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.

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

“Its 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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

1977 - Small Town Personallities

I was raised in a small village called Winthrop Harbor in Northern Illinois. Winthrop Harbor, "The Cornerstone of Illinois," had a population of around 1,400 people. I’m not sure why but our “unique” characters were not all that “unique.” We had Robin Bottenfield, an unconventional rebel but not really weird; Tennie Ford, a brilliant-nerd rebel (although you had to know Tennessee pretty well to know he was a rebel); John Orfali, an intellectual hippie rebel like so many of us were to become in the future; and Rory Tompoles... class-clowns are always rebels but usually not abnormally strange – just funny. (I’m sorry if you’re not mentioned here but I had to stop somewhere…don’t worry though because if you think you might be weird …that’s actually pretty normal.)

1977 - Small Town Personalities

Maybe it was because our village was essentially a remote Chicago suburb and we considered ourselves, although rural, somewhat more cosmopolitan than the “more rural” folk, but we really didn’t have an Ernest T. Bass or an Otis, the town drunk. Or, really, we may have had them but only family members were aware of whom they might be.

I found this to be somewhat different when I moved to Southern Illinois and into a small town called Effingham. The town had traditionally been a small village until 2 major interstate freeway crossed paths just outside city limits. Now, due to increased traffic, the town had grown but retained much of its rural small-town charm. This included people whom, in a different place, may have been ostracized or, at least, not well accepted into the town’s infrastructure of personalities that make up the mind-set of small American villages.

Granville
“I mow the lawn at the drive-in every year,” he said. The character in front of my desk was an unusual sight in 1977…or any year. Granville stood in front of me with greasy shoulder-length hair, a 2-day beard, a faded red/blue wide plaid button-down collared shirt, shoes, socks and…a heavy flannel skirt. The skirt was slightly tattered and dirty. It was a tan and brown narrow-plaid flannel skirt with a yellow stripe that came to just below his knobby knees. It fought for attention with the shirt, which DID NOT match the skirt. It also displayed his hairy, varicose legs to the world – overall this was not a pleasant sight. Slightly taller than me at around 5’ 8” he looked like he was in serious need of a shower, a shave…and a job.

I had seen Granville around the downtown district washing windows and sweeping sidewalks. I had noticed he cleaned up the lobby of the little motor inn across the street every morning and swept and washed the floors of the bookshop, right next door, every Thursday. A unique individual, Granville was “cared for” by the little town of Effingham by giving him all of the little miscellaneous jobs for which businesses used to hire youngsters before child-labor laws. “Well,” I said, “let me think about it. Stop by tomorrow and I’ll let you know.” He left.

As I was dialing my bosses telephone number to take advantage of his experience in this particular theatre – many years before this had been his first job and in the town to which he still commuted to every Wednesday and Friday, when my assistant manager, Kathy, stopped in front of my open office door. “I see you’ve met Granville. Oh, he’s a little rascal. He works at the drive-in every year. Was he here for that? I don’t know…I never trusted him but they hire him every year. Tsk-tsk-tsk” She ticked her tongue as she moved on.

The phone rang on the other end. My boss, the GM answered, “Mike.”

“Mike? Larry. I just met Granville and…”

“Oh yeah, Granville.” He laughed, “Bet he gave you a turn didn’t he?” Our conversation continued with details you don’t need or want but, ultimately, it was revealed that Granville, indeed, was hired every year to mow the lawn at the drive-in although Mike made it very clear that Granville was not to use the big tractor-mower that I used to mow the surrounding area and the 2-acres adjacent to the drive-in that lay fallow. Granville was restricted to mowing the grass near the entry-drive to the lot, the playground and the large left-hand area that butted up against a windbreak tree line.

Incidentally, during that summer we had a hail-storm that wiped out over 150 of the trailer-lights (flashed in specific order) that “filled” the under-side of the marquee that hung over the street in front of the, Heart Theatre, my indoor house. The hail bounced the 12-feet up from the ground to bust 65% of these lights. It also made my new car look like the surface of the moon. Kathy, my assistant manager, learned to her distress the next day, while replacing light bulbs that there was nothing under that skirt that Granville wore. Kathy decided maybe she needed to get over her fear of heights and let him hold the ladder instead of the other way around.

I once asked Granville why he wore a skirt. He told me several years before, while he was in junior-high, his family moved to Effingham from "the big city." He said he dressed like a city kid while his classmates wore jeans and farmer-johns. as he was severely outnumbered he was made fun of and generally ostricized. In rebellion one day he dressed as outragiously as possible, including a skirt. He found that was picked on just as much but also, somehow, became a celebrity, which he found he liked. It was comfortable for him after awhile and he just adopted this mode because it "kept him unique."

Kathy
45-Years old. Bald. Sweaty…always sweaty and naturally wired like a rat-terrier. She had never married and was still living with mom. A talent for mathematics that was truly amazing –for the four basic functions: addition, subtraction, multiplication and division. She could add the candy prices in her head, then figure and add tax before I could even enter the figures in a calculator. She was never wrong. If there was a mistake it was me and never her.

But, Kathy was a living soap opera. Everyone else’s business was grist for her rumor-filled mind. Her public face was energetic and confident but in reality she was foul-mouthed and less than confident about her ability to deal with new realities. The addition of a protestant church to this mostly Catholic enclave was still controversial to her many years after the event.

Kathy was the person who sat across the street from my drive-in theatre with binoculars and a notebook writing down every time a worker took a smoke break, both during and after work hours, as well as noting every time they took a drink from “a can of unknown substance,” which was known to me as orange soda. She reported the next AM to the home office that my workers had hung-out in the concession stand drinking and smoking unknown substances. As I was “the manager from California” she “knew” what these substances were: beer and marijuana. These were the substances I knew as Orange Soda and Marlboro cigarettes.

She was in the mysterious vehicle that sat outside my house until I arrived in the middle of a snowstorm so she could report that I had taken one of my girls home that night – which, in essence, was true except I took her to her parents house and not my own – which might be why it took 1 ½ hours to drive the 10 miles home. These two incidents are added up to the straw that broke this camels’ back & caused me to quit this position. Both of these episodes are being prepared to publish as I write.

I had been told she was instrumental in the former marital friction of the company’s general manager’s marriage when she told his wife about the affair she had imagined. She was caught in this bald-faced when she accused Mike of spending the night in a hotel with a mystery woman. Turned out the mystery woman was Mike’s wife. The previous manager and brother-in-law of the former manager, now GM, left his job because of rumors and accusations that had no connection to reality. Unfortunately, as I was from Southern California, all of her imagined controversy was assumed to have been accurate, this time. Eventually it was time to go.

Tom
Tom rode to the front door in his Harley-Davidson golf cart and parked off to the side. Struggling with his crutches he hoisted himself out of the cart and through the theatre door. Dragging himself to the stairs he placed one crutch on his arm next to the first, which now hung loose from his right forearm, and grabbed hold of the handrail with both hands. Gritting his teeth he lifted one leg off of the floor and placed it on the step. Leaning forward he placed his weight on the elevated foot and stepped up, dragging his other foot to the same level and, with great effort on to the next step. Re-aligning his hands higher up the rail he pulled himself up one painful step at a time. It easily took all of 8 or 9 minutes for Tom to attain his nightly goal of the second floor where he would proceed to the Projection Booth to play the movies and do any maintenance needed while the evening’s entertainment played itself out on the big screen.

Tom rode a Harley golf cart because, after his last cart had broken down the Junior Chamber of Commerce voted to buy and maintain a new cart so he could get around town. He was known in town to be a war hero and someone that had been a recognized figure downtown as he went from bar to bookstore to bar. Tom was well loved in this little town where people stood together and cared for their own. That was just how this little town was.

Alex
“Yessir Mr. Larry.” Alex did the cleaning in one of the company theatres in which I spent time cleaning an old pipe organs disassembled parts from. There were old dressing rooms to empty and the old carbon-arc lamps. There were old vaudeville props that needed taken to the dump. He was an ancient old black gentleman that had a severe case of arthritis that caused him to move very slowly. Alex was in his 90’s but maintained his job just as he had for the last 35-years. He was salaried which we maintained to enable him to keep his job. An hourly worker would have been finished in 1 ½ hours but Alex took all day due to his slowed movements. The job he did was always excellent and he always left the theater spotless. Despite asking him to simply call me “Larry” he continued to call me “Mr. Larry” just as my dad was “Mr. Bob.” He was an honorable gentleman with an unbelievable lifetime of experiences, very few of which he related as it took time away from his cleaning. It was quickly apparent, after a short conversation with Alex that there was a lot more to him and his life than he preferred to reveal. When he passed I sincerely felt that Alex’s passing was humanity’s loss.

The Catholic Church
I often thought of the town’s big Catholic Church as its own personality because it held so much sway over the town and the activities and entertainment considered being “acceptable.” An example of their influence was illustrated when my theatre booked “Kentucky Fried Movie.” The film was a series of short skits directed by John Landis. It was bold, irreverent and “racy.” It lasted 2-days. The nuns attended the first evening, as usual. The following day I received a call from the home-office. We would be re-booking “The Outlaw Josie Wales” the next day in order to remove the current film from availability. They didn’t approve so the film was pulled. This happened twice while I was there although the second film “Rabbit Test” was pulled before Billy Crystal or Joan Rivers ever got anywhere close to our screen. Instead The Spy Who Loved Me arrived a week early and stayed for a 2-week stand.

Thinking back of the movies screened at the drive in as opposed to the indoor house… hmmm… it immediately becomes obvious...

...there were no nuns in that back row.

1978 - Lessons Learned - Scheduling Resources

Two years after starting this job I decided to get out of music for reasons I may go into some other time. I decided to go into entertainment management but already had this job that was paying the bills. Going to a career specialist we looked at all of my experience and decided, with years of manufacturing experience, manufacturing would be a good fit until I found an entertainment position. He also told me two things that have stayed with me since: #1 “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.”; #2 “Everyone gets in a rut. Choose your rut carefully.”
Easier said than done.

1978 – Lessons Learned – Scheduling Resources

“We’d like to offer you full-time employment,” Gene said, “but we’ll have to ask you to take a cut in pay. We can’t afford to pay you what the temp agency pays.”

I considered the reasons they had to offer me a position in the Shipping Department at Vernitron Control Components.

Consider: When I arrived at my temp assignment I was told they were weeks behind in shipments although the production-end of the business was delivering on time. The Operations Manager, Gene, informed me production problems had all been overcome at the cost of burying the shipping department and they would need some help for the next few weeks or until they caught up. He introduced me to my direct Supervisor, Rick, who took me to the department, where he graphically demonstrated the problem Gene had described.

We gingerly stepped around teetering stacks of open pallets of flattened packing cartons and toward an open doublewide door. We stepped through into a large room, about 25’ x 50’. The door we came through was in a long wall with the the remainder covered with bins all the way to the ceiling, organized for storing various sizes of flattened cartons. On the opposite wall an open window into final test was in the far corner with the department desk opposite the door. The parameter of the room was lined with 4’ x 8’ tables with a doublewide row of 3 of these tables down the center of the room. The far end revealed a window into the lunch area where stood 6 picnic tables.

The picnic tables and bench-seats were full of units awaiting shipment.

As was every table, bin and rolling cart available inside the department. Which, I was told, was how they had been for 4-months. They covered every table. Each bin was full. In some of the bins, supposed to be full of flattened packing cartons, flattened cartons were used to stack available units into multiple levels. 3-Rolling Carts and the desk were full of units and units were shoved under the tables under ¾’s of the tables along the walls. There were hundreds and hundreds of servos and syncros of every size sitting waiting packaging and shipment. They varied from 1.3” to 8” across and 2” to 10” tall. They were solid and heavy and a considerable number of these required special or mil-spec packaging. Some of this would require wrapping in soft-pac then bubble-wrap with desiccant inside a heat-sealed metal-foil bag, which was placed inside a folded box, or can and then inside a heaver carton. All levels from the bag-up required special markings, which were added in shipping.

The cartons not stacked in the hall were thrown haphazardly under the tables in the center of the room. If we needed a carton we searched until we found the right size. If we were out we looked on the pallets outside or ordered more and used whatever we could find for commercial shipments. As military shipments and some of our customers like Lockheed and Boeing required specific sized cartons, many of these orders sat waiting for those cartons to arrive – or to be ordered.

Before Rick left he introduced me to my single co-worker, Phil. That was the last time I saw Phil until lunch. After lunch he disappeared again. Alone I got out a dozen or so shipments that day.

I soon found this was Phil’s usual Motus Operandi. He punched the clock on time in the morning and reported to his department where he was self-supervised. After shedding his jacket and stashing his lunch he packed a couple of orders and waited for his girlfriend, Anna, to show up and make coffee. After she arrived Phil headed for the Molding Department where his girl friend worked. That would be the last I would see of him.

I didn’t have a girlfriend working there and, besides, even if I had, I had work to do. Three weeks later the department was empty of late orders and only current orders were waiting packaging. The solution was really very simple: I started packing shipments when I arrived in the morning and I continued until I left in the evening. As I freed up the box-bins I sorted out the cartons stacked under the center tables and organized them in their respective bins. I ordered cartons that were required for shipping. And I just kept packing. That was when the VP of Operations offered me a “permanent” position… if I agreed to a cut in pay.

I replied to Gene that I would be unable to accept a cut in pay, as I knew the caliber of my work and the conditions before I arrived. “Okay,” said Gene, “I’ll check with the General Manager but he’s pretty adamant about holding the line in pay, I doubt if they’ll budge.” He walked off.

Let me quickly describe the plant. It was laid out in a very efficient way as raw material and components arrived at the back door and went across the hall for receiving. After receipt they went thru a window into Receiving Inspection and thru a window to the stockroom where they were either stored or kitted for production. Processing and manufacturing started at one end of the plant and proceeded around the parameter of the building from process-to-process thru windows, which decreased hallway traffic to almost nothing. Mirrors were installed at each of the 4 blind-corners. It was this reflection system that allowed me to watch Gene as he walked the inside parameter of the building and showed back up in the department a few minutes later, never entering the office area. “I went to bat for you and managed to convince the boss you were worth the extra expense. But I got the rate you wanted …you owe me.” I ignored the last. I had a new job with insurance, vacation and a paycheck!

One week after accepting I was summoned to Gene’s office. “Since everything is caught up in the shipping department, I wondered if you’d be open to transferring to the Molding Department as Lead-Worker?” I gave this some thought. I had absolutely no experience running machinery, particularly molding machines but, shucks and what the heck (!), I decided to give it a try. I was taken to the Molding Room and introduced to the ladies working this area. The room had formerly been a closet, and as a closet probably considered quite large. Adding 2 floor-mounted and 5 table-mounted molding machines plus a working table, cooling fan and chairs for 3-ladies to this closet made it somewhat intimate. Adding me crowded us even more but we made room.

I quickly found our production output was around 5-units a-day for the largest units, made on the floor-mounted machine. Often 3-4 of these was rejected for one or more of several reasons, which brought the actual acceptable average output to 7 a-week. The quantity desired was 15 a-day. We were a bit behind.

Of the smaller units 10 a-day kept pace with the orders but often managed to get behind after a big order and the girls would scramble to catch-up. They tended not to worry about the larger units as they were always behind so scrambling would not do them any good, consequently, they didn’t really try.

I decided to see if I could better affect the schedule, which went like this:
7:00 – Workers arrive and turn on 3 machines for warm-up (1 floor-mount & 2 table-mount), obtain resin for the day, make coffee
7:30 – Inject first unit in floor unit
7:40 – Remove first unit from machine, mandrel attached, remove mandrel and place unit on cooling fan, wait for unit to cool, drink coffee
7:45 – Inject 1st table unit – machine 1
7:50 – Inject 1st table unit – machine 2
7:55 – Remove 1st table unit – mach #1 – place on cooling fan
8:00 – Remove 1st table unit – mach #2 – place on cooling fan
8:10 – Begin clean-up of first floor unit
8:30 – Break
8:40 – Complete clean-up of first floor unit
8:50 – Clean-up 1st table unit – mach #1
9:00 - Clean-up 1st table unit – mach #2
9:10 – Start 2nd floor unit.

I first began to stretch the workday when I began to arrive ½ hour before everyone else so the machinery was warmed up upon the crews arrival. I chased Phil out of the department and we began running units in parallel. This upped our output on the small units to easily keep up and increased our daily production to 12 of the floor-units, most still rejected in QC for failure to meet required specifications. Still not enough to meet schedule.

The reasons for failure were 1) Bubbles in the epoxy, 2) Cracks in the epoxy, and 3) pinched leads. This also contributed to the lack of desired output. Looking at the desired output I realized we may have a capacity problem but decided eliminating rejects might be the best place to start increasing throughput. First I attacked the most frequent problem: Bubbles in the epoxy.

I did some experimenting with the curing and cooling times but nothing seemed to help. I took the material specs for the epoxy home to study in detail and noticed a subtitle note regarding the ability of the dry resin to soak-up moisture. It was recommended we store the material in a frost-free freezer to prevent moisturization. It was time to try something new. I began to pick-up only enough material to make 2 units at a time, replenishing after breaks and lunch. Bubbles dropped to 0. Engineering had been assisting me during this time with suggestions and evaluation. Together we determined the bubbles were out gassing from the moisture soaked up after the initial runs. By storing the resin in the freezer until just before needed eliminated the soaking up of atmospheric moisture and eliminated the bubbles completely. Next I looked at the problem of cracks.

The units consisted of a series of iron stackings and coils of copper wire that were impregnated and sealed by the molding process. They were set into an aluminum ring or housing through which 2-leads extended. I theorized that the iron, the epoxy, the copper and the aluminum all heated and cooled at different rates. I postulated that leaving the unit on the heavy solid hardened-steel mandrel, while the unit cooled, would help keep the heat up and allow all of the components to cool at the same time. It worked – most of the cracks went completely away. When I began pre-heating the mandrel getting the entire unit to temperature before injecting epoxy, the cracks dropped to 0. Unfortunately pre-heating and leaving the mandrel on the unit cut into our production time and output dropped to 9 a-day. As rejects were down, the quantity of actual acceptable units was up, but still not to acceptable levels. I began to campaign my supervisor for an additional mandrel.

During my campaign I mentioned to the engineer with whom I had been working that overall production had dropped, why it dropped and the fact I was looking for an additional tool. I told him I had just gotten permission to buy a second mandrel. He was surprised to learn I didn’t know about the “other fixture.” He led me to a big dusty room full of obsolete products, old parts, tooling and “bonded” material. Leading me to an old metal cabinet we opened it to find a complete set of tooling minus the mandrel. More searching came up with a mandrel that was not yet hardened. As the newest mandrel was cut and ready to send to hardening I managed to get both of these done for under $100. I also managed to get the two little fixtures used to direct the leads modified so sharp edges no longer cut the leads…I now had 2 complete sets of tooling and 3 mandrels. Total costs were $100. I was elated!

I was now to discover an innate talent: my natural ability to do simple capacity loading and planning. Using this talent I immediately improved my throughput to 18 units a-day. With a bit more re-scheduling, which now included:
1-mandrel and stack preheating,
1 unit setting up in the machine and
1-unit cooling,
I managed to get production up to 30 units a-day with no rejects. That was how I got into trouble.

After my third month of employment and my second week of full production at 30 units a-day I was summoned to the office on the following Monday morning where I found Gene and Rick waiting for me. They looked angry. They were. They immediately accused me of “faking the numbers” telling me it was impossible to get 30 good units a-day from the available resources. I protested explaining that I had added some tooling and was now using both floor-mounted machines. They still didn’t believe me. I sat and listened to how my stated level of production was impossible. I was accused of robbing stacks from the rejected pile of stacks and windings in the Salvage Department and was told that once these units got to test they would all be rejected at a “huge cost in time and material!” They were pissed! Eventually Gene turned red and began yelling and accusing me of trying to sabotage his career. In my final defense I asked them to visit the department and let me explain how and why production had increased. Of course, they called my bluff, which wasn’t a bluff at all.

After a short explanation of how I eliminated the reasons for rejects I showed them the additional tooling, which neither of them realized was available despite the fact that they both had signed off on the additional mandrel and the hardening. After I explained how the scheduling enabled us to increase production for $100 they went away shaking their heads and muttering to themselves. Rick came back 10-minutes later and told me if I ever embarrassed him like that again I would be “out looking for another job…” A week later Gene drafted me into the Production and Material Planning Department over Ricks protests. I became a production planner and expeditor.

So began my career in manufacturing.