the work stopped and I relaxed back into what was quickly becoming a gentle doze. I absently noticed his continuing efforts almost as a disinterested party as he tried one thing after another, stopping at one point to renew the anesthetic, then continuing on after a few minutes to let the new batch of pain-killer take effect. I absent-mindedly noticed he wasn’t having much success when he got my attention by saying “Well, we’re not having a lot of luck with this tooth. We’re going to have to break it up to get it out.”

That didn’t sound particularly good but I didn’t have much of a reaction until he said “There’s going to be some pressure here.” Now THAT got my attention because by now I knew that when a dentist said “pressure” they very probably meant “pain.” I roused myself slightly so I was prepared when I felt the sharp blow. Another! And again! “This isn’t working,” he said, “we’re going to have to try something else.” He paused. “Ok. There’s going to be a little pressure,” he announced.

I thought “He already said that,” so when I felt a weight on my chest I was understandably surprised. I opened my eyes to see my dentist with a mad-determined look on his face. My vision was partially blocked by his hand that was wrapped around what appeared to be a chisel and his other hand, the one containing the little metal mallet, was on the upswing high over his head. The pressure on my chest was HIS KNEE! The knee was placed directly in the middle of my chest and his other foot rested on the foot rest we now easily shared as my short legs caused my feet to barely touch the foot-rest.

Wham!!

Wham! Wham! Wham!!

After the third blow the knee came off and I heard the mallet hit the tray. I opened my eyes and closed them quickly when I saw the blood splattered across his chest. “Ahh, success.” He murmured.

The assistant quietly agreed, “Yeah. That was a tough one.”

I sat listening in a slight state of shock having witnessed, from close proximity, mad violence upon my person… Yeah, ok… just my mouth. But, believe me, my whole body was involved. Sore muscles and a still vibrating jaw proved that fact.

He and his assistant then worked quietly pulling various sized shards of tooth out of my mouth. Although the pain-killer was working well I could still feel the pull and release from each piece of tooth. Watching, now fully alert, I saw a small pile of enamel bits and pieces growing on his tray. After a little while he finished up and put in the stitches that would shortly result in that dry-socket. For now I was fine but I don’t think I’ll ever assume, again, what a dentist means when he says “There’ll be a little pressure.”

Yeah, right… a little pressure.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

1971 - Stage Fright On The Fantail

When performing I have always kinda been "outside my body" in some state of modified shock. The kind that allows you to perform your duties while being some kind of observer of your own event. I can adlib, jam or play or speak as directed, or as required, at the moment but I, still, remain somewhere outside my body. Having dealt with my stage fright at an early age (ask my brother Steve about Chickery-Chick) I learned to use this reaction to enable continued performance during times of stress. Not everyone had this early experience. Not everyone can continue to perform while in this state. Not everyone...


1971 – Stage Fright On The Fantail

W
e practiced with the amplifiers strapped to the walls of the helicopter hanger. The sea was fairly calm but, as always, the ship continued to rock from side to side. We were “The Ships’ Rock Band” as the Captain called us. Not long before we had managed to “accidentally” leave an official Navy publication, the All-Hands Magazine, open on the Captain’s at-sea chair. As planned, he leafed through noting the main article we had left open about a carriers’ rock band and how great they were for both morale as well as the ships reputation when they played ships-parties ashore. He soon came up with the “original” idea that since we had a rock band aboard we, too, needed to support the band that practiced and played at sea in the Helo-hanger. Upon inquiry he found out we really needed a drum kit and volunteered to supply this for us. We had our sponsor. All was going along as planned.

When we hit port in Olongapo in the Philippines we headed out to the music store. I had been dating one of the clerks who, despite a Nursing Masters in medicine, continued to work for minimum wage behind the counter of this little store. We shopped the stores contents until we decided upon a black-pearlized kit with a good sized bass-drum, 2 tom-toms and 3 cymbals besides the snare and high-hat. We all prepared to wrestle this load back to the ship as I made a date for later that afternoon. “I’ll be off at 5:00,” Maria said.

I was to find out later that a large percentage of the Filipino population was educated with advanced degrees although I was also told that a MA was equivalent to a BA in the states. I am not certain about that evaluation but she was very intelligent and worldly aware although, like most of the Filipinos that I met, she considered the Philippine Islands, all together, as the 8th continent. No amount of argument or any display of maps could change her mind about this.

After packing the kit onboard and setting it up for practice I headed for town leaving a happy drummer getting familiar with his new toys. Maria was almost done wrapping up and awaiting her replacement for the evening shift. “Would you like an ice cream?” She asked. Upon my reply to the affirmative she sent me next-door with instructions to buy the flavor labeled Sampaguita. The scent was heavenly so I choose the same flavor. The heady aroma greeted my nose as I unwrapped the paper covering. It exploded in my mouth as a delightful flavor and scent that was completely new to me and, yet, somehow familiar. Maria told me this was the National Flower of the Phillipines and was related to the Jasmine flower. The heavenly taste melted slowly as I enjoyed every drop. We sat facing each other when I heard a series of little pops. Thinking it was fireworks I turned and started for the door. “Stop!” shouted Maria. I turned back toward her and saw she was crouching behind the glass display case and trying to get as far into the corner as possible. My brow furrowed as I wondered why she appeared so frightened. Right then 3 men ran across the parking lot across the street firing handguns over their shoulders. They ran out of sight but were immediately followed by members of the street police that guarded the entrance to every bar and most businesses. One of them paused and took careful sighting down the barrel of the rifle he carried. His fellow officers ran past him ignoring the fact that one of their members was firing live ammo past heir running backs. He fired twice and launched into a run without looking for the results from his rifle fire. Suddenly it was quiet for two beats of my heart then, as though nothing had happened, music blared and people began walking down the sidewalk on their way to whatever errand they had been on when they were temporarily distracted. I stood up surprised to find myself behind the counter with Maria and somehow stretched over her in what I assume was a protective position although I didn’t recall doing this on purpose. I helped her to her feet. “Huks!” She said and looked disgusted. I was later to find out these were revolutionary communist rebels that had been holed-up in the mountains since World War II brought this conflict to the Philippines. They were refreshed every so often with native villagers that resented having civilization forced upon them or the odd politically active city folk who simply didn’t like the current government. As Maria’s relief showed up immediately after this incident we proceeded to dinner & dancing until it was time to part. After a long goodbye I put her in a taxi and headed back to the ship. We were due to head back to sea the following day so I wouldn’t see Maria for an unknown amount of time.

At sea we practiced daily and, during this at-sea period added a band member in Tony. Let me pause and tell you about Tony: Tony was musically gifted in that he seemed to know every group, all members, what group(s) they had been in previously and where members went if the band had broken up. Tony could almost always identify any song on the first note. Rumor was Tony had worked for Bill Graham before joining the Navy and had worked with several groups including the Band, Jefferson Airplane and the Grateful Dead. He had worked at Woodstock and, when fences and gates were being broken down by crowd pressure, jumped up above the entrance and removed the poster from its place over the gate. I still have this poster as well as others Tony left thumb tacked to our apartment wall. All of these belonged to Tony so I’ve held on to them awaiting an opportunity to return them… like that’s going to happen.

Tony had a bigger passion for music than anyone I had known previously, including my Uncle Johnny who influenced me, professionally, probably more than any other person excepting, perhaps, Tony. He had no musical background or training but certainly deserved, as much as anyone I ever known, to be on stage where he could share this love for music with an audience. After buying the new drum kit for our regular drummer we had some extra percussion instruments, namely: Timbales. Timbales consist of 2-tom-toms, a wood block and a cowbell. Tony decided he wanted to learn this instrument. We all thought this was a great idea and we all pitched in to help Tony learn this instrument. The addition gave us a great sound with a full compliment of rhythm instruments including a drummer, a congas player and, now, timbales added to the fullness of the sound. As we played songs by various groups, including groups like Black Sabbath, Santana and Chicago, all of whom used different instruments than we had in our group. We found the added percussion filled in to the point that a horn section, keyboards or an additional guitarist were not missed at all.

We rehearsed with Tony over the next few weeks until he was fairly good at throwing accents and embellishments into our music where it was needed. He had a good ear for the feeling of the tunes and seemed to know when to follow a jam and when to follow the number exactly as rehearsed. Finally, as we cruised off Viet Nam, it was time for a barbeque on the fantail where there was room for the 55-gallon drum cookers and a few tables to hold other offerings. We had been asked to play music for the party and all of the equipment was moved from the helicopter-hanger to the aft-end of the helicopter-deck. A crystal-clear blue sky reflected the turquoise ocean. A clean smell of salt-water scented the warm slightly-humid air. As we were about a mile off-shore with the kaleidoscope of jungle greens in the background, the fresh scent of tropical flora drifted in the breeze with an occasional treat of tropical flowers or the fresh smell of jungle mulch. As the water was like glass there was no need to tie the amps and speakers down this day. After tuning-up and a few individual solo’s (ostensibly still tuning-up) we prepared to launch into Santana’s Evil Ways which started with the drums, congas and timbales performing a short drum-roll together and launching into the musicality after the 4 beats that made up one short bar. The roll sounded a bit empty which became clearer as Bill started his first lead. It became obvious something was missing. Bill and I turned as one towards Tony.

Tony stood stock still staring at the small audience absolutely frozen in place.

His mouth hung open and his hands were perched 6-inches over the drum-heads. “Tony!” Bill said, “Tony!” Bill kept playing rhythm guitar and I followed along with the required bass-lines until I noticed Tony legs were beginning to shake. What started out as a small tremor was getting more obvious as I stepped toward him, still playing. Suddenly I threw my bass over my shoulder, counting on the strap to secure it to my back, and lurched out towards Tony as his right leg collapsed and he toppled towards the floor. Bill and I caught Tony between us as the music came to an abrupt stop. Bill, with guitar still hanging in front of him held with his left hand still wrapped around the neck, held Tony up on the left side with his right hand while I used both arms to hold his right side while we steered him into the hanger bay where a couple of chairs stood waiting. As Tony sank into one of the chairs his eyes were no longer able to see any of the crowd milling about one deck below us. A few shouts for music drifted into our ears but we temporarily ignored their pleas.

I tapped Tony’s shoulder a couple of times but he was completely unresponsive sitting immobile staring ahead, drum sticks still clenched tightly in his hands. I stooped in front of him and looked into his glazed eyes. I reached up and gently shook his shoulder. “Tony!! Tony!! Are you ok?” I asked. Tony’s eyes focused on my face as his face twisted into a grimace and he bent forward, elbows on knees and his face hidden by his hands. After a moment his shoulders began to pulse as he sobbed, tearless, into his hands.

“I… I… I don’t know what happened… I couldn’t do it… I couldn’t move… I didn’t know what to do… I… I’m so sorry… I just…” His words tapered off into silence. He sat sobbing into his hands slowly gaining control of himself.

The rear hatch to the hanger opened and Mr. Weaver entered. “Everthang okay?” He asked in his distinct Oklahoma accent.

Bill rose to his feet. “We better get started or we’ll have a crowd here in a few minutes. That’s the last thing we need.” He glanced at Tony as he said the last. Tony appeared to be recovering so we left his side launching back into Evil Ways before we reached the microphones and still out of sight to those below. A cheer went up and we performed the number as rehearsed without the benefit of Tony’s contribution. When we finished the song I glanced back to where Tony had sat. He was no longer in attendance. We finished our set and took a few minutes break. As the other guys went for the food I went to find Tony where he sat alone in his birthing department staring into the distance.

He looked at me as I approached. “I don’t know what happened, Lar. I was already to go but when I looked out at everyone’s face I just froze. I couldn’t move… I wanted to I just couldn’t.”

“It’s ok, Tony. I know how you feel. Every time I step on stage I’m on automatic in some strange state of shock where I can still perform and hold conversations but feel completely outside my body the entire time. If I hadn’t been doing this for so long I might wind up exactly the same.” I slapped his shoulder, “You’ll get over it. Give it time.”

Tony smiled a shy smile, “I just don’t know what happened.” His frown returned, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s ok, Tony. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“No,” Tony replied, “I think I’ll stay right here for a while.” He paused and searched my face, “Do you really think I can get over this?” Hope was in his eyes.

“Of course. It just depends upon how much you want it. You’ll be okay.” I was confident his love of the music was enough to eventually get him over this temporary setback. “I’m off to get some of that food… are you sure you don’t want to come along… can I bring you anything?” He shook his head to the negative and I headed back to the fantail for sustenance.

Tony eventually became our informal manager in a market (on board a USS warship) that didn’t require any management. It kept our good friend close and enabled him to continue his involvement with the band. Unfortunately, in our time together in the Navy, Tony was unable to overcome his stage fright and a new timbale player was found. Coincidently his name was Tony.

We proceeded to play many gigs both in port and at sea but I always wished for my good friend Tony’s more active participation.

For Tony… I still wish that.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

1988 - Increasing Throughput


This story is rather dry and full of technical details that may interest very few of you although it was one of the major sucesses of my career. A minor alteration of processes that wound-up saving the company over $85K a year and building my reputation as a mover and a shaker... someone who knew how to get things done without upsetting the process and improving relationships while reinforcing communication between the manufacturing departments and the support departments throughout the company.

1988 – Increasing Throughput

In 1987 I went to work for SAIC after working as a temp in Chula Vista shutting down a division of a different large manufacturing company. The product lines were being sold off so there was both documents and material to move out. Approximately half of their line was distributed to a sister division in San Marcos and the balance was picked up by SAIC and to form a new division they christened “Range Systems.” This job shutting down this business-unit was one the worst ever environments when it came to morale. All of the old employees that were to be picked up by either division had been informed and only recently transferred to their respective new jobs. Anyone left would be unemployed as soon as we locked the doors for the last time. The rest of the employees were, like me, temps and we, like the remaining employees, would be out-of-work as soon as the last shipment was made. As I was, and had been for some time, a professional, I didn’t worry too much about this and performed my job to the best of my abilities. It didn’t take long until this was noticed.

As every week people left for the new jobs they had found there was a continuous influx of new people. When I was asked by HR about a move from Stock Clerk to Stockroom Supervisor I asked her to review my resume. She liked what she saw as my experience was in line with the work they had to do before wrapping the building up. After that, for the next 3-weeks I received around 2 promotions a-week until I was the program manager for the final product shipment. No raises, just increased responsibility… this was no problem as the increasing responsibility decreased boredom. For the final week this large manufacturing facility had about 10 of us knocking around getting the final shipment processed and shipped. After we shipped we would close the door for the last time and everyone would be out looking for work. We were to make this final shipment on Thursday. On the Tuesday before this I was asked to report to SAIC in Sorrento Valley for an interview… my reputation had preceded me and they liked my professional attitude. I was asked to join the company, Division SAIT, as “future” Materials Manager. As it was explained the current manager had retired a year previously but his replacement was unable to perform and management pleaded with John to come back. It was only a matter of time before he would leave again. I was to mark time as the Shipping/Receiving Supervisor until this happened. I was advised to… “just keep the seat warm,” as the department ran, in their opinion, as good as can be expected.

Within 2-weeks I found there were a great number of areas inside the department where efficiency could be improved. I have found over the years that improving a process correctly results in less hassle for the employee, fewer opportunities for mistakes and more effective dispatch of responsibilities. Shipping and receiving shared a dock where the day I joined the organization an incoming shipment had been misidentified and wound up being marked with information for an outgoing shipment and sent halfway around the world to a customer that called us inquiring why the equipment was sent to him… and why they had paid shipping for a heavy piece of equipment they didn’t order. Several hundreds of dollars later we got it back. I noticed other processes that could use some improvement so we did some measurement and I did a movement and usage study to identify trouble in the process.

One area that showed dramatic improvement after I got involved was the receiving process. The process, when I arrived went something like this: Upon arrival the receiving clerks, 4 of them, would find an incoming carton and carry it to their desk where they opened the transparent plastic window stuck to the outside of the carton and removed the packing slip then opened the box and removed the contents. Then they walked 5-steps to the trash and discarded the box and packing material. Returning to their desk they picked up the packing slip and walked another 5-steps to the Open PO file where they searched through the PO copies until the correct PO was found. as the PO's were casually filed in the order they were issued this could take substantial time searching and re-searching until they located the PO. If they were unable to find the copy after multiple searches the item and its packing slip were sent to the “bonded cage” until an inquiry was made or until a future date when they might have a chance to make a second or third (or more) search for the PO.

This cage was approximately 10’ x 4’ and lined with shelving, some of which had been removed to make room for a pallet of parts that had material piled so high it was impossible to enter the cage without moving the material blocking the door... the door which could no longer be locked due to the overflow.

If the PO was found they proceeded to match the packing slip against the PO. Any discrepancies sent the parts to the cage. If the packing slip matched the PO, the packing slip was matched against the arriving material. If there was any discrepancy the parts were sent to the cage. Mismatches could be a difference in count, part number, description, PO # or Vendor Name. The definition of ANY difference included a misspelled word or a description essentially the same but slightly different. Any of these factors qualified for the cage. The submission of items to the cage and the lack of follow-up pulled the average processing time to 6-days. Even with non-receipts accounted for, the average should have been closer to 6-hours.

Assuming a lack of discrepancies and following the matching of the documents against the material, the material was inspected for obvious damage, then counted and the documents stamped with a receiver number, line item, quantity and an initial. The PO and attached paperwork when transitioned to a data entry terminal where the receipt was entered into the computer and a receiving document was printed matched with the part and sent with the parts to Receiving Inspection. The documents were sent to accounting for matching and payment. As this took about 45 minutes, average, the first items hit receiving inspection 45-minutes after the work-day began. 4-people managed to send around 35-45 items @ day through this process.

Although several weeks down-the-line we reviewed and modified the PO distribution process, which would result in another decrease in receiving delays, for now we had gone as far as we thought we could.

I won’t go into the results of my time-and-motion studies or the details of how I got my data but following this period of study I made some changes in the processes. These changes managed to get the average processing time to the minimum average of 6-hours, although the few items that were not processed the same day, due to the PO distribution and signature process, still continued to increase the average process time.

For the first 3-days the employees absolutely HATED these changes as it took almost 2 hours to get the first item into Receiving Inspection. I heard “But we’re not getting any work done,” several times that day. The difference was, at the end of the day, we managed to process 60 or more items. On the third day I pointed this out and, unknown to me, this was confirmed independently by an independnant-minded clerk. Complaining immediately stopped.

Unknown to most of the department, our greatest moment of triumph came 3-months later when Donnie transferred to Range Systems. I asked the guys in the department if they felt he needed replaced. I knew efficiency had improved and the stress had decreased so I wanted their feedback. They all agreed with me. We didn’t need to replace Donny as “incoming material has decreased so at the end of the day we really don’t have much to do the last hour or so.” Unknown to them receiving had actually increased by almost 1/3rd and the cage was virtually empty. How did I do this? After studying the data I had gathered I had imposed the following changes:

1) Increase communications. Anything going into the cage required the filling of a 3-part form stating PO, vendor and as much about the part as possible, including the discrepancy or any lack of a filed PO. A copy went into the cage with the parts, 1-copy went to the buyer and 1-copy went to the requestor. Usually one of those two people wanted the parts and would do whatever was required to eliminate the discrepancy, thereby decreasing the items in the cage dramatically as well as assuring very few items sat for the months that many past shipments had sat.

2) Organize Files. POs were filed alphabetically by vendor and in PO number order. This made it much easier to find the POs although there was a loud outcry about how there was “no time to spend filing! We have material to process!” Searching for the Open PO decreased from an average of 4-minutes to under 30-seconds.

3) Purchase Equipment/ Modify Procedure. We obtained two multilevel wire rolling carts. These carts were used for incoming material and were the single biggest addition we made to our equipment. Now, upon arrival, clerks would…

A) Save 20 minutes a-day
Place the unopened cartons on the shelves, 4-5 per level on 4-levels for 16-20 boxes at a time. Then the cart moved to the desk where all of the cartons were opened and the packing material discarded in a bin that had been moved between the clerks for easy access. Eliminating the multiple walks to the trash and the receiving dock saved approximately 20-minutes a-day, as it took under 2-minutes to trash all appropriate packaging. (40 trips @ 35-seconds each vs. now only 4-5 trips) The incoming material now sat alone on its respective packing slip.

B) Save 120-minutes a-day
Roll the cart over to the Open PO bin and retrieve all of the required POs, placing them under the material with the packing slip. As previously mentioned, organizing the POs for easier access saved us around 2-hours a-day. (40 searches @ 4-minutes vs. 40 searches @ ½ minute)

C) Save 15-minutes a-day
One at a time removed the parts, the packing slip and the PO. Perform all comparisons, write–ups, etc as usual, processing each part including receiving stamps and notes. The only time saved here was elimination of the walks back and forth to the pile of incoming material and the desk. This was another improvement of around 15-minutes. (40 trips @ 30-seconds (20 min) vs. 4 trips @ 30-seconds (2-min) + 5-seconds x 40 (3.3-min) for 20 min vs. 5.3-min)

D) Save 54–minutes a-day
Push cart over to data entry station and enter all receipts, print all receivers and match with the incoming material. This saved all of those walks from the desk to the computer and printing each receiver individually, a process that took about 5-minutes each. (30 second walk, 3-minute entry, 15-seconds awaiting processing & 45-seconds printing the receiver for 4.5 minutes per item vs. 4-30-second walks (4carts @ day) 3-minute data entry @ & 1-minute processing & 20-seconds printing saving 10 seconds per receiver when printing all together) (3.3 hrs vs. 2.4 hrs)

Additionally, we identified a large demand on our time, which was spent following-up on tasks that had already been performed. In a single day we received re-do requests for 10 missing packing lists, 1 instance of mis-identified material, and 17 re-printing of receiving documents. Opening lines of communication in accounting and a cursory examination of the accounting retrieval process revealed individual accountants (a different one each day assigned to perform pick-ups) would, while riding the elevator to the next floor, search through the incoming documents for their own work and separate it from the rest before turning the entire stack over to the accounting supervisor who then matched the documents with the computer-generated list of receipts. If no document was found it would result in a re-printing request… for items that had jumped the review process and, unknown to the supervisor, were active in one of the offices of the various accounts. Once this matching procedure was know by all of the accountants demands on re-prints dropped to virtually zero.

What began as an attempt by the accounting supervisor to "save-face" by protesting "All problems seem to come from the receiving department" and denial that any problem existed in the accounting processes, actually turned into a bonding experience where we found we worked well together and found each of us instrumental in supporting each others planned departmental goals when we brain-stormed and bounced various problems and solutions off each other. Subsequent to this project we found a certain amount of simpatico in our similar attitudes and enjoyed several lunches together.

This change to the process resulted in a savings of around 3 ½ hours a day or 17.5 hours a week. This improvement coupled with a few additional changes were directly responsible for cutting our annual department budget by $85K over 2-years, most of that coming from employees that left for various reasons but were not replaced due to more efficient processing.

Prudence transferred to the mailroom and Frank received his degree in a discipline that wasn’t of use in our company. Frank left for greener pastures. John, after going through a divorce, left for better hours that would allow him to pay more attention to his kids. Donnie transferred to a different division. My department of 8-workers decreased over a year to a crew of 5: 1 office clerk, 1-shipping clerk & 3-receiving clerks. This happened as business was increasing and incoming traffic was going up.

This performance built a reputation at SAIC that I enjoyed for the next 5-years and was instrumental in my being drafted into the companies first formal process-improvement group.

When I walked into the room for our first meeting I was surprised to find all Vice-Presidents and one rookie...me – but that’s a different story.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

1969 - Unrep At Sea


As far as I know there are three ways to get from ship-to-ship: 1) Swim, 2) Helicopter, 3) Hi-line. Of the three #2 is my favorite.

1969 - Unrep at sea

“I
ts getting to the point where I’m no fun anymore…I… am… sorry.” We sang tight harmonies in our own impersonation of Crosby, Stills and Nash’s Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.

It was just after 2AM and we had just been awakened from a sound sleep to help with Unrep, also known as Underway Replenishment. Heaving myself out of my rack I dressed and proceeded to my station on the main deck. As I was still a lowly Seaman I would not be in CIC for this job, but would be with the rest of the operations Seamen on the deck hauling rope, hawser and fuel-line from the Oiler to us, a small Fram II Destroyer. We probably had an hour to wait until we went to work so, until then, we were required to stay awake and be ready, upon command, to do the job we all knew was coming. As 3 of us were members of the ships rock band or friends with whom we harmonized on a regular basis we sat in the dark and practiced the songs that required multiple voices. Songs performed by Simon & Garfunkle, The Zombies, The Four Tops and The Four Seasons were on the top of the list.

As we waited and watched the Oiler drew in closer until we were steaming side-by-side at around 12 knots, a mere 30-40 yards apart. As the ships closed the bow-wakes from both vessels created rough seas in between the ships that, along with the undersea swells, caused us to heel over further than normal so that huge waves threatened constantly to swamp the main deck. The Chief Boats had instructed us that once we were pulling, if we were swamped, we were to hang on tightly to the rope in our hands, “It’ll keep you safe,” he said.

Eventually we heard a shout from the 01 level “Shotline!” We each found cover behind a fitting or bulkhead. In seconds a loud “Bang!” was heard coming from the Oiler as she fired the line toward us. “WAP! Brang!” The bulkhead about 10 feet away sang out with the impact of the Turks-head that was fastened to a relatively thin rope as it smacked into the wall with the force of a shotgun, which is exactly what was used to propel the Shotline from the Oiler to us. Ladd grabbed the line and ran it toward the 01 level. He was met at the bottom of the ladder where the line was run to the fitting that sat at the immediate top of the ladder, and then through a series of sheaves and passed back down to the crew on the main deck – us. We passed the rope hand-to-hand until it reached the last sailor who attempted to coil the rope in a relatively organized pile to avoid tangles, loose ends or looping coils that may tend to grab the random equipment or sailor’s foot. About the time the bitter end reached the end-of-the-line the next rope appeared, passing quickly toward us. This was a bigger line that would be, again, tied to a bigger line that would be tied to a bigger line that was tied off to form a suspension bridge under which, the fuel line would be hung and drawn from the Oiler to our little DD. As the second line passed through my fingers a huge wave broke on the deck and covered us all with frigid salt water pulling at my body and knocking me off my feet. As I hit the deck I let go of the rope and grabbed at anything going by which I could feel dragging under my hands but failed to successfully grasp. Feeling myself being carried down the deck toward the stern where a rough wake and twin screws awaited tearing through the water in its desperate attempt to continue to push us forward at 12 knots, I grasped at anything until I felt the deck safety-rail-line under my fingers. I grabbed and held on as though my life depended upon it… which it did. I had been a part of enough “Man Overboard” drills to know that we usually ran over the dummy and took the better part of an hour to make a successful pick-up. This was the last thing I wanted to go through. As the water receded back into the ocean my body stopped spinning about and trying to stay on the crest of the wild wave and began to orient itself heads-up and feet-down… and down… and down. Now wondering exactly where I was I shook the water from my eyes and looked up… to the main deck. I found myself dangling from the OUTSIDE of the ship, hanging with my feet only a few feet above the waves that approached and receded with the rocking of the boat as well as the up-and-down plunging of the ship into oncoming waves. Quickly scrambling over the line, I felt the solid deck under my feet. I took a few deep breaths and headed back to my station, halfway up the deck.

As I regained my place the line attached to the hawser, which would tie the two ships together, passed through my hands. I began hauling on the rope with everyone else. “Hold!” the message rang down from the 01 level. We hung on trying to keep the line as steady as possible while the line was secured. We immediately began hauling on another heavy rope connected to the fuel-probe which ran quickly down the incline from the much larger Oiler, to us. The fuel-probe was inserted, and locked down, on the intake fitting. At “Release!” we knew our job was done for now and we, variously, relaxed, retired to their work area for a temporary break or, like Bill and me, went up to the signal-bridge to watch the high-line transfer of food and a couple of people. Bill and I, each, borrowed a pair of binoculars from 1st class Mapps, inside the signal-shack, and proceeded to an area where we could see the action in the brightening dawn. A line, just like the fueling line, had been shot to the ASROC deck, secured to the fittings and the transfer of pallets of food was smoothly running from Oiler to DD. After the last of the supplies had been loaded aboard it was time to transfer a couple of people. One officer and one chief stood awaiting the arrival of the Hi-Line transfer-cage. The officer had been released from his enlistment and the chief had been transferred to a new duty station. I’ll call the officer Mr. Smith. In both cases, the Oiler would be in port well before us as we were only a week into our 45-day stint on Yankee Station in the North China Seas. The Oiler was headed back to Japan.

Mr. Smith held back offering first-place to the chief who stepped forward and sat down in the cage, securely strapping himself into the seat. The fasteners were checked and the word was passed – the chief rose 5’ into the air, hovering motionless over the deck. As the ship listed to starboard the rope tightened and the cage rose another 5’ and the crew assigned to manually pull on the rope that would pull the chief to the Oiler started hauling away, the height of the line allowing gravity to help them start this process. One crew was pulling on the transfer-line while a second group was responsible for keeping the line taut so the cage, with the chief on-board, would not dip into the cold, cold ocean’s vast reservoir of saltwater. Within a few minutes the chief transferred with no problem. The chair was hauled back to us and the Mr. Smith prepared to go. He strapped himself in and the fittings were checked as before. The signal was given and he suddenly shot into the air as the ship listed to one side at the same time the line was pulled taut. He was holding on to the side of the cage so tightly we noticed his hands were snow-white and his teeth were clenched against the scream that, we were sure, struggled to issue from his mouth. From this height he virtually began sliding down the line as gravity assisted the crew who was hauling on the transfer-rope. He zoomed down past the ASROC deck headed down the line at high speed directly towards the water. As the cage became even with the main deck, around 10 or fewer feet from the surface of the water, the ship began to rock in the opposite direction and Mr. Smith’s ride rose a few feet until he was, again, approximately level with the deck from which he had recently left. He looked relieved but continued to hold tightly to the frame of the cage. About halfway through across the expanse between the two ships a tangle developed in the line and the line stopped. The crew responsible for keeping the transfer-line taut worked at keeping Mr. Smith steady but, despite their efforts the high-line-chair bobbed up and down traveling a good 10-20 feet from the bottom of the dip to the highest point. After 2 or 3 trips up and down this, now stationary, roller coaster, Mr. Smith wasn’t looking any too good. As we peered at him through the borrowed binoculars he was looking a distinct green with a somewhat deflated looking countenance until he headed downward, then his face became very animated, eyes growing to their widest position, feet braced against the bottom, hands braced against the frame and clenching tightly. His head turned sideways, teeth clenched showed through the edge of the grimace plastered across his face as he prepared to plunge into the cold water and… just before the cage again shot skyward.

Just as Mr. Smith reached the apex of his upward journey a shout rang out “Fixed!” The ship picked this instant to begin its roll to starboard and, as the now loose line began to play through still loose hands, the cage made a violent jump on the line and dropped like a shot towards the water. Again Mr. Smith looked shocked but, by now, was getting used to the sensation of climbing and dropping quickly and barely braced himself, leaning back in the chair but fingers only loosely on the frame while his legs irresistibly prepared to take the shock of a quick turn-around. A look of surprise and shock crossed his face as he plunged into the water which quickly rose to cover his lower legs and continued to sink until salt-water covered his lap. It was obvious he was straining against the straps that held him securely on-board his little transfer-vessel. The cage began to tip forward as the water rose to his chest and as the ocean pulled at the cage… after all, we were still moving forward at 12 knots. He held his head up high straining against the safety straps. Just as it appeared he was about to become a human fishing net he shot upwards, water spraying and pouring off his clothes and the equipment. He was in full voice as he attempted to give direction to the crew he had just left behind. And, in fact, he had left them behind in more ways then one as the crew hauling on the rope, the crew that somehow got the line tangled and the crew that just gave him a dunking was the same crew he had commanded as department officer just a couple of hours ago. The instruction he was shouting was almost completely in words of four letters. I’m sure the fact that he wasn’t liked, in fact barely tolerated by the entire crew, had nothing to do with his salty trip into the brine and back. Mr. Smith was hauled to the correct height and his trip continued without incident. Just before he arrived aboard the Oiler we glanced over at the chief who had already successfully made his transfer and appeared to be doubled-over with laughter. The chief was talking animatedly with a group of two other chiefs, all of whom were obviously having a good time. I had a serious feeling that this was not the first time any of these gentlemen had witnessed a dunking and, since the chief had not exactly gotten along with Mr. Smith anymore than anyone else… we suspected his ESP had forewarned him this might happen.

I also suspect he was more than delighted to be a witness.

Friday, May 1, 2009

1977 - The Icicle

There were so many things to like about ice & snow as a kid... as an adult... well... not so much.


1977 - The Icicle

After being snowed into my house for 3-days I arrived back at the theatre to find a notice from the fire department. My theatre would be closed down that night if my emergency exit was not cleared of ice. “OK,” I thought, “I’ve got another ice build-up from the draining roof. That’ll take a good 15-minutes.” I opened the front door and entered, locking it behind me. My day was just beginning and the theatre wouldn’t open for another 5-hours. I figured there was plenty of time to fix the problem. I started for my office, upstairs, but changed my mind and headed for the rear exit to see how serious the problem was. Normally the ice build-up was minor and a good push would force the door open and a few shovels of icy snow would clear the problem. I could barely see a light under the door that illustrated that the mound was high enough to shade but not enough to actually block the near-mid-day light. I pushed the release bar. Nothing. Not even a budge. I pushed harder…no response…none at all. It was time to examine the problem from outside. Considering the just-past storm that buried the roads and limited travel the last few days there was probably a higher pile than normal. I rounded the corner of the building expecting to see a small pile of ice and snow piled in front of the door. Instead I was met with a huge icicle. As there was a small scupper on the roof so any build-up of water on the flat roof could drain off and I expected that there might be a small icicle that had dripped onto the door and frozen it shut. This is not what I was greeted with. Instead, as I rounded the corner I saw a huge icicle that extended from the roof to the ground. It easily covered the entire door with a 4’ wide and 3’ thick column of ice that glittered in the late-morning sun almost glowing in the shadows as the ice reflected the sunlight through the full extent of the column. “Great!” I thought and repeated the word aloud adding a few 3 and 4-letter words for full effect. This was going to take awhile.

I had no tools with which to hack away at this solid block of ice. I had a few tools and bladed weapons that had traveled from San Diego with me but nothing that could really take on this obstruction unless…I thought of my WWII era bayonet thinking, “Perhaps I could chip this thing away enough to get the door opened.” I headed for the front entrance, to my tools, stored backstage, then back to the main entrance and around the building to the fire exit.

An hour later I had several big chunks of ice chopped off the column in various spots hoping to find a weak point that would be the key to releasing the entire mass. There had been absolutely no response from the icy column which still glowed in the deepening winter shadows and stood as solid and sturdy as when I first saw it. I stood back and examined my work which looked ineffective and haphazard. It looked like there was a weak spot near the top of the door so I dug out one of the voids I had created and climbed up to hack away at that height. 15-minutes later I was sweating and my feet were freezing. I’d done nothing but create another void in the column. It had shattered into a small fist-sized hole in the ice that would actually hold my weight as I stood inside one of the lower spots and held onto this higher void as I chipped away with my left hand. The column didn’t seem to be budging but my bayonet was now sharp as a razor blade having sharpened itself against the hard ice. Another spot a bit higher drew my attention and I reached for this spot failing to effectively reach it as my body was extended too far to get a blow with any force behind it. I reached forward and slid back but feeling myself falling forward. I tossed the blade off to the side and fell onto my hands. The right arm, drained of blood and weakened from chipping away at an overhead mark, collapsed and I fell forward hitting my chin on the ice and rolling onto my left side. I sat up shaking my head and checking my chin for blood – nada – no blood – I was still ok. Standing up I stepped back to review my work. I noticed I had several voids chipped into the column now reaching up from ground level to about 10-feet off the ground. This was perhaps halfway up the icicle and a thought crossed my mind: “I wonder if I could climb this thing to the top and release it at the point where it turned from a sheet of roof ice to an icicle?”

I clambered up as high as possible looking for a spot that would offer another good place to chip another, what I now thought of as a, step to help me to the roof. Climbing as high as possible I could see, about 7’ off the ground, that the door jamb jutted out a bit from the wall and might make an easy 3” ledge. I chipped away at this for just a minute when the entire section above the door gave away revealing a metal edge that now stood naked and strong above the door. Levering myself up another step I began chipping a new hand-hold a couple of feet higher eventually making enough steps that I could, with a running start, get almost all the way up the wall only requiring a few more steps. Another 45-minutes passed and despite one collapse of a single handhold the ice was cold enough to hold as I chipped the remaining handholds. It was too slick to climb from a dead stop but a quick run and a couple of leaps used my momentum to get higher than I had been previously been. My foot rested on the ledge above the door as I carefully explored the strength of the remaining handholds. They held firm as I now s-l-o-w-l-y inched up the face of the column moving carefully from spot to spot. I was busy looking for my next foothold when I realized my hand had just reached the roof. Looking down – I was really high off the ground and it looked like I was much higher than it looked from the ground - I abstractly realized I really didn’t want to fall from here – it would not be good news. Even sliding down the length of ice would still abrade any exposed skin and perhaps make a significant rip in my pants. A small air conditioner fitting that had been discarded sometime in the past was frozen to the ice sheet but was just an inch or so out of reach. I braced my self and threw my self forward barely catching the fitting with the tips of my fingers and pulled. The ice, being slippery as ice, allowed me to inch forward until I could re-new my grip. I got one leg over the lip of the roof. As my leg thrust over the top the fitting broke loose and a started to slip backwards. Hooking my leg over the edge and somehow holding the ankle of the same leg with both hands stopped my slide and I slowly managed to climb a few inches higher where I could shift my weight over my right side so I could slide onto the heavily iced and snowed roof.

I looked over the edge which now appeared to be much higher than it looked from the ground. I chipped away at the lip of the roof trying to separate the column of ice from the building. I had now been at this for around 3-hours and had several holes chipped into the column that I was hoping would weaken the icy hold on my back door. As I leaned forward, and as far down as possible, I chipped away at the ice not noticing a crack that was beginning to form down the right-hand edge of the door and fracturing through the ice in a chaotic pattern of fractals caused by the crazing of the ice. I had managed to chip almost the entire lip of the roof-ice away from the edge. On the left-hand side of the frozen door was a lump of ice that supported the balance of the column and was the final spot where the ice held on to the roof as well as the wall/door. I managed to chip away the top of this lump but it just would not fracture. I leaned farther out, holding the icy lip of the roofline for support. As I brought my arm back for a big blow from the bayonet I heard a loud crack… I froze in place waiting to see if I was a part of the fracturing ice… silence. I moved the arm forward with great vigor trying to put my entire body weight at the point of the knife but as the blade came down a big chunk of the ice suddenly fell away exposing the bare brick wall. The chunk of ice fell into the alley. The blade bit into brick. I leaned far out hanging onto the little bit of edge and brick and wedged the blade in between the now bare wall and the next chunk of ice. It wedged in abut an inch but with some gentle persuasion and some more forceful pounding on the handle I managed to get the blade deeper, around 8 inches, behind the ice. I removed my gloves to enable my bare fingers to get behind the ice. Using the blade as a lever and a lumpy brick as a fulcrum I pushed and pulled, getting my fingers in back enough to pull the ice slightly out and the blade deeper in until, with a loud crack, a huge section of the icicle fell away. I noticed that now, if any more ice came lose I would be stuck on the roof of this building, in the middle of a very cold day.

Then it began to snow.

Big, wet soft flakes of snow drifted to the ground. Because they were wet they fell faster then big fluffy flakes. Within just a couple of minutes I noticed the ice was being covered by a light covering of this wet snow and realized if I didn’t get off the roof now, that option might close in the next couple of minutes. I eased myself over the side hanging on to the lip of the roof and let myself down until my feet touched the jagged end of the still clinging icicle. My foot slipped of the curved, slippery surface twice before I found a reasonable shelf. As I was now hanging by my elbows and forearms I lowered myself, increasing the weight on the fragile ice. I could feel the vibration through the wall as someone slammed a door inside the building. People were beginning to arrive for work. I had been working on this thing for four hours and needed to have this blockage cleared within the hour if I was going to open the theatre.

As I put my full weight on the ice ledge I heard another crack and my foothold suddenly fell away. As my weight had been completely on that foot I felt myself slide downward. Grasping at the roof I felt it scrape over my bare fingers and then onto the bare brick which was quickly replaced by cold, very cold and rough ice. With the covering of wet snow there was no purchase and I slid on my stomach down the 15 or so feet with hands and fingers grasping uselessly for something to grab. I hit a cut step on my slide which slowed my downward journey so I could barely grasp the step as it went by. It stopped for half-a-second hoping, in the back of my mind that this would be enough to break the slide but, just as I came to a rest, the little shelf gave away with almost the entire remainder of the icicle tumbling down on top of me. Luckily I had been slowed just a foot or so from the ground so I didn’t fall far before I began to be covered by snow and sharp, heavy ice. I looked up to see a single line of ice filling in the cracks on the right side of the door, near the handle and running across the top and barely glowing with the mid-afternoon winter light. A lump of wet snow clung tenuously to the ledge above the door in the places where I had not stepped

Initially I was more concerned about the snow and ice that had tumbled inside my collar and was now in the small of my back until I realized my feet and legs were covered by ice. There was no pain but plenty of numbness including my bloody fingertips. Realizing my lack of feeling in my legs I had a second of panic until I kicked out and chunks of ice flew in every direction. I sat for a few seconds until I heard pounding from inside the theatre. Someone was obviously trying to get out of the, still frozen shut, door. The pounding stopped and I heard steps running away from the door. I brushed snow and ice from my body as I stood up. By the time I was clear my assistant manager and the usher came sliding around the corner. Their legs began backpedaling quickly to stop their headlong rush. Their shoes slipped ineffectively on the ice and Greg slid onto his backside. He caromed into me after banking off the first pile of ice, bouncing into the wall then on to me. My assistant, Kathy, also failed to stop on the slippery ice and we all tumbled together into the pile of ice and snow. The last of the icicle came loose and fell in big, heavy pieces all around us. When the action stopped we looked at each other, covered in loose snow but completely unscathed, untouched by even a single shard of ice. Greg and I looked around and, then, at each other, spontaniously breaking into gails of laughter. Kathy looked disgusted and left to further prepare the snack-bar for business as Greg and I attacked the last little bit of ice that still clung to the ground immediately in front of the exit. In 15-minutes we were done and headed back inside for hot chocolate.

We opened on schedule.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

1979 - An Empty Room


The echos, the smells, the expectant feeling in the air that something... something is going to happen.

1979 – An Empty Room

I
love an empty room.

The rooms, in this case, are sports arenas, bars, theatres, churches, symphony halls, stadiums and sports fields. Early in my adult/teen life I became intimately associated with good-sized empty rooms or venues that would soon be filled with people. I remember trying to serenade a young lady over the public address system in an empty church as we were preparing for a presentation by our youth group. The pure tones and the echo of those pure tones off walls and sound folds that have been located specifically to carry sound through a room full of soft bodies… the soft bodies that tend to soak up this sound and mute those pure tones into a pleasant cacophony of harmonic tones and overtones that compliment each other and blend into what we generally call music or, sometimes, speech. It was those pure tones I fell in love with.

Having parents that were entertainers, be it musicians, dancers or taking a turn at public speaking, I visited quite a few rooms that would have been restricted if patrons had been present. The smell of an empty bar or the room where the Moose Club Saturday night dance would be held offered sights, smells and sounds that are not particularly seen or appreciated by the general public. Someone has to prepare these venues for the event and I was fortunate to be one of those assisting in the set-up from early years.

My first exposure to a truly big room awaiting a full audience was in 1966 when dad was a Division Manager for Confection Cabinet, which supplied popcorn, sodas, & candies for theatres and sporting events. His Chicago area manager had been out with a death-in-the-family so dad was tasked with preparing the Cheetah Club for the weekend’s festivities. The space, being much larger than the, then, current clientele could fill, was partitioned with curtains, false walls and “Do Not Enter” signs to limit the size so when the club was open and operating it would appear to be packed full. As it was a Saturday and I had asked if I could go, dad had let me come along. I wandered around the sets and false-fronts that partitioned the active part of the club with the remainder of this large room. Before taking a turn as one of 3 or 4 “Cheetah Clubs” in the US, this location had previously, and would eventually return to, it’s longtime venue as the Aragon Ballroom. The Aragon had been built in 1926, near the end of prohibition, and was known to be “the place to go” for big-name acts. It maintained its reputation for the next 30-years as the place where the upper crust went for music, dance and champagne. Holding over 1,800 patrons, and placed near the “L” it was easy to access. Over the years the neighborhood had become Chicago’s version of “skid-row’ and, following the 50’s, only the young sub-culture of the middle 60’s was able to bring it back to a halfway desirable neighborhood. Piper’s Alley, the Chicago hippie hangout was not far away and, although a walk down these neighborhoods streets could still be a bit of an adventure, it now included more foot traffic that assured a small raise in the safety of those forced to walk these streets. Early the next year the band I was not yet with would be invited to play the Cheetah as opening act for a hot new group called Buffalo Springfield and the second group a small unknown 4-piece band (keyboard, drums, bass and guitar) called Chicago Transit Authority. In short order both of these groups would hit high levels of success that consistently eluded me throughout my musical career. Buffalo Springfield would have several hits before members moved on to other successful groups like Poco, Loggins & Messina and Crosby, Stills and Nash. Chicago Transit Authority would shortly add a horn section to the group which would give them a unique sound and, with the name shortened to Chicago, would carry on to multi-generational success.

When open for business the room was low lit to focus attention on one of the 3 stages but, during the day-time, it was entirely different and all work-stations were clearly exposed under the white working-lights. A bar separated the general seating/dance area from the entry area of the club and a large section, called The Lounge, outside the dance hall where patrons less desirable of an intimate encounter with the current on-stage act could sit and party with each other and still communicate with more than hand-gestures which, due to the volume, was about the only means of communication inside the hall. Comfy couches surrounded small tables here and inside the dance area where they were placed liberally in accessible areas around the parameter of the dance floor as well as packing the short balcony 3-tables deep. A third level of balcony was blocked off from access by a simple curtain that hid this stairway as well as most of the backstage area. This higher balcony completely unlit and hidden by the shadows of the main club area was a perfect vantage to invisibly watch the action below. As I was still too young to participate, this was where I spent my evening watching sweaty dancers and hard-working bands do their “thing” under my watchful eye. We returned home, with me sound asleep, sometime after midnight but I’m sure I dreamt the night away reliving my evening and the adventure of being backstage at a big “adult” event.

Setting up San Diego’s Convention Center (not the current one) for a concert with George Benson was a thrill as this was the room in which I had seen my first big-name concert: Jethro Tull. Within the same year I would also enjoy The James Gang as well as Blood and Sweat and Tears in this venue. I was well familiar with the room when it was full of people but setting up equipment on a stage where I had seen many of my favorite performers was a thrill in itself. Working this large room, and knowing I was going to have major influence on the event was stunning for a young man finding himself performing the kind of work (anything in entertainment) to which I had long aspired. There was the echo in the air that seemed to speak of its readiness for the oncoming crowd. Although chairs were only halfway setup I stood on the stage and took it all in from the same elevated vantage point that the entertainers that evening would enjoy. Although I maintained a professional appearance, inside I reveled in the size and ambiance of this marvelous space.

The oldies show that Concert Sounds worked in Bakersfield, outside LA, reminded me a lot of the Cheetah ballroom in its size but the room was open and vast with little in decoration. In Bakersfield the room was actually almost twice the size but the sounds, the smells, the very feel of the air spoke of the impending event and the vast crowd that would be arriving within a very few hours. Here we would be doing sound for The Imperials, The Penguins, Paul & Paula, Rosie and The Originals as well as several other less-remembered acts that were backed up by a bunch of studio musicians from LA that would be the House-Band for the evening. This house-band was fronted by Paul Shaffer (of Dave Letterman keyboard fame) who played drums for this session. The headliner was Flash Cadillac and the Continental Kids who performed their hit, the theme song from the TV show Happy Days, as well as several standard oldies as a gang of surly 50’s era tuffs, looking like they just walked off the set of the, then, future movie “Grease.” Although similar to another “clean-cut” group of the time Sha Na Na, they clearly displayed the difference when Flash strode on stage with a leather jacket and an Arthur Fonzirelli attitude. Spraying his mouth full of water (gulped from a Schlitz beer can) into the crowd he gave ‘em all the upraised arm crossed with the opposite hand cutting the elbow in a Milwaukee style “AAY, UP YOURS!” All of that was still to come later that evening as I drank in the feeling of expectation that almost vibrated in its nervous wait for the upcoming evening.

Then there were all of the bars… bars have a unique smell and sound completely different when the lights are on and the patrons are still preparing for their evening out. Usually the overhead fans, that desperately attempted to keep the air breathable when full of people, are on and blowing a unique scent throughout the room. In most bars the ceiling is fairly low when compared to a large musical venue and the sounds and echoes off the walls reflect this smaller, intimate and yet somewhat more active feeling then in a concert venue. The echo in the air is unique in itself but the smell of old beer, too many packed bodies, old cigarettes, spilled mixed drinks and shots of whisky is always present. It is simply more obvious when the fans can be actually felt as they blow out stagnant air from inaccessible corners and from under tables that will get absolutely no air when the club or bar is open. There always seems to be a corner where someone had been sick in the recent past and the weekly/monthly carpet crew or floor polishers had not yet arrived for they’re periodic clean up. All of this mixes together in smells and sound that are well representative of the evening to come without revealing at all exactly what that evening might be.

Setting up equipment in a large outside venue, whether AAA baseball field or Qualcomm Stadium, is distinctly different from an indoor event. Outside, I often feel I’m being watched. After all, in a huge outdoor stadium there are thousands of seats and dozens of entryways. In a large stadium there are personal boxes for high rollers and stadium office windows that overlook the playing field. At an inside venue the sense is completely different. There may be several people there with you but, more than likely, you can see every one of them and, because you can see them working, no one appears to paying any attention to a single individual. No invisible watchers, no critical owners, no hidden union rep looking for a reason to fine the contracting company. There is an echo, regardless of the size of the room, when the room is designed for sound and an audience. The solitude of an empty room speaks to me in a quiet, but strong voice.

A stadium is a substantially bigger room with no roof in the case of Qualcom Field, known when I worked this event, as Jack Murphy Stadium. As we were mostly busy working, laying foundation supports for towers, which would hold huge sets of speakers and lights, I didn’t have any time to look around until most of our equipment was trucked in and lifted into place. Running speaker and microphone cords, re-aligning the aim of the speakers, and monitors, hooking up the sound board and running extension cords took up most of the morning and early afternoon so I was unable to just take it all in until we completed assembly and were ready for sound checks. At that point, as I had little to do except to re-locate mics when required or requested, I was able to look out across the vast field and appreciate the size of the “room” we were about to fill with sound. Standing on the 50-yard line and surveying the 60,000 seats, all facing in my direction was a feeling not to be repeated.

Of course, following most events, an army of workers descends upon the room to empty it back to its former self. Seats are folded and stored away, bleachers are folded back into their storage places and any sound or lighting equipment is packed up and ready to be loaded onto the truck. The stage is clear and the only thing left is the debris left over from the crowd and an echo of what has been…

…And the impending echo of what will be.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

1989 - When My Reputation Preceeded Me


When I got married in '81 the kids were 11 & 13. In my attempts to impress them with my adventurous life they learned a lot about me. By the time their mom & I married I guess there were really few secrets which, on some occasions, became painfully obvious.

1989 – When My Reputation Preceded Me

The Fortune Cookie read “You are liked for your good nature.” I observed this was not a fortune. “Have you noticed?” I continued, “Fortune Cookies don’t really give you a fortune? They offer advice like ‘Be cautious in your finances’ or an observation like ‘You are liked for your good nature’ but these aren’t fortunes. ‘You will inherit money’ or ‘Your children will accidentally burn your house down’ now these are fortunes.”

“I was told that you have to add your own circumstance to the end of a fortune cookie.” Terri said, “I was told to always say ‘In Bed’ after all fortune cookie messages…like ‘You are liked for your good nature…in bed.’”

“I’ve never heard that before!” I said. “Hey! It works for almost everything! Be cautious in your finances…in bed. You will inherit money…in bed. Your children will burn your house down…in bed.”

“You have superior judgment…in bed.” Said Ken. “It works!”

“Your friends find you fascinating…in bed!” Said my wife.

“You find pleasure in work and play…in bed!” Said Terri.

We sat talking and joking in our favorite Chinese Restaurant having just treated our son, my step-son, to a pre-wedding meal. In 2-days Ken and Terri would be married and, as their schedule was so full with events and planning in their last frantic phase, this would be our only chance to take them out for a casual supper together before the wedding.

Eventually they would start a family from which I would get 3-brand-new grandchildren, Alan, Jamie and Ryan. They are all brilliant children with obvious unlimited potential. But, for now, Ken and Terri were still a young couple with their future unlimited.

“Did you know Fortune Cookies were invented in San Francisco?” I asked showing off my great command of useless trivia, “They were intended to be eaten before the meal as a form of entertainment while waiting in line for a table.” I looked up at each of them with a big smile on my face. Conversation stopped. They all looked back silently with no expression whatsoever then, spontaneously, the conversation continued as though I had never spoken. I was sure they rehearsed moments like this.

Terri mentioned she was relieved to be out at a quiet supper as the previous night had been her bachelorette party. She revealed she had gone out with several of her girlfriends and partied one of her last “free” nights away. With that Ken revealed his Bachelor Party was this very evening by, “Well, I guess I’d better get going. You guys can sit and talk awhile but I’ve got to get going. A bunch of the guys are waiting for me for my bachelor party.” He turned to Terri, “Don’t wait up.”

“Whoa!” I said, “Bachelor Party? I didn’t know tonight was your Bachelor Party! Why didn’t you let me know?”

“I didn’t think you’d be interested! Of course you’re welcome to come along!”

“I’d love to,” I said, “but I need a little more warning before I go out to party nowadays…I just can’t party like I used to!”

“Larry,” Ken said, and paused. At that moment conversation stopped. They were all awaiting Ken’s next words. He turned towards me, looked me in the eye and shook his head, “believe me…NONE of us can party like you used to.”

Thursday, April 2, 2009

1974 - Discrimination


Often we react to a statement or a gesture that is simply misinterpreted. Our own experiences tend to make each of us sensitive to different insults and slights. Sometimes the insult is intentional... sometimes... not.

1974 – Discrimination

Mary was beautiful. She was easily one of the most physically beautiful women with whom I have been involved. Mary was thin in the right places and not thin in the other right places. She was tall… or, at least, tall to me. At 5’7” she was 2-inches taller than me and, although it was the era of platforms on men (high shoes – high in heel & toe), it was also an era of platforms on women so, although hers weren’t usually as high as mine, when we were out together she was still slightly taller and far more stately than me. She had an imperious attitude that I found endearing because it meant that she wasn’t about to take any crap from anyone. I have often seen this as strength in some women and, although it can be taken too far, she rarely did. She had a good grasp of righteous indignation and used it to reach the ends she desired… particularly at work, where we met.

She was dark… no… dark is too subtitle… her skin was the color of a ripe olive without a single blemish that gave it a sheen that fairly glowed in the light of the practice room… with it’s black light on the wall coupled with 2 red light bulbs in the overhead. Skin so smooth & blemish-free that stroking her bare arm or bare back was reminiscent of smooth silk. She wore an Afro that was 18” around and which I discovered was a wig at an unfortunate moment (enough about that.) She was a lovely, proud Afro-American with a child, a home and a family that consisted of parents, a brother and an ex. An absolutely fascinating woman with opinions similar in many ways to my own and yet, sometimes, very different if not in conclusion then different in the experiences with which her life path had delivered those opinions. She was definitely a child of the “Black-Experience.” In the year we knew each other, 1973, race and racial problems were a part of daily news and we found many chances to discuss these issues in great detail.

Socially we were actually quite different. During this era the separation was illustrated by the gap between different styles of music. The difference was obvious to me particularly; as a musician I was intimately involved in my own kind of music. When I spent time with Mary we listened to The Chi-Li’s, Temptations, Marvin Gaye and Curtis Mayfield, among others. When I was with buddies or practicing with the band it was all Styx, Uriah Heep, Zeppelin and Jethro Tull, among other heavy-metal groups or Crosby, Stills & Nash, Manassas or Simon & Garfunkle for our harmony-fix. When we partied it was heavy metal all the way. At the two parties I attended with Mary and her friends it was mellow, harmonic and gentle soul music. A vast difference in the party mood but the bonding among friends was identical. Taking a friend to the first party I attended with Mary and her circle of close friends I found my friend to be paranoid and unable to relax… we left early. He didn’t accompany me to the next party and I had a great time although there was initial discomfort finding myself completely surrounded by a culture that was foreign to my experiences. After the first drink and joint as well as a little conversation I relaxed completely and had a great time making several new friends who, truthfully, I never saw again… but I had a great time. This wasn’t the experience of Mary’s brother when he attended one of our parties.

Mary and her brother were invited to our party and like me he arrived with a friend. He & his friend, Charles, were definitely uncomfortable with the number of white people who were all loud and raucous. In a few minutes I found them sitting on the couch, as close to the wall and as far into the corner they could get. I sat and tried to talk to them for a while but they were unresponsive and obviously quite uncomfortable. An hour into the party someone, in passing, said, “Oh, boy. What a party!” Unfortunately Mary’s brother, in the loudness of the party, misunderstood what was said and accused Ron of calling him “Boy.” Ron became insulted and, not being one of my more accepting friends, began a short shouting match which was a result of both the misunderstanding and the extremely loud music. Within 2 minutes Mary, her brother and his friend left despite my protests. When I called her later she didn’t answer.

Monday, at work, I saw Mary and explained the misunderstanding. She, although initially insulted for her brother, soon understood and forgave my friends and me for what was not said. She explained how uncomfortable they had been anyway as the music and mood of the party was so different from the parties they were more used to. To those used to much mellower music, our brand of party sounds were, to her, violent and assaulting to her senses. Mary admitted she, and sometimes her brother, were told they were being too sensitive but she explained why that was such a likely scenario. She explained that when she was a little girl she became very close to her great-grandmother. Great-grandma was very old and, indeed, old enough that HER grandmother & grandfather had been slaves in the south. It hit very close to home when great-grandma explained how her grandmother spent most of her life without her husband who, soon after she became pregnant, was, quite literally, sold down the river to a different owner. She never saw her husband again, never fell out-of-love and never stopped missing him. Her pain was so apparent and Mary was so close to her grandmother that she felt she could feel the pain of separation clearly and still held some resentment over the history she knew so intimately both factually and emotionally. She admitted that she sometimes over-reacted but also said it would be difficult for anyone else that had not had this experience to understand the loss, the pain and the resentment that carried through the generations. The seriousness of this story was plain on her face and I never questioned again why she seemed sensitive. She was right… I could never understand how this was an important part of her psyche. Being a longhair and putting up with “Is that there a boy or a girl?” for the last year, I could barely understand the discrimination she lived with every day. Even that bit of understanding was, comparatively, very minor. Although I understood why she would be sensitive to racial slights I continued to wonder why she so quickly assumed that people with whom she’d had no interaction were being racist when only making innocent comments that definitely were not intended to be racial. I really had no problem with her being sensitive when insulted but it bothered me why she would simply assume that any innocent comment had racial overtones… after all I didn’t jump to this kind of conclusion with no reason…did I? No!

Or so I thought…

A year later I was living in San Diego. A few months after my move my car broke down in Mission Valley. It was operating so badly I was compelled to leave it parked by the side of the road. It took a couple of days to get paid so the next Saturday it still sat where it had been left. Eventually I had been paid and now had a bag of new wheel bearings and bearing grease. I had finagled a ride from a friend to within a block of my car. As I walked down the block I could see my car a block-up parked in front of a new car dealer, which as usual, included a wide driveway at the entrance to the lot. As I reached the point where this driveway cut into the curb I stopped and looked both ways, alert for any vehicle that may be approaching. Seeing no one in sight I proceeded across the drive. When I was about halfway across a big Cadillac sped around the corner and came to a skidding stop in front of the driveway. He laid on his horn and started cursing at me out of his open window calling my forbearers and me all kinds of obscene names and making comments about my rudeness at crossing when he would want to enter. I hurried across just marking the insults up to the typical abuse received by any longhair… then I paused in my thoughts… “Wait a minute! I had just gotten a haircut the previous day! I look normal!” I had shorn my locks as looking for a new job as long hair was not yet generally accepted on males… and I wanted a new job.

It was a shock when then that I came to a new realization. My misperception was clear, as was the actual reason for his rudeness: “Sometimes what appears to be discrimination simply isn’t.”

Sometimes the broadcaster of foul language and insults upon my being was not the act of a racist or sexist or an anti-longhair. Sometimes it is simply the behavior of what is generally known as an asshole. He wasn’t racist. He wasn’t sexist. He didn’t even care about the length of my hair, the color of my skin or my sex. He was simply an asshole!

Anyone who is barely conscience will notice the world is full of ‘em, most of them stink and nothing can be done to change their essential personality. In order not to lose myself in anger over the occasional asshole, which would affect me negatively and the asshole not at all, that day I had to come to the conclusion that most times when faced with undeserved criticism or verbal abuse my best course of action was to realize this was just another asshole and there was nothing I could do to change that. My best course of action was to…

…get over it.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

1966 - The Dancing Less Fortunate


Mom died a few years ago and I haven't done any ballroom dancing since but it remains as one of the most enjoyable experiences of my life. I watch "Dancing With The Stars" kinda like mom watched any ballroom show aired. Their styles of dance are far more disciplined and energetic than anything I ever did but I know enough to know whos hitting their marks and who is not. Mario Lopez is my granddaughter's cousin so, of course, we had to watch... got me hooked. Still think he shoulda won.

1966 –The Dancing Less Fortunate

I started ballroom dancing when I was 11. Mom was a huge fan of the Arthur Murray Dance Party, which was a ballroom dance TV show. Mom decided she wanted to learn to dance in ’59 and she talked dad into taking lessons at Dale Dance Studio. A year later she had not only learned all the studio had to teach but they offered her a job as an instructor. Dad appeared to be a much better dancer but it was mostly because he didn’t care about style or rules and he just danced. Technically, mom was better. Mom cared about the steps and the straightness of the back, the pointing of the toes, the extension of the arm. She followed the rules and performed every dance like a pro. She was honored and excited to be asked to teach. She accepted and went to work on the Dale schedule. Within very few weeks she realized this was taking her away from home, and her family, every night and soon tendered her notice. They called several times as she was a popular instructor but, although she had grown to love both dancing and teaching, she didn’t waver – her family was more important. Within another year she had hung her own shingle and become an instructor on her own. This way she could organize her own time and only take on the number of students she desired, limiting herself to 3-nights a week with a Moose Club session and 2 private group sessions. As mom & dad were members of the local Moose Club those members got a discount and only paid $5 apiece – half-price. By ’61, she needed someone to bounce her teaching skills against and as dad was holding down 2-jobs and was unavailable for this purpose, I, as the eldest child and one who showed great interest in learning this skill, fell into this role.

I clearly remember dancing in our kitchen, as it was a big room with a lot of floor space. This was where we worked out new steps, practiced and created new moves. I found dancing agreed with my need to move to any rhythm. My future as a musician (short as it was) was still just a dream that occasionally found me with a pair of drumsticks and a footstool standing in for a full kit. Dancing filled the inner need to move with the music and, in fact, I found most of the dance steps I learned were an excellent interpretation of the music. The rhythm of a Cha-Cha let me shake my hips as the music seemed to require and looked a lot better than making haphazard arm and leg movements that may or may not agree with what the rest of my body wanted to do. Now I had a tool with which I could interpret what I felt! The Waltz was like gliding on ice through clouds of music. Done correctly it was effortless, weightless and almost like I imagine flying. The Samba was sexy and energetic whereas the Tango was just sexy (sexy, sexy, sexy.) The Foxtrot felt like the roaring 20’s to me and the Rumba was like a sexy, Latin waltz. Although I learned to Jitterbug it was nothing like what I felt it needed and, indeed, it was a few years later when I saw this dance done with the energy it deserved. This was an easy dance – one of the easiest – but was less than satisfying for the above reasons. The Mambo was a more sensuous dance with a feeling somewhere between the Samba & the Cha-Cha. Turned out I loved every minute I danced.

Within a year I was performing and demonstrating my skills on the dance floor whenever mom wanted to impress potential students or to show off her teaching skills. I’m pretty sure there was a little pride in her eldest as well for taking hold of these skills so quickly and so well. I performed dance exhibitions for a few Moose Club meetings and in an occasional venue at a club or meeting in which she had contacts and, perhaps hope for some new students. I performed several impromptu demonstrations at school dances when mom was one of the chaperones. In ’62 mom had found a partner for my demonstrations and, although we went through a few (they lost interest after a few weeks or months) mom was always available as a partner if my actual partner was unavailable. I remember a few of these ladies like Elizabeth, Cheryl, and Monique. By 1965 I had a “permanent” partner in Terry (Do you still remember the dances Ms. Moeller?). She lasted a few months.

By the time 1962 had ended I had a handful of classmates as my “students.” This mostly meant I was present and I was available to demonstrate the steps and correct any mistakes or help with any difficulty the boys had. Mom did most of the actual teaching & split the take with me. At $5 a-person I was making around $50 a-week, which at 12, was about $45 more than my allowance. Dad dropped the allowance once I had my own income. I still had all of the chores I had before: Taking the garbage out daily, mowing the substantial sized lawn every 2-weeks with our old push mower, as well as taking my turn, with Steve, at the dishes, sweeping the front sidewalk every Saturday, or shoveling the snow as needed, and babysitting my little brothers when required. It was quickly made clear that these things were not what I was paid for via allowance but were tasks that helped spread the household load among those that could contribute. This division of labor was simply a responsibility of our little family society. The allowance was a sort-of donation to the kids as, at a certain age, they felt every kid needed a bit of spending money both to save and to spend.

It follows that by ’65 I had been “teaching” for about 3-years. By this time mom was well known in the area as one of the premier instructors and turned down more jobs then she accepted. Some of these offers she was simply unable to turn down as they appealed to her better sense of what was right to her. One of these was a class at a park in Waukegan. She had been hired by a local charity group to teach ballroom dancing to a group of mentally challenged, what then was referred to as “retarded” adults. Mom had asked me along for the first class and I was hooked.

Now 3-weeks in and I was realizing that the point of these lessons was not to teach dancing but to offer a changing experience in which the students could interact socially and learn something new and challenging at the same time. Every week we were teaching the same steps over and over again. “1-2-cha-cha-cha, 1-2-cha-cha-cha, 1-2-step-step-step.” BigBill was in the class.

BigBill had been a fixture in our neighborhood since I could remember. He was quiet and friendly. BigBill didn’t talk very much but he was always eager to please even though we were only little kids. Everyone in the neighborhood looked forward to one of BigBill’s rare visits. BigBill could push the merry-go-round faster than anyone else, and in fact he pushed so hard and so fast that we usually had to ask him to slow down or stop as we were often in danger of being thrown into the wind as the centripetal force of the merry-go-round pulled us toward the outer edge of the ride. BigBill could push a swing-rider higher than anyone! BigBill always had a big smile and, even though he didn’t say much, we all trusted BigBill. I knew where BigBill lived but had no idea which adults would be his parents. BigBill never retained one dance step but he enjoyed the classes as much as anyone could. Most all of the students looked forward to our weekly visits as much as did mom and I.

There were lots of other students in class but only BigBill and Renny’s names have remained with me. Renny was, like most in this class, severely challenged with physical problems that accompanied her mental restrictions… but Renny was another big puppy-dog. Renny’s complexion reflected a past of severe acne and hair with a mind of its own. She was maybe 60 lbs overweight and stronger than she knew, which mom and I learned every week when Renny gave us our compulsory hug and a big ol’ sloppy kiss… something we looked forward to every week. Renny, being one of the more outgoing members of a, normally, quiet group reined over her co-members. She had no idea she had this level of influence, as she never tried to exert control, but was a natural leader whom they all followed. If this were a movie Renny would have been the one with the big idea, the one everyone followed, and the one who got everyone in a comical fix. As this was real life that only happened once in a while like when she decided to chase a puppy she wanted to pet. “Help me!” was all she had to say and all but a couple of her group pitched in to catch the little dog, now scared out of its mind with a dozen or more adults chasing, laughing, yelling and running all over the grounds trying to catch the puppy. Half of them were out of breath before we caught up to them and settled everyone down. A great laugh, great fun. An abundance of love.

The event of the year was the annual Christmas Party. They exchanged gifts with each other, having chosen a person’s name from a hat a month before. The main office had little gifts for each of them and mom and I had little dancing nic-nac figures for each of them. They quickly announced they wanted to dance so the party turned into another lesson as most of them still couldn’t remember steps from week-to-week. This lesson was a bit different because discipline was much looser and those that didn’t want to participate were not hassled to join in, as usual lessons required more attention and discipline to keep this crowd under control. Otherwise regular sessions might be more like this party with Renny running around with a sprig of mistletoe to hold over everyone’s head. Renny gave me more than my share of hugs and kisses that evening although I don’t believe I received more of these than anyone else.

Unfortunately the next year, due to budget constraints, the lessons ended. I never saw BigBill, Renny or any of the other students again. I was too old to play on the playground where BigBill used to push us so fast and so high so our paths didn’t cross. I heard Renny died a few months later due to physical complications stemming from the brain damage she sustained when she was a child and which sent her to us.

When I think of this group, in my mind, they are surrounded with an aura of love. It comes from within each of them and blesses those of us lucky enough to have met these wonderful and innocent adult kids.

To and from each and every one of them… much love.