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.”

1968 - San Bernardino

My buddy Merle was usually a cool-head when it came to crisis. Very cool.
...Sometimes it's surprising. the people you meet and then, sometime later, find out who they are. Sometimes they haven't even become that person yet...

1968 – San Bernardino

“Dismissed.” Chief let us go for the weekend early at 2:00. Time to head to Berdo! Party!

Merle and I headed for our birthing compartment to find Rick and Ladd already there grabbing enough clothes for the weekend. We proceeded to the parking lot where Merle’s Gran Turismo waited for our weekly trip to San Bernardino. We hit the locker-club running to change into “civvies” so we could look like sailors in civvies on weekend liberty. Cool! That was exactly what we were! It was a lovely summer day and we were ready for some good times with friends with whom we partied almost every weekend!

Leaving the locker-club and tossing our changes of clothes, and several bottles of Boones Farm Strawberry wine, into the trunk of Merle’s Studebaker, we climbed back in to spend our weekend at the USO in Berdo where we were well liked and appreciated. Although it was a military town, the service in question was the Air Force so sailors were well accepted as representatives from another service. Normally we stayed at Rick’s parent’s house in Colton but, as we were friends with a few of the Airmen, we often spent our nights on the Airbase, using the beds of roommates who, like us, were out-of-town for the weekend. The Airbase also had a bowling alley and a restaurant as well as a few amenities that, as military personnel, we could readily take advantage. This weekend we would be staying with Rick.

Leaving the locker club we started up Broadway for 11th street where we would find the beginning of the 163 freeway, which would take us to the 395 and north to our destination. Ladd sat shotgun while Merle drove as we paused for the traffic light. I sat directly behind Merle while Rick sat forward talking to Ladd as we the light changed and Merle hit the gas.

“Whoo-hoo! Alright! San Berdo here we come!”
“Hit it! Go, go, gogogogo!”
“Yippie-ki-yay, were on our way.” Rick was slammed back into this seat as I sat forward looking over Merles shoulder as we accelerated onto the highway. Rick sat back up cheering. A summer wind was blowing through the windows, making for another lovely Southern California weekend. The wind was blowing loud and it took some volume to be heard so everybody was in full voice as we egged Merle on. He aggressively double-clutched and dropped the car into 2nd gear. The car lurched forward, quickly gaining speed as we outdistanced the other vehicles that had sat at the light with us. He began shouting to us about the young lady he had met the previous weekend, telling us how he hoped she would be around this weekend. Deloris was his new love and he was infatuated. Merle hit the clutch for the last gear and dropped it into place. There was another lurch as the hood flipped up and folded itself over the windshield! Merle immediately propped his arm on the window ledge and stuck his head through the window. He continued to drive until he could find a good spot to pull over. He never stopped talking…he didn’t change the subject…he simply went on talking like this hood-folding thing happened every day. Eventually he found a spot to pull over and we all got out to inspect the damage.

What a mess! The hood was buckled in the middle, folded neatly over the front window and onto the roof. Ladd and I pulled on the panel forcing it forward until Rick and Merle could get a firm grip on the front end. The hood protested with the sound of tortured metal. Pushing the hood down as much as possible still left a good 9-inch gap. This would never do. Merle climbed up on top of the car standing on the fender and launching himself onto the front end of the hood and stomped down hard. A couple more of these succeeded in bending the front end down until an old metal coat hanger could be twisted around and through any opening that could help secure the hood so it would not fly back up. We proceeded to San Bernardino without any further incident and spent a great weekend at Rick’s, meeting his cousin, Roseanne who had been dropped for the weekend to stay with her Uncle, Rick’s dad.

Her dad, Johnny, was in town for the weekend playing a concert and his ex-wife was invited to spend the weekend with him in San Bernardino. As she would be busy for the entire time and needed someone to watch her daughter, she dropped Roseanne off for the weekend with her ex’s relatives. Sadly there were no free tickets. At 12, Roseanne was a few years younger than me. Despite this she wasn’t so young that she wasn’t attracted to boys and, in fact, she immediately decided I was desirable and soon was stuck to me like glue. Eventually the guys retired to the basement to have a couple of beers and a few hits from a hash-pipe and to listen to Rick’s new Gary Puckett and the Union Gap record. We managed to convince Roseanne that the basement was off-limits so I was secure, content and not fending off what I saw as a “little girl.” Every moment not in the basement I had my little shadow, Roseanne. The weekend proceeded until it was Sunday evening and it was time to leave. As we left I shook Rick’s dad’s hand and thanked his mom. Roseanne grabbed me and hugged me hard then, reaching up, removed my dog tags from around my neck and asked for them as a remembrance. I resisted for a few seconds until I reluctantly gave in as I realized a lot of sailors had either lost or discarded their dog-tags long before. I realize now this was not a good idea but, at the time…

Everyone in a while I see Roseanne on TV or hear of her doing a concert somewhere as she was able to become a professional using her family connections to get started in the business until she could clearly hold her own. Every time I think of her I wonder…

…Does Ms. Cash still have my dog tags?

1999 - Too Many Choices

In this country we enjoy the opportunity to pick and choose from a wide range of varied products. In most of our memories that's how things have always been or have evolved to become...but what if you went from few choices to a multitude of choices overnight... would the effect be a surplus of joy at your good fortune or frustration at not being able to choose the one you desire TODAY in lieu of all the rest.

1999 – Too Many Choices

“Ok, Lairry, ve go get drink after verk, ok?”

“Sure, Alex,” I replied. Alex was a fairly new employee and the Maintenance Manager in charge of a good sized building and 8 employees. His office was immediately next to mine and, as there was a quarter wall of glass between each office we saw each other and spoke frequently. His heavy Russian accent was apparent but he had a fairly good command of the English language even though his syntax and enunciation was not perfect. We had spoken earlier in the week during our morning break and touched on his emigration to this country. “How long have you been here, then?” I inquired.

“4-Yearrs,” he rolled his R’s in a distinctly Russian manner, “My vife, tshe decide to moof to be close to tsizter. So we moof to US.” He paused, considering his next statement, “Yez, I vould be happier in Russia but after vife’s mother die tshe decide tshe vant to be close to tsizter.” He shrugged.

“Sounds like my house,” I said, “When my wife and I got married we decided right away that I would make the big decisions and she could make all of the little ones. So she decides if we buy a car or where we live and I decide if we go to war with Canada. So far war hasn’t become an issue. She says I'm doing a great job.” Alex looked at me wondering if he should smile...he finally decided I was joking and joined me in the joke. Fascinated by Alex’s statement regarding is desire to have stayed in Russia, and as break was ending I said, “We should get together some time for a drink after work, Alex. I’d like to know more about Russia and your story.”

“Yes, our vifes tsould tsimilar, Lairry. Tsure, ve tshould geet drrrink tsometime, Lairry.” We parted for our separate responsibilities.

That had been a few days ago, now he was confirming the current day as a good time to have a short get-together. We agreed to meet at the neighborhood bar at 4:00.

* * * * *

“Vood you like 'nother gin, Lairry?” I had bought the last round. Alex signaled the table girl and we continued our conversation.

“So you didn’t really want to leave home, huh? Do you like it here in the US?”

“Eess nice here but everything eez too different. Tings are mush tsempler in Russia.” He leaned forward. “I giff you example: Een Russia we haff two kinds of tsausage. Ve haff de regular tsausage dot efferevon eat for normal meals. Then we haff tsausage dot ees for tspecial occasions. Iz cozt more,” he shrugged, “but eez tspecial.” Alex paused. “Problem eez, in US eez tsimply too many choice uff tsausage. The other day I come home from tstore and my vife ask 'vhy you take tso long to tshop today?' I tell her I look for tsausage! I go to tsausage department! I see many, many tsausages! I tell her ‘After half-hour I am tstill trying to decide which tsausage!!’ Een US – eez too many choices! Eez much eazier in Russia!” Alex shook his head.

I had recently read articles about this. It seems too-many choices can serve to simply slow everything down because an overabundance of choices can make the decision less clear. For someone used to only limited choices an overabundance of selections can offer choices that look so desirable...or undesirable... that "this looks so good, but that looks so good and so does that, but that one over there is bigger where the smaller ones are more tender..." can make any choice at-all a challenge beyond the talents of some individuals. I hadn’t expected to hear such a vivid example so soon after reading about this condition.

I asked Alex, “What other things do you find different in this country…what things are the same?”

“Ahh,” said Alex, “Many things tstill tsame but maybe juzt little difference.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Ve have vize tsayings from, I think you tsay, old-vives advice.” I noticed this was a slightly sideways way of identifying the source of old-standard sayings and cliches we all have all heard. “Een US, for instance you tsay ‘Don’t count chickens before hatch.’ Een Russia we haff tsimilar advize but juzt little differrent. In Russia ve tsay ‘Don’t try on coat while you are tstill hunting bear.’ Eez tsame but different.” Alex (t)smiled.

It didn’t take long to find Alex and I had much more in common than we had different.

From my observations and experiences: day-by-day people are pretty much the same…around the round world.

1981 - I Shall Overcome

Some things scare you because they are unexpected...a surprise. Some things scare you because they are simply unknown. Either can be overcome with a cool head and determination...the cool head is often the hard part.

1981 - “I Shall Overcome”

I found a copy of my high school Drivers Ed report card the other day. It told me a lot about myself and an attitude I wasn’t sure I eventually cultivated or if it was an attitude that was innate. It was evidence that my habit of tackling self-imposed shortcomings and overcoming the problem had been around for quite awhile. Nurture or nature…does it really matter? In this case the card reported I needed considerable practice backing up and my use of a standard-shift was deplorable. Seeing this I realized this was evidence that this attitude of overcoming difficulty pre-dated the new found confidence I found while in the USN. To this day I only own standard-shift cars – I love the whole clutching/shifting thing – love those curvy mountain roads – and I almost always pull backwards into my parking spaces. I had no idea until I saw this document that I had EVER had problems with either of these maneuvers. And I thought this entire “can-do” attitude came from the NAV – maybe not.

After the Navy and I departed ways I was resolved to take my limited musical background and become a professional. After growing tired of trying to live, once again, under mom’s roof with mom’s rules – which were great for her but not for a 22 year-old partier – I left Iowa City for Dad’s house in Southern Illinois. The story there was about the same and, after about 5-weeks, I was again on the road for northern Illinois and some of the other stories I’ve repeated previously. During those 5-weeks I decided to take music lessons and learn to become a better bass-player. During my second lesson my teacher told me I’d “never be a decent bass-player” as my “hands are too small.” This, of course, pissed me off. After all, I had already been a musician for some years and had enough live experience to know I was already better than many others in the same position. This just made me work harder sometimes practicing 6 or more hour’s a-day. (And if you’re familiar with the bass you know how absolutely boring this must have been.) I spent the next few years consciously proving that teacher wrong by becoming a relatively successful musician although I’m aware that the accuracy of his analysis ultimately may have been one of the reasons for a career that was somewhat less than aimed for, but this same analysis was one of the reasons for any success I did have.

Perhaps this attitude was why I persisted in taking German classes in high school despite the fact I kept failing horribly at it. Flunked German I my soph-year (great enunciation, good at getting the desired point across, terrible syntax and an absolute failure to memorize the “conversations) so I retook it as a junior. Passed with a D. Took German II as a senior. Flunked that one, too. If there had been another year I would have taken it again – I loved the class! I just couldn’t pass the class.

Later in life this attitude has continued to serve me well. My greatest example of this is my former fear of public speaking. This became painfully apparent around 1989 when I attended a symposium and discussion about “Space Station Freedom” at San Diego’s Aerospace Museum. Space Station Freedom eventually became Skylab but in ’87 the unit was still a well developed twinkle in the eye of NASA. Near the end of the open discussion the panel began discussing the kinds of replenishment that should be considered during flights into orbit. There was passionate discussion regarding guitars, tapes and books. This discussion pre-dated CDs & the I-Pod. A short discussion determined LP records would not be advisable as the “penny would just float off the tone arm.” This remark was made ½ a-second before the speaker realized there might also be a problem with the entire tone-arm. Duhh. As the discussion continued the shuttle bay was completely filled with “games and toys” which I noticed had forced a couple of big pre-determined items out of the bay or reduced their size. Realizing these containers were filled with water and air I wanted to say something that, evidently, no one else had noticed: they REALLY needed this stuff. Knowing I would be nervous I began to rehearse 2 sentences in my mind. Over and over I practiced, although not raising my hand to volunteer my comment. Finally the event was about to wrap up and the moderator mentioned they would take “only a couple more questions or comments.” Simply to be true to myself I raised my hand hoping upon hope that I would NOT be called upon. No such luck. The moderator immediately pointed at me and asked me to stand and speak clearly.

I stood. I opened my mouth, the lower jaw of which was beginning to shake with nervousness as was my right leg. I steadied my leg. Repeating my two lines in my head I opened my mouth and said “I-I-I-I-I b-b-b-b-b-b-b-guh-guh-guh-guh-bub-bub-bub-bub-bub-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah.” Then I turned bright red and fell back into my seat, devastated. Even knowing there would be a problem, even with several minutes of rehearsal, I was still unable to deliver. This was an extremely low point in my days. I looked like an idiot! An utter fool! How could I have been so naïve? I wrestled with this opinion of myself for the next few months until…

I was asked to become one of the members of the first implementation group for our companies TQM (Total Quality Manufacturing) project. I was honored to be asked but even more honored when I attended the initial kick-off and found myself in the company of 13 additional members…all upper management – V.P.s & Directors…while I was a lowly member of middle management – the Divisional Materials Manager. Everyone else in the room was 2-3 levels above me. Initially I was sure I was in the wrong room but the VP Operations assured me I was n the right place. Following the meeting I inquired as to why I was chosen over many other managers, most of whom had been with the company much longer. It seems my re-organization of the Materials Planning, Procurement and control had improved and noticed but the thing that convinced management I was a good candidate was an incident wherein I re-organized the physical layout of the shipping/receiving department. Although given an 8-hour day to complete this I was done in 3-hours which the Ops manager considered impossible until I explained how I planned the movement of the furniture and held a short rehearsal just before the crew left the previous afternoon. That got his attention but it was the ultimate saving of $82K+ annually in these 2 small departments that convinced him, and eventually, the CEO and CFO that I was a good candidate. Both of these gentlemen were co-members and, I must say, inside those meeting room wall we really were all equal.

One of the tasks we were assigned was breaking the implementation process into 14 discrete functions, or steps, as they were called. One of these steps was “Education.” As we discussed the various functions and execution of same we determined each step would be chaired by a team-member and backed up by another member so we all had a primary and secondary responsibility besides steering the whole process as a group. When we began discussing the Education Step I quickly realized that this person, whomever it ultimately turned out to be, would be the lead-teacher for this new discipline and would be teaching classes that were delivered over a 10-week series of classes and workshops to all of management and influential employees as well as a 1-hour introductory session that every employee – from the janitor to the department manager would attend. The responsible person would be responsible for writing the classes, adapted from the Philip B. Crosby Quality College curriculum, training any additional instructors and presenting the majority of the classes to upper, middle and lower management. This person would be responsible for setting up classroom facilities and scheduling classes as well as coordinating these classes with other events that were ongoing as a part of the implementation cycle. Immediately seeing these requirements, and knowing my absolute fear of public speaking and, again, to be true to myself I raised my hand hoping someone else…anyone else…would be called upon. As I looked around the room I saw only one hand raised – mine. I was stuck – it was time to overcome my public speaking fear.

As I began the process of planning and preparation, of writing and re-writing lessons and locating required resources I enrolled in Southwester Colleges class for Public Speaking. Attending the class I was terrified throughout most of it, determined to overcome my lack of confidence in my public persona despite my surety that my fear was insurmountable. I spoke in front of the class frequently, as required, but hated every second and always sat down after completing a presentation absolutely convinced I looked like a total idiot. Two weeks before completion of the class I was convinced I was going to have to bow out of the responsibility for which I had volunteered as I prepared for my final speech in front of the class. We were to speak about an incident in our life, it was to be exactly 3-minutes long and it would be videotaped. I read and rehearsed my 3-minutes over and over in my head to help reinforce the rehearsals I had held in front of the bathroom mirror all week. I had absolutely no confidence in my ability to get through the evening.

When I was called upon I rose and walked to the front of the room. In my head I was resisting with every fiber of my being but eventually I stood there and began as rehearsed. I began telling my story about my meeting with a bear in Canada (see: 1966 – The Bear). At one point I “lost” my word. I had a perfect word chosen and rehearsed all week but lost the word I wanted to use! In my head I was a chicken-with-it’s-head-cut-off. In my head I ran in circles and shouted “Oh-no! Oh-no! Oh-no! I look like an idiot! Whoo-who-whoo-who-who!” Gibberish ran around in my head as I frantically searched for the missing word or something equivalent! Eventually I gave up, finding a word that was not perfect but almost acceptable and I finished my talk completely deflated and convinced I would never be able to talk in front of people. This weakness had plagued me much of my professional life as I was easily bush-wacked at meetings and failed miserably to defend my decisions when challenged. As mush as I wanted to overcome this it wasn’t looking good…then they showed the videotape!

I saw my self at the front of the room speaking calmly, relating the story with more animation than I expected because, although I rehearsed enthusiasm I had failed to convince myself while I was doing the presentation, yet…There I stood calmly relating my story. At one point I paused as though waiting for my comments to sink in. I calmly surveyed the room and the faces of my classmates then I proceeded to complete the talk coming in 2 seconds over.

I was blown away!! All the panic, all the noise in my head. All of the screaming and self-flagellation I had done during my “moment” was completely unseen! I looked perfectly calm! Perfectly confident! I smiled at the class and proceeded to finish with every bit of self-control I had hoped for in vain…now there it was !! Wow! I actually looked good! No one had any idea of my desperation. No one had been able to hear the blood pounding in my ears. No one could see the deflation of spirit or the complete depression that was trying to force itself upon me! Alright!

Within a very few weeks I began teaching classes. During my first session my palms, that sweat profusely when I’m nervous, were soaked with flop-sweat. Twice during the lesson they actually slipped off the podium as I attempted to control my fear. Upon completion of the class I asked the CFO to stay behind as Bob and I had bonded pretty good as we worked together on this project. “How did I do, Bob? I was shaking like a leaf. Was it too apparent?”

“Couldn’t even tell you were nervous.,” he replied. “It looked like you had been doing this your whole life. We you really nervous?” I confirmed my state-of-mind when Bob said, “None of us could tell, Lar. You looked like you knew your subject inside and outside and just before we finished John had mentioned to me how confident you actually looked! I think we’re going to enjoy these sessions.”

My nervousness was gone.

My fear of public speaking rarely raises it’s head anymore and when it does I’m well aware that I can probably fake confidence long enough to get through whatever situation I have found myself. Also…I now absolutely LOVE teaching and would do it for free if I could make a living from it.

I’m still learning how to overcome my shortcomings and, of course, struggle regularly with issues that still remain in the back of my psyche but there is nothing like the feeling of successfully succeeding at something which you are absolutely convinced you could never pull off.

YES!! I LOVE a good challenge!!!

1968 - My Chance To See The World

Like so many young people many experiences were the result of on-the-spot decisions. Little things can become so important...little things...like joining the Navy.

1968 – Navy Day

We had been playing the same game of Monopoly for 3-days. We had already seen every movie in town. “Alfie”, Georgie Girl”, “The Graduate” and “I Am Curious Yellow” had all been on the agenda. We had window shopped and hung out at the beach which was an indication of how desperate we were to find something to do that was NOT Monopoly. It was the beginning of February in Northern Illinois with a big dump of freshly fallen snow. The beach was interesting but with the lake shore frozen over and nothing to see it didn’t take long to write that entertainment off the list of desperate activities. It was now morning of the third day of Monopoly when I awoke. “W9GYP, W9GYP Calling CQ, W9GYP calling CQ.” I could hear Kerry’s dad in the lower level of the house on his ham-radio trying to make contact with…just about anyone. He repeated, “W9GYP, W9GYP Calling CQ, W9GYP calling CQ.” I rose and put pants and shirt on. Opening the door I could hear Kerry’s dad even clearer. Stepping down the short stairway to the ground level I found Kerry in the kitchen fixing breakfast. I joined him at the Monopoly board with my bowl of cereal. Kerry sat absently mindedly chewing breakfast and eyeing the game with suspicion.

Noticing his expression I spoke, “I’m not sure I’m ready for another day stuck in the house.”

Kerry answered, “Me either. What do you want to do today?”

We sat in conversation until I suggested, “We’ve been talking about going to a recruiter. Do ya’ want to do that today?” For a few years I had looked forward to joining the Marines just like Bobby’s dad. Bobby had been my best boyhood friend who moved to Upper Wisconsin a couple of years before. We had seen all of the John Wayne movies and knew all about (we thought) the war in Viet Nam. We had talked about joining the Marines and could barely wait until we were old enough. As I had turned 18 the previous September I was the proper age but with Bobby moved away I hadn’t seriously considered joining for awhile. Even so I just KNEW that one of these days I would be a Marine hero, so when I suggested talking to a recruiter it was mostly for something to kill the boredom but the possibility was always there, that a quick talking recruiter could sign me up on the spot.

“Sounds ok to me.” Kerry answered. “Let me get the keys from my mom.”

We cruised downtown Waukegan for a little while but with no action on the cold, snowy streets we quickly reached the conclusion that we were going to have to get out of the car to do anything interesting. As we passed the recruiter for the second time Kerry spotted a parking place and pulled in. As it was only half a block from the recruiting office we had a very short instance to walk before arriving at the front door. During the drive down I had spoken to Kerry about the Marines. His dad had been the Commander of the 9th Navel District when he retired in Zion. Kerry was convinced the Navy was the way to go although conversation revealed a little doubt stemming from the fact his dad was so often gone for long periods during the early part of his career. Kerry’s dad started as a Radioman and moved into the officers corps by way of Warrant Officer and was one of the first “mustangs” that moved from the enlistment side to the officer side. By the time we arrived at the storefront I had Kerry convinced we should at least talk to the Marine Recruiter first.

We walked into the store front downtown Waukegan to find the Army, Marine, Air Force and Coast Guard recruiters busy with interested young men. The Naval Recruiter sat reading the newspaper with his feet up on the desk. He glanced up as we entered but went back to his paper when we showed interest in waiting for the Marine Recruiter. As we killed time waiting we started reading the articles taped to the wall about local heroes. Most were Marines with a few Army guys and 1 each Air Force flyer and 1 Navy sailor having won chests full of medals including a Congressional Medal of Honor and plenty of Purple Hearts. By the time we got to the end of the wall we were well impressed by all of the local heroes and were discussing among ourselves the possibility of joining the Marines when we turned to the Navy recruiter asking, “We see all of these heroes here getting medals and there’s a lot of different medals probably depending upon the service but they all got this one here. What’s the posthumous medal?”

“Those guys are all dead. That’s what that word means – awarded after death.”

We stood frozen in place…”You mean ALL of those guys are dead?”

“Yep.”

We looked the length of the wall. There were a lot of articles taped up. “We want to talk to you.” Suddenly the Navy guy was busy.

He sold us on the Navy with very little problem. We were willing and without direction. I imagine we were easy pickin’s. We were designated as on the Buddy-System which assured we could spend at least boot camp together and increased the possibility we would get similar training and, if we were lucky, we increased our chances of going to our ultimate assignment together. We filled out all of the paperwork and found out we could go get our physicals in Chicago the following Wednesday. He gave us a time to meet the train and directions to find the bus to the Selective Service Center where we would take our pre-enlistment physicals.

The experience of wandering around all day in my underwear with hundreds of other boys is something I have managed to erasw from my mind althrough the draft-board scenes in the movie "Alice's Resturant" seems to draw a sympathatic note in my memory with hundreds of skivvy-clad lads shuffling from line to line ("Comeon! Nuts to butts, boys nuts-to-butts! Close up that line!) being poked and prodded, filling out forms and answering questions.

We completed our physicals and were shuffled back into a line taking us to the bus that would deliver us back to the train station. As we approached the bus we asked one of the enlisted men directing us, “Where do we go to sign up? We were supposed to join today. No one expects us at home.” In fact that morning when we left we said goodbye to Kerry’s mom and casually told her we’d see her soon. Dressed in thin dress pants, a t-shirt and my CPO jacket – somewhat thinner than a Pea Coat – with slip-on deck shoes, in the middle of a blowing snow-storm in February – Brilliant!! I froze my tail off for 3-days until we were issued uniforms and Pea Coats. My frozen feet were only matched by the wind blowing through the hole in my pants leg where I tore it dismounting from the bus. As we were only 10-miles from home you’d think I was smarter…but NOOO.

The soldier we asked for directions told us “You better get going. They’re giving the oath right now. It’s a small room at the back of the building.” He gave us directions to the place we were to take our oath and officially become sailor recruits. We ran like the wind, cutting in and out of the crowd and lines and barely getting there in time to hear “I, state your name…” we ran into the room and took our place alongside the other young men desiring to change their status. Out of breath we were unable to repeat the oath until the last couple of sentences but they took us anyway directing the various groups to the assorted departure points. We were headed for boot camp. Most everything was a blur after that but I do remember as we got on the bus to take us to boot camp at Great lakes Kerry turned to me and said "Here we go! Atleast we're going through this together!"

Took them 2-days to separate us – so much for the Buddy-System.

1966 - Lessons Learned - Inventory & Material Control

As I review my experiences I realize my inate ability to fortell the future when it comes to manufacturing material and production planning has served me not only in the last few years but, indeed, throughout much of my personal, as well as professional, life.


1966 - Lessons Learned – Inventory Control – Material Planning

Mom had told me “If you really want a specific job focus on it and make sure they know you’re interested. Reinforce that interest until they have an opening and you will be on top of the list.” I had decided I really wanted a job at National Tea as a stock-boy. Taking mom’s advice subsequent to filing my application, I had walked to the store every Tuesday and Thursday after school for the last 6-weeks to let them know I was still interested. It was still a couple of weeks before my birthday on Labor Day but I wanted to start as soon as I was available. After the third week Percy, the store manager, would wait for my entry through the door. Without pause he would shout over to me, “Not today,” and I would turn in my tracks and exit out the other door and continue my walk home, by then having missed the school bus. Often mom would pick me up.

Then one day, two weeks before my 16th birthday Percy called me over to the office and asked, “Ok, when will you turn 16?”

“The day before Labor Day!” I replied.

“Ok, come see me the Tuesday after the holiday. You’ve got a job. Now, get out of here! I don’t expect to see you in here again until then unless you are shopping with your mother.”

“Yessir!” I answered and ran out into the parking lot with a big “Whoopee!” I ran halfway home before mom passed me on the road.

Tuesday morning Percy gave me my duties: Bag-boy and general stock-boy, stocking and helping whomever needed the help, with special responsibilities for flour, sugar, and other baking supplies as well as Jello and condiments, which were stocked to the immediate right of the baking supplies. I was also assigned the bread Saturday mornings and was evening assistant to the dairy manager. As time passed responsibilities changed and eventually I found myself the main guy in charge of the dairy and, eventually, frozen foods. This increase of responsibilities came just a few weeks before the Thanksgiving Holiday.

Frozen foods were fairly easy to maintain, as all I needed to do was keep the bin filled to the top and assure I had enough back-up product in the freezer to satisfy customer needs. A weekly inventory of display case and freezer-stock was enough to keep this department well supplied. When Thanksgiving arrived I had already heard how the previous guy had run out of frozen turkeys and Swanson TV-Turkey Dinners, the inventory of which all sold out in quick order leaving the store with no inventory in these items for the 2-days before the holiday. The previous frozen-foods guy had done this two-years in a row but was still quite upset when he was informed just a couple of weeks before the holiday that he would be moved to canned goods and cereals. His complaints were long and repetitive and we got to hear them every day during our breaks. Two days after his change of responsibility I was informed I would be in charge of the frozen foods from that day onward. According to Jim, the previous guy, he was chewed out for running out of product but was similarly chewed out for carrying too much stock. He said he was caught in the middle of a problem that was impossible to satisfy. I listened and sympathized with his plight in order to get any information I could that would help me out, although after my re-assignment this was nearly impossible as he resented my movement to what was, formerly, his area of responsibility. What I did know was there were records of purchases and sales from the previous year. When Percy found me digging through dusty old inventory and sales records he was somewhat skeptical that these old records would do me any good, as “They will only tell you how to do it wrong.” Analysis informed me that about 3-weeks before the holiday sales had increased daily until inventory ran out. The first week had obviously been ignored, as the increase was subtitle. This resulted in too little the second week and impacted the third week when increased ordering was only done to relieve the increase from the previous week. It appeared that when the sales in these items had gone up, most noticeably, the week before the holiday, the previous manager had taken those numbers and used them to plan his re-supply for the pre-holiday week. He also assumed that by the day before the holiday, like his own family, sales would begin dropping as, in his words “anyone buying turkeys has already got one.” His opinion was also “Anyone waiting that long is too stupid anyway. They deserve to have a problem getting everything they need this late.” I didn’t agree.

It turned out I only got this job because frozen foods were near the dairy & because my sales in dairy was at an all-time high and scrap was at an all-time low. The key was understanding the weekly requirements, the seasonal requirements and having enough on-hand to support the forecast. This all seemed very easy. Once I learned I also needed to keep discards low, or those items that had to be thrown away due to expiration dates, I simply tightened my planned requirements by narrowing my forecast. I had learned this forecasting method from the previous dairy guy who trained me after finding out he was drafted into the Army. I found he was the only one in the store to do this type of clipboard analysis and our department continued this level of efficiency after he left. It was this analysis that saved me when applied to the frozen-foods area.

After a couple of minor adjustments to his method I was able to increase this effectively. It was all a very natural process for me as family discussions around the supper-table were often about whichever business dad was saving this week and what his methods were. His secret was mostly cleaning, organizing and communicating when there was any down time. He also stressed careful analysis of customer desires. As dad often said: “If you’re not on your break then you need to be working.” Another of his favorites was, “When there are no customers around there is always something to clean.” He also often mentioned, “If you’re working without knowing your customer’s needs you are wasting your time and the company’s money.” These three philosophical gems have served me well.

In the 1980’s I joined a manufacturing company, which had not shipped anything but repairs over the previous 6-months. Soon after joining the organization I found I was the 5th Materials Manager they’d had in the prior 2-years. It quickly became apparent to me the last few had not survived as they had too much inventory of the wrong type and not enough inventory of the right kind. On hand inventory value was $1.6-million…and we couldn’t ship product. When a little investigation revealed the company’s cash-flow problems had defeated the last 2-managers, I quickly came to a conclusion we needed to free up some of the cash we had tied up in inventory to purchase the items we needed to get back aboard our schedule. I found that 85% of the booked orders were past due. This also affected cash flow, as we had no invoices coming in with checks. What to do?

As a side note I also quickly identified severe communications problems that divided departments making them opponents in a company that seriously needed common goals. This would need attention if any progress were to be sustainable.

First we separated, on paper, those items that made up our repairs inventory, items that made up our current requirements, excess inventory and obsolete inventory. Obsolete inventory consisted of parts, which no longer fit an existing product and was not required for any current repairs and had no history of usage for repairs. Most of these parts were several years old and many were tucked away in a semi-truck trailer sitting in the back of our parking lot and used as a storage area. We also found parts in corners or in the loge where overstock and really old inventory and ancient financial records were stashed. Despite protest we received approval from upper management with the statement “If the unit is over 10-years old it is out of warranty and we should try to either sell them a repair at a reasonable profit by applying the cost of making obsolete components or, even better, we should try to sell them a new more modern replacement.” This took a great deal of negotiating as the Engineering Department felt we should offer repairs and the Sales Department wanted to sell new units. The strength of an upper management team that was derived almost completely from Engineering was challenged but common sense and charts showing the profit difference between stores, repairs and new sales convinced brilliant minds they couldn’t deny the obvious profit vs. loss. After agreement we discovered a large stash in a back room in the engineering area where multitudes of old, unaccounted for samples and first-article components were haphazardly set on shelves and pallets. A few of these were saved for a history display in the lobby – all else – gone.

Obsolete material comprised a surprisingly large pile, which we managed to sell to metal re-claimers and electronics re-sellers. This cash went immediately into the company coffers and we used some to begin buying the components we needed to start shipping orders. The obsolete PC Boards and custom electronic components we donated to a Tijuana orphanage training school and received a tax benefit for our donation. We shipped our first completed production unit that was not a repair 3-weeks after my arrival.

When we began buying components I discovered a new “rule” that had been in place for approximately 6-months before my arrival. The rule was “Buy only what is needed and no more.” I found this rule had been applied to all components, including some electronic components that were only sold in specific lots. An example was resisters that were only sold in small bags of 100 at $.15 each or a bag of 100 for $15. The “rule” was applied strictly so that, if a single resistor was required, a purchase of 100 would be made and, upon receipt, the single resister was removed from the bag & the remainder was trashed.

We found one employee taking advantage of this practice by raiding our dumpster nightly for additional income. Although he was threatened with firing, witnesses confirmed the previous Materials Manager had given him permission to do this. This practice did not continue.

I identified several instances where purchases of identical components were made weeks or days apart, in some cases the parts were expedited at an elevated cost. I changed this rule despite upper management’s protests as this cost-inflation practice made $.15 parts worth $15.

We identified a small number of components that were stocked as two different part numbers. All of these various components came to over $85K in on-hand value and ultimately most were designated as excess inventory, the next category of items to identify.

We identified our excess inventory by examining current orders and the history of sales and repairs for the components we had identified as excess. We identified fairly new products that were on an increasing sales curve. We kept these separate and set up a tickler to re-examine these parts in 3-months. We kept a reasonable amount of the remainder in stock and sequestered an average years-worth in an off-site locked bonded storage area so we could write it off of our inventory but easily obtain it by “buying it from ourselves” at full price if urgently need. The remainder we discarded using the same methods used on our obsolete inventory.

We impressed upon both buyers and our machine shop management that buying or making extra parts was not necessarily desired. The machine shop knew that if they were asked for 10 of a specific machined component, they could decrease costs on the individual part and they just might save an additional order a week or a month later, by making 20. Problem was sometimes, if they were easy parts to make, they might make 100 extra to really get the costs of the individual part down but, of course, this actually resulted in using productive time to make parts that we didn’t need so we could take up storage space we didn’t have to store parts that would be trashed in a few years without ever realizing the profit from the extra units. It also didn’t make sense to take a purchasing price-break on an item of which the extras would eventually become scrap. Buying 5 at $3 is not necessarily better than buying 2 at $5 if the remaining 3 get scrapped as excess. The result of this is extra cost of $5 for buying scrap on top of the cost to maintain and store unwanted material.

We found, over a period of 4-months we had removed $1M from our inventory, leaving only $600K of components and parts that were all valid. The exchange of parts for cash was, of course, not 1-to-1, our-value vs. re-cycling value. But this reduction realized a new available $390K+ for our procurement of components we actually needed plus a reasonable tax-break at the end of our fiscal year. As we realized the ability to tap our newly found funds we began to ship more and more product decreasing our backlog daily.

Despite less stress due to better availability of parts our communications problems continued to make satisfactory on-time shipments difficult with constant bickering and mistrust between departments that reflected itself in the attitudes and constant picking between individuals. This was next on my to-do list.

Increasing attendees at my planning meetings by 1) inviting both engineering and sales personnel to take part and 2) seriously nipping public displays of disagreement and calmly moving them to the conference room. This had the greatest effect on morale and directly affected the communication problems created when not understanding limitations and the ongoing challenges encountered during the procurement and manufacturing processes. They began to better understand the cost of casual change. We established regular reviews of scheduled shipments and identified opportunities to improve. We learned to work together to meet established goals. We started talking to…and trusting each other.

Life was good.