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.

1971 - Seasick

Ahh, the life of a sailor. The comradre, the spirit of the sea, the salt air. The polished brass, which I polished, and the sore ankles from high hatches, the cat-o-nine-tails and the midnight floggings. Hanging by the yard arm and keel-hauling the scurvvie lubber who ships aboard the Queens finest... uhh... I... well... (arrr... when ships were made a'wood and men were made a'iron, matie...) and... ...I... uhh... never mind.

1971 – Seasick

By 1971 I was an old salt who would soon be leaving the military service of my country and nothing was going to make me seasick anymore. This was not the condition of Mr. Parker (real guy but not his name.) Mr. Parker was a brand-new ensign recently assigned to the USS Southerland and we abused him mercilessly. As this was our first 3-day transit our first stop would be Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. He had at least 3-days of this abuse to deal with. Mr. Parker had shown up for his first watch at sea in CIC (Combat Information Center) looking distinctly green with unfocused eyes and a desire to be anywhere else… so, of course, we took advantage of the situation by advising him of the best way to kick this unfortunate circumstance. As his ears and his eyes were sending different signals to his brain, it was in a confused state. In this condition his head could not yet rationalize the sight with his sense of balance. This sent shudders of sickness through his bones and passed that right on to his muscles, which relayed the condition onto his stomach. We had advised him to lay flat on the deck to ameliorate some of the effect of the rocking ship. Of course laying flat with head toward the bow and feet toward the stern would cause the least possible amount of movement on his inner ear and had the best chance of calming his confused equilibrium. This is the reason he had him laying athwart-ship, head to port, feet to starboard. In this position we easily had plenty of room to stand above him, cigars in hand, watching his legs and head exchange relative positions every 37 seconds. Head up, feet down… head down, feet up… head up, feet down… head down, feet up… all the while the ship plowed ahead diving, on the other axis, into the oncoming waves and riding back up their oncoming sisters (then continue this incessantly 24-hours a-day for the next 3-days.) This while we discussed how bad Navy cooking could be when it was at it’s worst. Salt-pork and beans, 5-week old formaldehyde cornbread & worm and weevil-infested oatmeal, mmmm. I believe he pretty much lived with that bucket that day. Thinking back of that day probably brought back memories of my first few days aboard my first, and only, Naval Vessel.

Arriving in San Diego from Iowa City where my parents now lived I was transported to 32nd street Naval base by a base bus where I was directed to the pier where I was to find my new assignment. I wondered through the NavSta gazing around me at all of the new sights. My experience in Illinois, with ships, consisted of tankers and transport ships we could see on the horizon as they were headed for the Port of Chicago. Occasionally we would find a large vessel tied up to a Waukegan pier but they were much smaller than the ships I was seeing and, of course, none of them were Naval vessels. Even though Great lakes Naval Base was right there just a mile north of Waukegan the only “ship” assigned to the base was a small minesweeper used only occasionally for training. These big grey ships were actual SHIPS! They were BIG! Of course later in my career I would not be impressed by what I eventually learned were some of the smallest combat vessels afloat but… for now… huge! I clearly remember walking down the pier and spying the Hull Number, DD-743, thinking “This is almost unreal. Almost as if I’m dreaming… this MUST be a form of shock because as unreal as this feels… here I am. And THIS is my new home. Incredible!”

I was soon signed aboard and assigned to a birthing compartment with the Radarmen with whom I would be working. As the division was shorthanded the traditional 6-weeks or more on deck crew (scrapping, painting, scullery duty, boiler duty, etc) was skipped and I moved straight into the crew I would be working with over the next 3-years excepting changes when others came or went. We had a Chief: RDC Royster who was a big, big (big) guy. He was strong, commanding but fair and I appreciated his patience as well as that of RD2, soon to be RD1 Gerry Youngquist. Also assigned was RD2 Mitch something, RD3 Jerry Seals, and several other guys whose names, after these many years, I don’t recall. The other fairly new seamen were RDSN’s Morrison, Blumberg, Cash and Kleindienst. With all of whom I was soon to became close friends.

My first time at sea was to arrive within the week. THIS was a new experience. All hatches were dogged and tied down for sea. As we never knew what kind of swells we would work in for the next few days everything that might possibly tumble across the room was tied down securely. As we got underway in our dark little room behind the bridge I sat at the radar repeater (scope) taking readings of bearing (direction) and range (distance) of anything in the bay. My legs hung loosely down towards the floor and I found the sensation of them moving mysteriously back-and-forth to be interesting and a bit surrealistic. Fascinating – Then we passed 1-SD & everything changed. 1-SD is the last buoy leaving port or the first when entering. The bottom has dropped to offshore depths and the port authority’s dredging responsibility was in our rear-view mirror. In this case our rear-view-mirror was the Aft-Lookout. The ships bow dove into the oncoming waves and gave a subtitle bounce. As this was my first time a-sea I thought we must have met an unseen storm offshore. Naaa – this was just the ocean meeting the relative calm of the bay. I was further fascinated by my legs when they began to make big movements back-and forth… back-and-forth… back-and-forth. I watched my legs move back-and forth… back-and-forth… back-and-forth. This so cool and… gulp… or is it? I bounced off my seat and headed like a shot for the trash can. OH! MY! GOD! I feel like crap! Unhhh – Oh… no. Oh… please. Just… let… this… go… away. I was not in a good place. Oh I was sick… really sick. Nothing was making sense. The walls were where the floor should be but… no they’re ok or… no now they’re the other wall. I was sent to the bridge-wing to get a breath of fresh air.

The rush of chilly early morning air slapped me in the face… I didn’t care… I felt like… ooooh… just a minute… ooooh… not so good. The horizon bounced up and down with the swaying of the ship. A damp smell of wet salt hung in the dead air. My eyes agreed with the sight of the changing horizon but somehow the fact that my feet and body were not agreeing with all of my other senses continued to distress me, although not as much as a few minutes previously. After a few minutes that turned into ½ an hour I re-entered my workplace, CIC. As I re-entered the smoke-filled and stuffy compartment I took one good breath and did an immediate about-face back to the wing where I spent most of the rest of the day.

My second time at sea I was perfectly ok. It was a lovely spring day and a beautiful day to be at sea. The smell of the salt air and the sounds of the circling seagulls blended with the sound and feel of the engines that were pushing us along at a good clip. The exhilaration of the day made it a delight. The wind blowing through my hair and the movement of the deck under my feet reminded me of my kind of carnival-ride. As I have had a weak stomach for many years I avoided the Tilt-a-Whirl, the Octopus or any other ride that flung me around at irregular intervals. I loved the Ferris Wheel or anything that took me high or fast… just not with unexpected movement. I had a great time.

My third time at sea was a repeat of the first for half-a-day until my body accepted the sensations as something I was getting used to and, in fact, this time after we tied back up to the pier I was dock-sick for 2-days. Nothing was moving and my body was screaming “Comeon! Pick an environment and stick with it!” After that I never had one minute of sickness even when seas were rough enough to keep both the chief and the captain in their rack.

Now, standing over Mr. Parker, I celebrated my saltiness in the traditional manner. I was being cruel and mean to the newest “boot.” We let a woozy Mr. Parker up after a while and called his boss, Lieutenant JG Weaver who took the rest of the watch for Mr. Parker who spent the rest of the day in his rack.

The following day Mr. Parker was fine so we sent him to the bridge for a conference with the captain. Unfortunately for him he wore a “Kick-Me” sign on his back. The captain, of course, informed him that he had not requested any such meeting. Mr. Parker turned to go. The Captain kicked him in the butt. During the next watch so we made sure Mr. Parker understood the officer of the watch was responsible for watering the compass rose at the beginning of each mid-watch. It took only 15 minutes for him to figure out the compass-rose was the etching on the face of a compass that tells you which direction the needle is pointing. When he returned, now wiser, he refused to go pickup a bucket-of-steam. A little while later Ladd asked him, “Are you looking forward to your first liberty ashore? Have you ever been in Hawaii before?” Mr. Parker answered to the negative to the last question. No, he had never been in Hawaii and was very excited about our scheduled 3-day stay. We assured him that Hawaii was a great port and to take full advantage of guided-tours the first time there. “Did you sign the Port-List, yet?”

“What’s the Port-List?”

“The Port-List is the sheet used for the list of people that have requested shore liberty… you know, so you can leave the ship for the day.”

“I’ve never heard of this… where do I find this list? I really need to get my name on this! Who keeps the list?” We quickly informed him that it moved from compartment to compartment until everyone had gotten a chance to sign. We also told him that, of course, we need to keep a skeleton crew on board to man the basic operations so if one did not get on the list they might be stuck with duty for 3-days. “Where is the list now? How do I get signed up?” Mr. Parker’s face reflected real concern. Here he was in Hawaii and he wouldn’t be able to see any of it! This would never do! “Can one of you help me find it?”

I reached for the squawk-box, “IC – CIC”

“CIC – IC – Aye” Answered from the box. Leonard, a good friend and fellow musician was manning the Internal Communications station. I told him Mr. Parker was looking for the Port-List and asked him if he still had possession. “No, I just sent it to the sonar-dome for sign-up. It should be there for a few minutes, but it’s almost full. If Mr. Parker wants to get signed up he better track it down right away.” Leonard clearly knew the joke. The “Port-List,” in reality is the number of degrees a ship may lean, or list, to port, aka: the left. As far as liberty went – if you didn’t already have duty assigned you were available to leave, period. No need to be on a list. Facts were, if the ship leaned slightly right we would have a “starboard list.” This was a common method of messing with a new crew member so virtually everyone would be in on the joke. Most would go along as they, too, had been a victim of this earlier in their own on-board career. Mr. Parker headed for the deepest level of the ship’s bow where the sonar-dome was located. I called ahead, “Sonar - CIC”

“CIC – Sonar – Aye”

“Jimmy, Mr Parker is on his way down to sign the port-list. Let him know where it is, ok?”

“You got it, Lar. Hmmm, I think it was just picked up by a BT (Boiler Technician). We’ll send him to the bilges, thanks. I’ll call Hymie and give him a head-up. CIC – Sonar – Out”

An hour later Mr. Parker showed up a bit dirtier, greasier and none too happy. “I’ve been all over this ship! After I got to Sonar they told me the list had just left and sent me to below to the bowels of the ship. When I got there they sent me back up and way-aft to the After-Shaft Alley. They sent me to the Signal Bridge, then to the After-Lookout and to the Ward Room! The Captain was there and he sent me to the Chain Locker! They sent me to After-Steering who sent me to Stores who sent me to a storage hold but it was already gone and they sent me to the Electronics Tech Department. Henry, the 2nd class ET finally told me about the list! You guys have been messin’ with me! He told me how you are sending me all over looking for the port-list.” Mr. Parker now knew the joke was on him. We looked at each other – fun while it lasted. Mr. Parker continued, “Henry said it had been on the bridge the whole time! When I got to the bridge Mr. Fink had the OD Watch and he told me I had to wait until I was off watch to sign! I’ll be there at 4:01.” Eventually Mr. Parker found out the whole truth and, yes, get went ashore and had a great time.

And… bonus… Mr. Parker can now easily find almost any department or work station on the ship – and no place was too remote for him – after all… he had probably already been there.

1972 - Pick-Up

A cold night... a warm body... but not just any... body.

1972 – Pick-Up

The headlights of the taxi rode up her long, thin legs as I pulled into the empty parking lot. She leaned against the wall in a position that told me she had put a few away this night. She would be lucky not to fall off of her tall spiked heels… the kind of shoes Oprah calls “kiss-me pumps.” Long blonde hair revealing dark roots covered her face as her head hung down, one arm crooked at the elbow pushed against the wall holding her upright. The mini-skirt came to mid-thigh revealing the thin line of a garter strap in silhouette, the top of the stocking clipped securely. I imagined that when she had left her house that evening she had probably looked young and vital where now she just looked drunk. I gave a short toot on the horn. She looked up. The shadows made lines of worry appear to cross her face as she looked up. At 2:45 AM the bar had been closed for at least 45 minutes and she looked abandoned. We were in the middle of nowhere, a couple of miles outside downtown with only a few other business about – all long shuttered. Her arm came off the wall and she held her hand up. Her body began to topple loosely toward the brick facing. A look of confusion slid onto her face as she realized she was now off balance. She continued to hold her limp-wristed hand in the air as she twisted her rear-end toward the rough siding to take the impact. Instead her skirt caught the rough brick and swept up her thighs as her body slid toward the ground revealing the other leg with her hose torn from just above her knee to halfway up her thigh. A single garter fastened to the rear of the stocking held it tight enough to clearly display the tear and the headlights displayed the accompanying dirty, soiled knee on the torn side. She sat down heavy on the dirt, headlights now barely highlighting white panties and the remaining straps of the bright red garter belt. Dark holes where her hooded eyes would be were suddenly lit-up although shockingly offset by smeared makeup. She looked up with eyes askance, appearing slightly out of focus. The bright red lipstick that covered her lips seemed to extend off the right side of her mouth ending in a red slash that crossed her cheek. Could she be hurt? I jumped from the cab and ran to her side.

She grimaced and looked up as I grabbed her arm. “Are you ok?” I asked. I looked again. Whoa! The grimace was a smile. The red slash an obvious miss from the last refreshment of her makeup. She evidently hadn’t realized she had left such an obvious mark of carelessness. Lines of worry turned into lines of age as she looked up. She was 40-45 if a day and perhaps as much as 50. She was obviously aged before her time and her exact age would be hard to pin down… it definitely was not less than 40. At my tender age of 22 she appeared really, REALLY old to me and a somewhat disjointed and discomforting picture of a much younger woman. Close in I could see the lines of worry were actually the lines that a rough life had etched into her face. I could see a lifetime of alcohol, cigarettes, late nights and cheap dates. At one time she was probably lovely… now she was simply a scary caricature of herself. I bent to help her up.

“Thanks, honey.” A voice like gravel seemed to fit her appearance and her breath confirmed years of cigarettes, cheap gin and more. “You’re a life-saver, sweetie.” She coughed twice and spat the results into the dirt. “Gimme a hand here… thanks.” She leaned heavily against me as we headed for the cab. Her right arm snaked around my waist and I felt her pinch my ass as she pressed her body against me. Her right breast was pushed into my side and, I noticed halfheartedly, she was not being subtitle at all now as she held my arm and ground her half-revealed boobs against it, "accidently" sweeping both back and forth in an obvious effort to be desirable. It was not working. She giggled like a little girl but it turned into another cough and her step paused as she finished with a leathery laugh that was anything but girlish. She looked up at me with a glassy stare and growled in her sweetest voice, “I think it’s time to get me to bed.” *hic*

“Uhh, Yeah.” I opened the door to the right left side of the cab halfway before she pushed it away with her left. She grabbed my hand as I reached back out to retrieve the closing panel.

“Let it go, honey.” She whispered like a road grader. “All the other drivers always let me sit up front.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m a pretty new driver and I was told to never let anyone sit up front.”

“Oh come on! All the drivers know me. I’m safe. Besides, when I sit in back I get car sick… you should probably let me sit up here,” she pulled the handle to the front passenger door, “or you might have to cleanup after me." She threw what would have to pass for a smile over her shoulder, "Then I’d be awful embarrassed… you wouldn’t want to do that would you, sugar?” She climbed in without awaiting an answer. Nonplussed, I stood impotent as she settled into the right side of the bench seat. I paused a beat and closed the door.

Climbing in the driver’s side of the Black & White Checker Cab I grabbed the mic and radioed the pick-up into dispatch. I turned the meter on and looked at my passenger who sat with eyes closed leaning against the closed door, her head against the window in search of a cool surface for her forehead. She rolled the window down a couple of inches and the car filled with a chilly breeze. I was glad there was no snow tonight but, although it had been an unseasonably warm day, the nights in February remained winter cold so the draft cut right through my shirtsleeves and thin jacket. I was glad I had taken to wearing my woolen navy watch cap and pulled it tighter to my head remembering to keep it stylishly cocked-low over my eyebrows in a desperate attempt to look both cool & tough.

She lit a cigarette. She took a single long drag and tossed it out the slit of a window and put her forhead against the cold glass. After a few moments her head lolled loosely on her shoulders as we proceeded to our destination.

“Pull in here, honey.” Accidently whispering her best sleepy imitation of Wolfman Jack. I wasn’t aware she was awake but felt somewhat relieved at knowing I wouldn’t have to spend 10-minutes trying to wake a passed-out drunk or necessitate the never-used option of carrying her onto her porch or calling the police. Pulling in the driveway my lights lit up the darkened little house. It was one of several small dilapidated 2-3 room cabins in a part of town in which I had never before found myself.

“Here we are! That’s 8-90,” I said reading the dollars and cents off the meter. It cost $2.50 to get into the cab and .20 every ¼ mile thereafter. A $2.90 fare was the most profitable as the most cash was made the first ¼ mile. At 8-miles of driving through town and again into the outskirts, I was too far out to expect my next fare to be anywhere near me.

I was initially taken back a bit to see her reach into her neckline and begin fumbling around inside her bra. She mumbled something like “…it’s here somewhere…” and continued mumbling intelligible consonants sweetened by an occasional vowel until she whipped out a $10 & a $5. “Here you go, hon... keep the change,” she said and held her hand out. As I reached out she grabbed my right wrist with her left hand. “Would you like to come in for a while? Would you like a beer… or anything.” The pause in her sentence said volumes. I felt a shiver rush up my spine. She leaned forward giving her shoulders just enough of a little shake to move the liberal contents of her now very loose blouse. The view was undeniably irresistible… until I looked into her red-rimmed eyes and got a whiff from something that smelled like an overflowing ashtray from an O’Hare Airport waiting room.

“No, thanks,” I said, “I’ve got to get back to work!” I tried to stay chipper and upbeat as I ignored her come on.

“Come on, baby. You won’t be sorry.” She looked at me with what I’m sure she thought was an irresistible tilt of head that simply made her look vaguely like a marionette with a cocked and misglued head. Her hair stood out in unpredictable curls, bunches and wads of tangled bleached-blonde straw. “Come on in, hon. I don’t want to be alone tonight.” I felt her hand grope my upper thigh performing an obvious search for what she knew had to be there, “I can make it worth your while.” I’m sure a puzzled look crossed my kisser at that comment. Working from 7 at night to 7 in the AM had made well acquainted with hookers in my short time on the job, although in a purely unprofessional way. As there are very few bars open at 7 AM, when I got off work, anyone desiring a drink after a hard days night would frequent the same joints. Hookers, night-shift managers, pool-sharks, musicians and cab-drivers could be found almost every morning at the foot of Genesee where a single bar, 100’ outside Waukegan city-limits, stayed open all night, every night. I had had a couple of come-ons’ before I was better known among our crowd but I had never been offered compensation for MY services. I was pretty sure the only times one of the ladies I knew talked money she was collecting and not paying. “How much will you make tonight? I bet I can match it.” She twisted her body around trying to get her right leg up and over her left and, perhaps, over my own. She slipped towards the floor in a loose limbed thrashing as she caught the back of the seat and stopped her slide. Wedged between the dash and the seat she struggled to re-purchase her seat. I used the opportunity to break her grip on my arm and deftly remove the 2-bills from her loose fingers. I quickly open my door and stepped out beyond her reach. I opened the passenger door and offered her a hand which I transferred quickly to the door sill as I realized she was making another attempt to latch on to me. I held the door as she struggled to her feet, keeping it between the two of us.

As she stepped around the passenger door I headed around the front of the car trying to look natural as I desperately kept distance and the barrier of the taxi between her and me. “You could just come in for a couple of minutes if you want to. I’m sure we could find something to do for just a few minutes.” Her pleas were getting more desperate and a bit louder. She stood in front of her little wooden porch and its 2-step stairway staring back, blinded, into the lights of the taxi-cab. She shouted, “It wouldn’t take very long!” I got into the car and closed the door. “You don’t know what you’re missing!” She shouted in my general direction.

As I drove away and informed the dispatcher of my availability I received a call for a cab that was less than 2-miles away and was unexpectedly close. As I pulled out of the driveway that had lead to the little cabins I ruminated to myself, “Maybe I don’t know what I’m missing,” I glanced in the rear-view mirror to see my last fare still waiting at the bottom of her stairs as I held a quiet conversation with myself, “But I’m pretty sure this time I don’t want to know.”