My niece Sarah recently posted a photo on Facebook of her son Thomas at work with her on a take your child to work day. While take your child to work days are a relatively recent phenomenon, it reminded me of times when Dad took me to work with him.
We never actually went to the office with Dad on a normal workday. That would not have been appropriate, nor likely very welcome. He sometimes had to work on Saturdays, though, and on those occasions he would often take one of us to work with him. It was always a very big deal to go to work with Dad.
Dad worked in the corporate offices of Banquet Foods on Olive in Downtown St. Louis. We would ride the elevator up to his floor and head to his office. He would plop me down at a desk and let me "help" him. My help somehow always involved an adding machine. Dad would make sure there was a full roll of the paper loaded in the machine and turn me loose! I pushed buttons and hit keys to keep up a steady cadence of entering numbers and performing various addition and subtraction tasks. I can still hear the sound of the adding machine printing out each row of numbers I entered.
Throughout the day I would stretch the tape out from "my" desk to see how far across the room it would reach. By the end of our workday, I had invariably used an entire roll of adding machine tape; which I carefully wound back onto the empty spool so I could take it home to show Mom!.
The office had some other amazing technology, too. Well, amazing for its time! A teletype machine sat against the far wall. People who are not much younger than me have no idea what I'm talking about when I mention a teletype. It really was a fascinating machine.
The teletype looked like a typewriter on steroids! It was the original text messaging device; used to send and receive textual information with another teletype machine anywhere in the country! It was high tech.
The teletype usually sat there silently on a Saturday morning, but every once in a while the bell would ring and the machine would come to life. The machine used a typewheel, so it actually struck the paper once for each character just like a typewriter. It made quite the racket. It would rattle for a while and then go silent once again. Dad would walk over to read the message and, occasionally, even send a message back. It was always a bonus if the bell rang while I was at the office.
Sometimes Dad knew someone was in at one of the plant offices around the state and would fire off a message on the teletype. There would be a short conversation back and forth about nothing really. I suppose it was more for my entertainment so I could watch the conversation unfold before my eyes as the machine rattled off Dad's typed messages and the faraway strangers typed replies.
Banquet Foods had another high tech tool called WATS Lines. WATS stood for Wide Area Telephone Service. Banquet had both INWATS and OUTWATS. INWATS was the original 800 Toll Free service; allowing companies to pay a fee that allowed people to call their "special" number without incurring long distance charges. OUTWATS allowed the customer to make outgoing long distance calls for a flat monthly fee without incurring long distance charges for each minute they were on the phone.
Virtually everyone has free long distance calling today; whether on their cell phone or landline, so the entire idea of WATS lines is probably quite foreign to anyone younger than thirty or forty. It was revolutionary for its day, though. Banquet Foods had both INWATS and OUTWATS. Their contract with AT&T had them paying a flat monthly fee with no per minute charges or limitations. This allowed Dad to put the OUTWATS line to use on several of those Saturday visits to call the Sauermans. I would race in to tell Mom of our important conversations once we got home.
Yes, going to work with Dad was always a memorable experience. There was no computer on which I could sit and play games or watch movies or listen to music. No; for those few hours, I occupied myself with "important business things" with Dad.
I have often wondered through the years if Dad actually took us to work so he could get something done on a Saturday or if it was just his way of spending time with each one of us kids alone. I can't imagine that he ever actually accomplished much; with getting hot chocolate from the machine and calling the Sauermans and sending worthless messages back and forth with the teletype.
No, Dad probably used those Saturday mornings for what future generations would call bonding time; time that Debbie, Kim, Beth or I had with just Dad.
Times that I would still recall with great joy nearly four decades later.
Times that I still miss.
Times with just Dad.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Monday, April 29, 2013
Snakes On The Loose!
I have loved snakes for as long as I can remember. The reptile exhibits are still my favorite stop when visiting any zoo. Snakes are beautiful and fascinating animals. I would still love to have a nice collection, but time, money, space and - most of all, Diane - limit that possibility.
I kept many wild caught garter snakes when I was young. We had a wood frame covered with plywood next to the garage to hold the garbage cans at our house in St. Louis. I could pretty much guarantee finding garter snakes under there throughout the spring and summer. I would catch them and play with them and ultimately release them. Sometimes I would keep them for a while in an herpetarium I made from an old, unused fishbowl in my bedroom.
One thing that is a certainty when keeping snakes is that they will find even the tiniest flaw in your herpetarium and escape. Even a weighted lid is often not adequate for keeping captive snakes captive. A fishbowl with a screen over the top held on primarily by gravity is not really very secure; even for garter snakes.
I remember having quite a collection of garter snakes in my makeshift herpetarium one summer. I probably had five or six snakes in there. I fed them earthworms, small frogs or bugs. There was a minor problem one morning when I noticed several of my snakes had somehow disappeared since I had checked on them the night before. I futilely searched for a while before resigning myself to the fact that I would have to tell Mom we had several snakes loose in the house.
That conversation did not go the way most people would expect. Mom had no problem with me having snakes in the house. In fact, I think she rather liked them. They were just another animal to be part of the Brader Zoo - already loaded with dogs, cats, turtles, lizards, hamsters, etc. etc. etc.
Mom's immediate response to learning some of the snakes were loose was, "Don't tell Dad!"
Dad was not fond of snakes. In fact, he was terrified of them. One time we were walking along a path at The Farm in Leasburg when Dad shouted for Mom to tell him if a snake he saw coiled on a tree branch beside the path was venomous. I laughed as I watched him with the shotgun held inches away from a twelve inch Northern Rough Greensnake; a docile and completely harmless arboreal snake. Of course, to Dad, there was no such thing as a harmless snake. He was ready to pull the trigger and put nearly 200 number six pellets into the tiny snake. I thought he would have a stroke as I touched the snake and tried to coax it from the branch.
No, Dad was not fond of snakes. He didn't like that I had them in the house and he certainly was not going to be happy to hear that some of them were missing.
Mom and I searched for a while.
We were not successful.
I can still remember Mom's very specific direction that there was no reason to let Dad know anything about this little situation. I didn't say anything and I have no reason to believe she did, either. In fact, I'm certain he didn't know there were snakes loose in the house because he came into my room that night to tuck me into bed. That simply would not have happened had he known there was a chance that he would encounter a vicious garter snake. He probably would have forced the whole family to vacate the house until a professional search team could locate and eradicate these dangerous reptiles! He would never have let me bring a snake into the house again.
Mom and I ultimately recovered all of the loose snakes over the course of several days. We merely put them back into the makeshift herpetarium in my room as we re-captured them.
As far as I know, Dad died without ever knowing my snakes had escaped.
It was probably better that way.
I kept many wild caught garter snakes when I was young. We had a wood frame covered with plywood next to the garage to hold the garbage cans at our house in St. Louis. I could pretty much guarantee finding garter snakes under there throughout the spring and summer. I would catch them and play with them and ultimately release them. Sometimes I would keep them for a while in an herpetarium I made from an old, unused fishbowl in my bedroom.
One thing that is a certainty when keeping snakes is that they will find even the tiniest flaw in your herpetarium and escape. Even a weighted lid is often not adequate for keeping captive snakes captive. A fishbowl with a screen over the top held on primarily by gravity is not really very secure; even for garter snakes.
I remember having quite a collection of garter snakes in my makeshift herpetarium one summer. I probably had five or six snakes in there. I fed them earthworms, small frogs or bugs. There was a minor problem one morning when I noticed several of my snakes had somehow disappeared since I had checked on them the night before. I futilely searched for a while before resigning myself to the fact that I would have to tell Mom we had several snakes loose in the house.
That conversation did not go the way most people would expect. Mom had no problem with me having snakes in the house. In fact, I think she rather liked them. They were just another animal to be part of the Brader Zoo - already loaded with dogs, cats, turtles, lizards, hamsters, etc. etc. etc.
Mom's immediate response to learning some of the snakes were loose was, "Don't tell Dad!"
Dad was not fond of snakes. In fact, he was terrified of them. One time we were walking along a path at The Farm in Leasburg when Dad shouted for Mom to tell him if a snake he saw coiled on a tree branch beside the path was venomous. I laughed as I watched him with the shotgun held inches away from a twelve inch Northern Rough Greensnake; a docile and completely harmless arboreal snake. Of course, to Dad, there was no such thing as a harmless snake. He was ready to pull the trigger and put nearly 200 number six pellets into the tiny snake. I thought he would have a stroke as I touched the snake and tried to coax it from the branch.
No, Dad was not fond of snakes. He didn't like that I had them in the house and he certainly was not going to be happy to hear that some of them were missing.
Mom and I searched for a while.
We were not successful.
I can still remember Mom's very specific direction that there was no reason to let Dad know anything about this little situation. I didn't say anything and I have no reason to believe she did, either. In fact, I'm certain he didn't know there were snakes loose in the house because he came into my room that night to tuck me into bed. That simply would not have happened had he known there was a chance that he would encounter a vicious garter snake. He probably would have forced the whole family to vacate the house until a professional search team could locate and eradicate these dangerous reptiles! He would never have let me bring a snake into the house again.
Mom and I ultimately recovered all of the loose snakes over the course of several days. We merely put them back into the makeshift herpetarium in my room as we re-captured them.
As far as I know, Dad died without ever knowing my snakes had escaped.
It was probably better that way.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Diane's Big Fish
I would rather be fishing or hunting than pretty much any other thing on the planet. Being around water is relaxing and natural for me. Wisconsin is a great state for someone like me. Minnesota likes to advertise itself as the "Land of 10,000 Lakes." Unbeknownst to most people, though, is the fact that Wisconsin actually has more lakes than Minnesota.
The southwest corner of the state has some of the best trout fishing streams in the country, and don't evenget me started on the great hunting opportunities up here. Yep, I landed in the right state!
There are a number of tributary streams to Lake Michigan that turn into a great steelhead fishery each spring. Steelhead are nothing more than rainbow trout that migrate from the stream where they were born into the lake or ocean for most of their life; only to return to the stream of their birth to spawn as adults. Unlike true salmon which spawn once and die, steelhead return to the same stream year after year.
Spring's increasing stream flows trigger the fish to move upstream to their spawning locations. There are a couple of streams that I have fished many times since moving to Wisconsin in 1984. One of my favorites, Oak Creek, becomes loaded with steelhead; and steelhead fishermen, each spring.
I decided to introduce Diane to stream fishing the spring after we got married. Diane had never fished for steelhead, or any other fish for that matter, so I thought it would be a good idea to set her up on the shoreline next to a deep hole where she could catch lots of fish.
In no time at all, Diane was joyfully reeling in fish after fish. Now when steelhead fishing, as in most other fishing, you can fish for quantity or you can fish for quality. As a beginner, I figured I would get her started on quantity. I didn't want her to get bored by not catching anything.
That philosophy worked fine for a while; until Diane noticed that some of the other fishermen were catching large steelhead while she was relegated to catching fish in the ten to twelve inch range. It didn't take long for Diane to become impatient and ask, "How come they're catching big ones and I'm only catching little ones?"
Catching big fish requires different techniques than I had her using and I didn't think she was quite ready for fishing a drift in a snag infested stream without a bobber. I told her that I would take care of it and work to hook up a bigger fish that she could fight and land. She kept on fishing as I stepped a few feet downstream to work a chute the fish had to pass through when making their way upstream.
By the third drift through the chute I had hooked up a big steelhead. I worked the fish out of the snags and up into the hole and handed Diane the rod. She was delighted as the steelhead fought like all steelhead do, with a mixture of deep runs upstream and dances on the surface. I talked her through allowing the rod and reel to do the work of tiring the fish so we could safely land it. She followed my instructions and was bringing the fish toward the wall we were fishing from in just a few minutes.
Two young boys were fishing just downstream from us. They came rushing up with their landing net to help land the fish. They were young, but far more experienced at catching and landing steelhead than Diane was. That didn't stop her from trying to instruct them in what she wanted them to do to make sure she didn't lose that fish! The problem was, they knew exactly what they were doing and Diane's instructions would certainly increase the risk of losing the fish.
I just reminded her that they knew exactly what they needed to do to land this fish and she should just continue to follow our instructions and she would have the fish safely netted in a few seconds. She did and the boys had the fish in the net in nothing flat. They were so excited to be able to help her land her first big fish. She was so excited to have "finally" caught a big one!
We took a picture of her with her beautiful fish. (Keep in mind that this was 1988 and her hair and glasses were actually stylish then. Also notice her "June Cleaver-ish" approach to fishing while wearing earrings!)
Whenever I look at this picture I am struck by how excited Diane was with her fish. Maybe it should concern me that her dazzling smile is much bigger in this picture than in any of our wedding pictures.
That should tell me something; although I certainly can't dispute that the fish was a better catch.
The southwest corner of the state has some of the best trout fishing streams in the country, and don't evenget me started on the great hunting opportunities up here. Yep, I landed in the right state!
There are a number of tributary streams to Lake Michigan that turn into a great steelhead fishery each spring. Steelhead are nothing more than rainbow trout that migrate from the stream where they were born into the lake or ocean for most of their life; only to return to the stream of their birth to spawn as adults. Unlike true salmon which spawn once and die, steelhead return to the same stream year after year.
Spring's increasing stream flows trigger the fish to move upstream to their spawning locations. There are a couple of streams that I have fished many times since moving to Wisconsin in 1984. One of my favorites, Oak Creek, becomes loaded with steelhead; and steelhead fishermen, each spring.
I decided to introduce Diane to stream fishing the spring after we got married. Diane had never fished for steelhead, or any other fish for that matter, so I thought it would be a good idea to set her up on the shoreline next to a deep hole where she could catch lots of fish.
In no time at all, Diane was joyfully reeling in fish after fish. Now when steelhead fishing, as in most other fishing, you can fish for quantity or you can fish for quality. As a beginner, I figured I would get her started on quantity. I didn't want her to get bored by not catching anything.
That philosophy worked fine for a while; until Diane noticed that some of the other fishermen were catching large steelhead while she was relegated to catching fish in the ten to twelve inch range. It didn't take long for Diane to become impatient and ask, "How come they're catching big ones and I'm only catching little ones?"
Catching big fish requires different techniques than I had her using and I didn't think she was quite ready for fishing a drift in a snag infested stream without a bobber. I told her that I would take care of it and work to hook up a bigger fish that she could fight and land. She kept on fishing as I stepped a few feet downstream to work a chute the fish had to pass through when making their way upstream.
By the third drift through the chute I had hooked up a big steelhead. I worked the fish out of the snags and up into the hole and handed Diane the rod. She was delighted as the steelhead fought like all steelhead do, with a mixture of deep runs upstream and dances on the surface. I talked her through allowing the rod and reel to do the work of tiring the fish so we could safely land it. She followed my instructions and was bringing the fish toward the wall we were fishing from in just a few minutes.
Two young boys were fishing just downstream from us. They came rushing up with their landing net to help land the fish. They were young, but far more experienced at catching and landing steelhead than Diane was. That didn't stop her from trying to instruct them in what she wanted them to do to make sure she didn't lose that fish! The problem was, they knew exactly what they were doing and Diane's instructions would certainly increase the risk of losing the fish.
I just reminded her that they knew exactly what they needed to do to land this fish and she should just continue to follow our instructions and she would have the fish safely netted in a few seconds. She did and the boys had the fish in the net in nothing flat. They were so excited to be able to help her land her first big fish. She was so excited to have "finally" caught a big one!
We took a picture of her with her beautiful fish. (Keep in mind that this was 1988 and her hair and glasses were actually stylish then. Also notice her "June Cleaver-ish" approach to fishing while wearing earrings!)
Whenever I look at this picture I am struck by how excited Diane was with her fish. Maybe it should concern me that her dazzling smile is much bigger in this picture than in any of our wedding pictures.
That should tell me something; although I certainly can't dispute that the fish was a better catch.
Friday, April 26, 2013
Grandmother???
I suppose everyone has the right to pick what they want their grandchildren to call them. Growing up, we had Nana. Pretty much everyone called her either Nana or Shorty. She answered readily to both.
Many people have Grandma or Granny or Gramma or some other, relatively "normal" moniker.
Kim's grandsons call her Nanna. Debbie's grandson calls her Gr'mama, or something like that. Well, actually I think Thomas is the only verbal one, so the rest are currently just being indoctrinated on what to call them.
I plan to be called "Old Man." Joseph is appalled and insists that he won't let his children call me Old Man. Matthew thinks it's great. He has called me Old Man for years. I rather think of it as a term of endearment. An accurate one, too. After all, I certainly don't see a young man when I look in the mirror these days!
For some reason, Mom elected to be called Grandmother.
Why?
I have no clue whatsoever.
Maybe Mom somehow fancied herself as a less reluctant version of farm wife Lisa Douglas from Green Acres. Maybe her secret ambition was to be glamorous.
Personally, I always figured her for more of a Granny from Beverly Hillbillies.
Mom reminded me a lot of Daisy May "Granny" Moses; matriarch of the Clampett gang. Mom thought nothing of slogging through the muck and manure to help one of her "pet" cows. Also, like Granny, she was always "doctoring" someone or something. No one dared to sniff or sneeze in her presence for fear of "Dr. Peggy" jumping into action.
Some of my funniest memories of Mom involve her racing around the farmyard banging a cast iron pan with a metal spoon in an attempt to chase critters; whether real or imaginary, away from her chickens. Not exactly a Lisa Douglas kind of moment.
Mom also somehow thought of herself as a modern day Annie Oakley. I'm not exactly sure how she justified this title since she couldn't hit the side of a barn. Now the roof is a different story entirely! Mom once found a raccoon stealing eggs from the chickens that nested in the haymow. Now Mom seemed quite certain that every wild critter had rabies and anyone encountering a wild animal nearly had to don a hazmat suit.
A rabid raccoon could not be left in the barn. Mom's solution was to race back to the house to get her .22 caliber revolver. Now, in Mom's defense, the raccoon was in the rafters - probably 12 feet away from her. All in all, Mom shot at that poor raccoon 13 times. I say shot at because I don't believe she ever actually hit the poor critter.
She even had to stop and reload at one point!
I'm convinced that the raccoon ultimately died from laughing so hard it couldn't breathe.
The raccoon ultimately died and Mom was left with a rather nice collection of small bullet holes through the steel barn roof.
A real Annie Oakley.
We happened to be visiting her one summer when she found another raccoon in the haymow. I volunteered to take care of it for her. I took her trusty revolver up into the barn and shot the most-certainly-rabid, egg pilfering raccoon. I shot one time and the raccoon fell dead from the rafters and landed in a pile of loose hay.
Mom was shocked and asked how I managed to kill it from "so far away" with only one shot. I answered, "Um... I aimed and shot it and it died."
It was pretty simple, really.
Mom's response still brings a smile to my face as I recall her words. She actually said, "Oh. I close my eyes when I pull the trigger because I don't want to watch them die." I reminded her that the likelihood of them dying drops off pretty dramatically when she closes her eyes before the bullet leaves the muzzle.
Like I said; a real Annie Oakley.
Mom insisted that I should just put the dead raccoon into a garbage bag for Ted to take care of when he got home. I had to use a pitchfork, of course since it was certainly rabid. Plus I had to wear gloves to handle the pitchfork - just in case that rabies virus started crawling up the handle, I guess.
I still had to sanitize my hands as soon as we went back inside, of course, even though I wore gloves and was never actually closer than two feet to the most-certainly-rabid raccoon.
Maybe she was closer to Lisa Douglas than I thought...
Anyway, Mom told me to throw it on the old poultry barn for Ted to deal with when he got home. We were gone from the farm that evening so I couldn't tell him myself. Somehow, though, Mom forgot to mention the raccoon tied up in the black plastic garbage bag sitting on top of the old poultry barn. She forgot about it for three days.
It was Summer.
In Missouri.
You get the point.
After three days, Ted noticed a vile smell behind the poultry barn; which reminded Mom about the little treat that he needed to handle from the roof.
Lucky Ted!
Anyway, to get back to the point, all of this really makes the question even more relevant; how did Mom ever come up with Grandmother? This is not what you think of as Grandmother. I'd buy Grandma, Granny, Tex, whatever - but Grandmother?
Maybe Ted or one of the girls knows why she chose Grandmother.
Maybe I don't want to know.
Some things are just more fun when left to our imaginations. This may be one of those things.
Many people have Grandma or Granny or Gramma or some other, relatively "normal" moniker.
Kim's grandsons call her Nanna. Debbie's grandson calls her Gr'mama, or something like that. Well, actually I think Thomas is the only verbal one, so the rest are currently just being indoctrinated on what to call them.
I plan to be called "Old Man." Joseph is appalled and insists that he won't let his children call me Old Man. Matthew thinks it's great. He has called me Old Man for years. I rather think of it as a term of endearment. An accurate one, too. After all, I certainly don't see a young man when I look in the mirror these days!
For some reason, Mom elected to be called Grandmother.
Why?
I have no clue whatsoever.
Maybe Mom somehow fancied herself as a less reluctant version of farm wife Lisa Douglas from Green Acres. Maybe her secret ambition was to be glamorous.
Personally, I always figured her for more of a Granny from Beverly Hillbillies.
Mom reminded me a lot of Daisy May "Granny" Moses; matriarch of the Clampett gang. Mom thought nothing of slogging through the muck and manure to help one of her "pet" cows. Also, like Granny, she was always "doctoring" someone or something. No one dared to sniff or sneeze in her presence for fear of "Dr. Peggy" jumping into action.
Some of my funniest memories of Mom involve her racing around the farmyard banging a cast iron pan with a metal spoon in an attempt to chase critters; whether real or imaginary, away from her chickens. Not exactly a Lisa Douglas kind of moment.
Mom also somehow thought of herself as a modern day Annie Oakley. I'm not exactly sure how she justified this title since she couldn't hit the side of a barn. Now the roof is a different story entirely! Mom once found a raccoon stealing eggs from the chickens that nested in the haymow. Now Mom seemed quite certain that every wild critter had rabies and anyone encountering a wild animal nearly had to don a hazmat suit.
A rabid raccoon could not be left in the barn. Mom's solution was to race back to the house to get her .22 caliber revolver. Now, in Mom's defense, the raccoon was in the rafters - probably 12 feet away from her. All in all, Mom shot at that poor raccoon 13 times. I say shot at because I don't believe she ever actually hit the poor critter.
She even had to stop and reload at one point!
I'm convinced that the raccoon ultimately died from laughing so hard it couldn't breathe.
The raccoon ultimately died and Mom was left with a rather nice collection of small bullet holes through the steel barn roof.
A real Annie Oakley.
We happened to be visiting her one summer when she found another raccoon in the haymow. I volunteered to take care of it for her. I took her trusty revolver up into the barn and shot the most-certainly-rabid, egg pilfering raccoon. I shot one time and the raccoon fell dead from the rafters and landed in a pile of loose hay.
Mom was shocked and asked how I managed to kill it from "so far away" with only one shot. I answered, "Um... I aimed and shot it and it died."
It was pretty simple, really.
Mom's response still brings a smile to my face as I recall her words. She actually said, "Oh. I close my eyes when I pull the trigger because I don't want to watch them die." I reminded her that the likelihood of them dying drops off pretty dramatically when she closes her eyes before the bullet leaves the muzzle.
Like I said; a real Annie Oakley.
Mom insisted that I should just put the dead raccoon into a garbage bag for Ted to take care of when he got home. I had to use a pitchfork, of course since it was certainly rabid. Plus I had to wear gloves to handle the pitchfork - just in case that rabies virus started crawling up the handle, I guess.
I still had to sanitize my hands as soon as we went back inside, of course, even though I wore gloves and was never actually closer than two feet to the most-certainly-rabid raccoon.
Maybe she was closer to Lisa Douglas than I thought...
Anyway, Mom told me to throw it on the old poultry barn for Ted to deal with when he got home. We were gone from the farm that evening so I couldn't tell him myself. Somehow, though, Mom forgot to mention the raccoon tied up in the black plastic garbage bag sitting on top of the old poultry barn. She forgot about it for three days.
It was Summer.
In Missouri.
You get the point.
After three days, Ted noticed a vile smell behind the poultry barn; which reminded Mom about the little treat that he needed to handle from the roof.
Lucky Ted!
Anyway, to get back to the point, all of this really makes the question even more relevant; how did Mom ever come up with Grandmother? This is not what you think of as Grandmother. I'd buy Grandma, Granny, Tex, whatever - but Grandmother?
Maybe Ted or one of the girls knows why she chose Grandmother.
Maybe I don't want to know.
Some things are just more fun when left to our imaginations. This may be one of those things.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Pinballs and Damaged Walls...
My adviser in college told me that only about twenty percent of the graduates in my field actually find jobs working in the field; and that only about five percent would still be working in the field after five years. I was part of the twenty percent, and ultimately became part of the 95%. I was thrilled to get a job in the production field and even more thrilled to have gotten on with the top production facility in the area.
We knew we had a great opportunity and we worked hard. Pre-production and shooting made for very long days with lots of stress and often few breaks. We normally started early in the morning and worked well past the world's "normal" quitting time. Sometimes we needed a little time to unwind after a long day.
Ralph and I made a great team for a few years; both at the working part and the unwinding part!
We were known to hang around Video Wisconsin for hours after the work was done. We were the guys who turned off the lights and locked the doors when we finally decided to head to our homes to get at least a little sleep before going at it again the next day.
Oh, the energy of youth...
Ralph and I became the kings of "unwind time." We had several fun activities that kept us hanging around Video Wisconsin. John Barto, our boss, had several pinball machines in the back storage room. I'm not sure where he picked them up, but he had bought them for one reason or another. There was one minor problem with them, though.
They didn't work.
That was not going to stop us! I quickly tore into them, repaired them and rigged them so we could just push a button to play without actually inserting any money.
And play we did! We spent hours playing pinball. We had a blast.
I proved to be much better at repairing pinball machines than actually playing them. Ralph soundly beat me pretty much every every time, but I didn't care. We were just unwinding.
Ralph and I came up with another unwinding routine that was not quite as innocuous. We invented the game of Tape Ball!
A typical film or video shoot uses lots of gaffer's tape. Gaffer's tape looks similar to duct tape, but that is where the similarity ends. Gaffer's tape is cloth-based and normally about two inches wide. It has a special adhesive that will stick to pretty much anything but remove easily without leaving a sticky residue. It is used to tape down cables, secure props and thousands of other tasks on film and video shoots. It is available in a wide range of colors to blend in as much as possible on shots.
Gaffer's tape is also quite expensive, but tape is cheaper than lawsuits so we used a lot of tape. The tape had to be pulled up and thrown away at the end of each setup. We came up with the brilliant idea of wrapping the tape into balls as we pulled it up. The balls would end up being about six inches, or so, in diameter.
Now the simple game would be to launch them into one of the trash cans like we were shooting hoops. We really weren't into simple and we weren't into basketball. We had to come up with a better game.
We invented Tape Ball!
Tape Ball involved one of us pitching the balled up tape while the other one would attempt to hit it with a hunk of two by four like a baseball bat. The goal was to hit it as high up on the cyc wall as we could. The ball was quite heavy and not very aerodynamic, so it didn't fly well. Hitting high up on the cyc wall was a real feat.
The cyclorama, or cyc for short for those who have not worked around a soundstage, is a very expensive wall that is built to gently curve from the walls to the floor and from one wall to the next so there are no corners anywhere. They are used to give the illusion of something sitting in infinity or when other effects will be added to the shot during post-production. We regularly painted the walls and floors to keep the infinity effect or change the color for a particular shot. Most of the time, though, the walls and floor were painted white. They can be painted very quickly because there are no corners to cut and no hard edges.
Did I mention that they are very expensive.
Now, I'm not sure what the statute of limitations is for damaging a very expensive cyclorama, so for the purposes of this story, which may or may not have actually happened, the names have been changed to protect the totally guilty. I can't recall who was supposedly involved, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't Ralph and Scott. I'll just refer to them that way to keep you from getting confused with a suspect number one and suspect number two type of report. I will leave it up to the actual guilty parties to fess up on their own.
One person, who certainly wasn't Scott, threw a particularly nasty pitch right down the middle of the plate to the batter, who certainly wasn't Ralph. The batter, who usually won anyway because he was more of a jock, reared back and hit the ball like he thought he was Hank Aaron. It was a thing of beauty. The ball leaped from his bat like a rocket headed for the cyc wall. This was a certain winner!
The sound of the ball hitting the cyc echoed through the soundstage. As you can imagine, an empty 60' x 40' room with high ceilings can hold a sound for a long time. The sound was slightly different this time than hits in the past. I can't remember what was louder; the sound of the tape ball hitting the cyc or Ralph's exclamation of, "Oh, bleep!!!"
This time, the tape ball punched a six inch hole right through the drywall that made up the cyc wall.
This was bad.
Very, very bad!!
Have I mentioned that a cyc is very, very expensive?
While our initial reaction was not one of joy; we quickly realized that this was a mere bump in the road. After all, the guilty parties had once lit a ceiling tile on fire while using it as a bounce card for lighting a commercial shoot at Kuettner Oldsmobile and had gotten that taken care of and repaired with no one the wiser. Certainly there would be no problem handling this little detail, either.
Suffice it to say that it turned into a rather long workday. Everyone reported to work the next day as if nothing had happened. The Tape Ball league was dissolved and the guilty parties just shared a sly smile between themselves and kept on working.
No one was the wiser.
We knew we had a great opportunity and we worked hard. Pre-production and shooting made for very long days with lots of stress and often few breaks. We normally started early in the morning and worked well past the world's "normal" quitting time. Sometimes we needed a little time to unwind after a long day.
Ralph and I made a great team for a few years; both at the working part and the unwinding part!
We were known to hang around Video Wisconsin for hours after the work was done. We were the guys who turned off the lights and locked the doors when we finally decided to head to our homes to get at least a little sleep before going at it again the next day.
Oh, the energy of youth...
Ralph and I became the kings of "unwind time." We had several fun activities that kept us hanging around Video Wisconsin. John Barto, our boss, had several pinball machines in the back storage room. I'm not sure where he picked them up, but he had bought them for one reason or another. There was one minor problem with them, though.
They didn't work.
That was not going to stop us! I quickly tore into them, repaired them and rigged them so we could just push a button to play without actually inserting any money.
And play we did! We spent hours playing pinball. We had a blast.
I proved to be much better at repairing pinball machines than actually playing them. Ralph soundly beat me pretty much every every time, but I didn't care. We were just unwinding.
Ralph and I came up with another unwinding routine that was not quite as innocuous. We invented the game of Tape Ball!
A typical film or video shoot uses lots of gaffer's tape. Gaffer's tape looks similar to duct tape, but that is where the similarity ends. Gaffer's tape is cloth-based and normally about two inches wide. It has a special adhesive that will stick to pretty much anything but remove easily without leaving a sticky residue. It is used to tape down cables, secure props and thousands of other tasks on film and video shoots. It is available in a wide range of colors to blend in as much as possible on shots.
Gaffer's tape is also quite expensive, but tape is cheaper than lawsuits so we used a lot of tape. The tape had to be pulled up and thrown away at the end of each setup. We came up with the brilliant idea of wrapping the tape into balls as we pulled it up. The balls would end up being about six inches, or so, in diameter.
Now the simple game would be to launch them into one of the trash cans like we were shooting hoops. We really weren't into simple and we weren't into basketball. We had to come up with a better game.
We invented Tape Ball!
Tape Ball involved one of us pitching the balled up tape while the other one would attempt to hit it with a hunk of two by four like a baseball bat. The goal was to hit it as high up on the cyc wall as we could. The ball was quite heavy and not very aerodynamic, so it didn't fly well. Hitting high up on the cyc wall was a real feat.
The cyclorama, or cyc for short for those who have not worked around a soundstage, is a very expensive wall that is built to gently curve from the walls to the floor and from one wall to the next so there are no corners anywhere. They are used to give the illusion of something sitting in infinity or when other effects will be added to the shot during post-production. We regularly painted the walls and floors to keep the infinity effect or change the color for a particular shot. Most of the time, though, the walls and floor were painted white. They can be painted very quickly because there are no corners to cut and no hard edges.
Did I mention that they are very expensive.
Now, I'm not sure what the statute of limitations is for damaging a very expensive cyclorama, so for the purposes of this story, which may or may not have actually happened, the names have been changed to protect the totally guilty. I can't recall who was supposedly involved, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't Ralph and Scott. I'll just refer to them that way to keep you from getting confused with a suspect number one and suspect number two type of report. I will leave it up to the actual guilty parties to fess up on their own.
One person, who certainly wasn't Scott, threw a particularly nasty pitch right down the middle of the plate to the batter, who certainly wasn't Ralph. The batter, who usually won anyway because he was more of a jock, reared back and hit the ball like he thought he was Hank Aaron. It was a thing of beauty. The ball leaped from his bat like a rocket headed for the cyc wall. This was a certain winner!
The sound of the ball hitting the cyc echoed through the soundstage. As you can imagine, an empty 60' x 40' room with high ceilings can hold a sound for a long time. The sound was slightly different this time than hits in the past. I can't remember what was louder; the sound of the tape ball hitting the cyc or Ralph's exclamation of, "Oh, bleep!!!"
This time, the tape ball punched a six inch hole right through the drywall that made up the cyc wall.
This was bad.
Very, very bad!!
Have I mentioned that a cyc is very, very expensive?
While our initial reaction was not one of joy; we quickly realized that this was a mere bump in the road. After all, the guilty parties had once lit a ceiling tile on fire while using it as a bounce card for lighting a commercial shoot at Kuettner Oldsmobile and had gotten that taken care of and repaired with no one the wiser. Certainly there would be no problem handling this little detail, either.
Suffice it to say that it turned into a rather long workday. Everyone reported to work the next day as if nothing had happened. The Tape Ball league was dissolved and the guilty parties just shared a sly smile between themselves and kept on working.
No one was the wiser.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Ignorance Is No Excuse
We've all heard it before; "Ignorance is no excuse." Perhaps we have even heard that argument made against us. I was ticketed in 1985 for an illegal U-Turn in Glendale, WI. (Still the only ticket of my driving career. Had a couple of warnings, but no other tickets.) There was apparently a sign indicating that no U-Turns were permitted in an area. I came out of a gas station and had to make a swing to the right in order to hit a cut through to turn around to go back to the left. The sign was behind where I came out of the gas station but it still applied to that cut through. I still have no idea why there was even a cut through in the boulevard there because there was no street to make a left turn onto and the only option available at that spot was to use the cut through to make a U-Turn.
In any case, I swung to the right to make the U-Turn back to the left and soon noticed the distinct flashing of red and blue lights in my rear view mirror. The fact that I could not have possibly seen the sign based on its position relative to the gas station driveway was not an adequate explanation to keep me from getting a ticket. The officer told me I was free to make my argument before the Judge if I had an issue with it. His point - my ignorance of the prohibition against U-Turns at that cut through was not an excuse for violating the law. It was a whopping $40 ticket at the time and it certainly wasn't worth taking a day off work to go to court, so I paid the fine and moved on, but I have never forgotten his insistence that ignorance was no excuse.
Somehow, the government does not hold itself to the same standard.
I speak, of course, of the government's regular and consistent violation of the US Flag Code as it relates to displaying the United States Flag at half staff. I realize that I may be part of an infinitesimal percentage of the US population who actually knows we even have a US Flag Code.
We do.
It is codified into law in the US Code. The laws dictating when and how our Flag is to be lowered to half staff used to be covered in Title 36 Chapter 10 dealing with Patriotic Customs. The Code has been "simplified" and it is now covered in Title 4 Section 7.
Aren't you glad you know that?
I have a flagpole in front of my house and proudly fly my United States Flag virtually every day. The Flag comes down when we are expecting high winds; both to extend the life of the Flag and to protect my aluminum flagpole. I am proud to fly the United States Flag in front of the house. I've been accused about being rather retentive about the Flag and the US Flag Code, among other things.
I can recite many of the most minute details of the Flag Code. I can even tell you how the Union (the blue field with the white stars in it, for the vast majority of the US population that doesn't know that's what it's called) is supposed to be positioned no matter how the Flag is displayed; whether flown, suspended or appearing on a uniform.
The US Flag Code spells out - in great detail - how and when the Flag is to be displayed. Although the US Flag Code is considered law; it is rather unique in that there are no penalties proscribed for violating the law.
Of course, to a retentive geek, violations are violations; whether the law dictates a penalty for the violation or not.
The government continually violates the law when ordering that US Flags be flown at half staff for various tragedies; most recently following the bombings at the Boston Marathon. I have held off on posting this blog because I do not want my comments to be construed as disrespectful to those who were injured or killed in the attacks.
I also am not making a political statement. President Obama's decree that the US Flag be flown at half staff for a period of mourning is merely a continuation of what presidents of both parties have done before him..
At some point in the past, people got the idea that it is appropriate to lower our Flag to half staff for a myriad of reasons. I simply continue to fly my Flag at full staff; not as a show of disrespect for whatever disaster spawned the decree, but as a show of respect for my country and my Flag.
At the risk of boring you to death, I have inserted the pertinent section of the US Code below. You can feel free to skip right over it, but I don't want to be accused of not offering the facts behind my position. I could, after all, do like much of the political world and merely make up "facts" to support whatever I chose to pontificate on on any given day.
4 USC Sec. 7
"... (m) ...
By order of the President, the flag shall be flown at half-staff
upon the death of principal figures of the United States Government
and the Governor of a State, territory, or possession, as a mark of
respect to their memory. In the event of the death of other
officials or foreign dignitaries, the flag is to be displayed at
half-staff according to Presidential instructions or orders, or in
accordance with recognized customs or practices not inconsistent
with law..."
Back to my daily rant...
The law makes no allowance for national mourning for tragedies or the death of anyone other than government officials or dignitaries. The law gives governors greater powers to make proclamations lowering the Flag and orders Federal installations and facilities in that state to fly the Flag at half staff in those situations. The US Flag Federation, an unofficial keeper of the Flag Code, affirms that nothing in the law prohibits private individuals from choosing to fly their Flag at half staff on their own. That section of the US Flag Code merely dictates the standards by which the President or Governor may order Flags to half staff.
Somewhere along the way, though, someone determined that the President should make proclamations ordering the Flag to half staff for virtually any tragedy they determine to be worthy. While that may be admirable; it is not a correct application of the law.
We have a mechanism in place to change laws. The US Flag Code itself has been changed and amended many times through the years; yet Congress has never chosen to change the Code to allow presidential proclamation to order the Flag to half staff for times of national mourning.
So last week, as in many other instances, I continued to fly my US Flag at full staff. Not out of any disrespect for the victims of the terrorist attack in Boston, but out of respect for the Flag
Ignorance is no excuse
In any case, I swung to the right to make the U-Turn back to the left and soon noticed the distinct flashing of red and blue lights in my rear view mirror. The fact that I could not have possibly seen the sign based on its position relative to the gas station driveway was not an adequate explanation to keep me from getting a ticket. The officer told me I was free to make my argument before the Judge if I had an issue with it. His point - my ignorance of the prohibition against U-Turns at that cut through was not an excuse for violating the law. It was a whopping $40 ticket at the time and it certainly wasn't worth taking a day off work to go to court, so I paid the fine and moved on, but I have never forgotten his insistence that ignorance was no excuse.
Somehow, the government does not hold itself to the same standard.
I speak, of course, of the government's regular and consistent violation of the US Flag Code as it relates to displaying the United States Flag at half staff. I realize that I may be part of an infinitesimal percentage of the US population who actually knows we even have a US Flag Code.
We do.
It is codified into law in the US Code. The laws dictating when and how our Flag is to be lowered to half staff used to be covered in Title 36 Chapter 10 dealing with Patriotic Customs. The Code has been "simplified" and it is now covered in Title 4 Section 7.
Aren't you glad you know that?
I have a flagpole in front of my house and proudly fly my United States Flag virtually every day. The Flag comes down when we are expecting high winds; both to extend the life of the Flag and to protect my aluminum flagpole. I am proud to fly the United States Flag in front of the house. I've been accused about being rather retentive about the Flag and the US Flag Code, among other things.
I can recite many of the most minute details of the Flag Code. I can even tell you how the Union (the blue field with the white stars in it, for the vast majority of the US population that doesn't know that's what it's called) is supposed to be positioned no matter how the Flag is displayed; whether flown, suspended or appearing on a uniform.
The US Flag Code spells out - in great detail - how and when the Flag is to be displayed. Although the US Flag Code is considered law; it is rather unique in that there are no penalties proscribed for violating the law.
Of course, to a retentive geek, violations are violations; whether the law dictates a penalty for the violation or not.
The government continually violates the law when ordering that US Flags be flown at half staff for various tragedies; most recently following the bombings at the Boston Marathon. I have held off on posting this blog because I do not want my comments to be construed as disrespectful to those who were injured or killed in the attacks.
I also am not making a political statement. President Obama's decree that the US Flag be flown at half staff for a period of mourning is merely a continuation of what presidents of both parties have done before him..
At some point in the past, people got the idea that it is appropriate to lower our Flag to half staff for a myriad of reasons. I simply continue to fly my Flag at full staff; not as a show of disrespect for whatever disaster spawned the decree, but as a show of respect for my country and my Flag.
At the risk of boring you to death, I have inserted the pertinent section of the US Code below. You can feel free to skip right over it, but I don't want to be accused of not offering the facts behind my position. I could, after all, do like much of the political world and merely make up "facts" to support whatever I chose to pontificate on on any given day.
4 USC Sec. 7
"... (m) ...
By order of the President, the flag shall be flown at half-staff
upon the death of principal figures of the United States Government
and the Governor of a State, territory, or possession, as a mark of
respect to their memory. In the event of the death of other
officials or foreign dignitaries, the flag is to be displayed at
half-staff according to Presidential instructions or orders, or in
accordance with recognized customs or practices not inconsistent
with law..."
Back to my daily rant...
The law makes no allowance for national mourning for tragedies or the death of anyone other than government officials or dignitaries. The law gives governors greater powers to make proclamations lowering the Flag and orders Federal installations and facilities in that state to fly the Flag at half staff in those situations. The US Flag Federation, an unofficial keeper of the Flag Code, affirms that nothing in the law prohibits private individuals from choosing to fly their Flag at half staff on their own. That section of the US Flag Code merely dictates the standards by which the President or Governor may order Flags to half staff.
Somewhere along the way, though, someone determined that the President should make proclamations ordering the Flag to half staff for virtually any tragedy they determine to be worthy. While that may be admirable; it is not a correct application of the law.
We have a mechanism in place to change laws. The US Flag Code itself has been changed and amended many times through the years; yet Congress has never chosen to change the Code to allow presidential proclamation to order the Flag to half staff for times of national mourning.
So last week, as in many other instances, I continued to fly my US Flag at full staff. Not out of any disrespect for the victims of the terrorist attack in Boston, but out of respect for the Flag
Ignorance is no excuse
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
The Garbage Men Are Here!!!!
Few things were more exciting to me as a child than garbage day. The garbage collectors in the City of St. Louis came through twice each week when I was growing up. Okay, maybe I was merely growing older; I still have no intention of ever actually growing up. I'm a guy so I don't have to!
Garbage days were a huge deal. The garbage collectors came up our street quite early in the morning. This didn't present any problems because I was completely tuned in to the sound of the garbage truck and knew their route so I would never have to miss them.
Everyone had the old galvanized garbage cans back then, and the garbage men did nothing to dampen the sounds of their work. The truck noisily worked its way up the street with two garbage collectors following behind. One would grab the cans from each side of the street and drag them to the back of the truck where they would kind of toss them onto the back of the truck, tip them over to empty them and drop the now empty cans back onto the street. Once emptied, they would gather the cans - we had four kids so we almost always had two cans out front - carry them back to the grassy strip between the curb and the sidewalk, plop them down and toss the lids on top. You could hear them coming for blocks. I can still hear the glorious sounds of their work in my mind.
There was one minor detail that seemed to cause a small disruption in our otherwise relatively peaceful home.
My bedroom faced the back yard.
The garbage truck came by on the street in front of the house.
This meant, of course, that I could not watch them from my windows. The only way I could watch them complete their task was to cross - ever so quietly - into Kim and Beth's bedroom at the front of the house to peek out their window.
I would lie in my bed listening for the sounds of the approaching garbage truck; the excitement building as they came ever closer to our house. I could hardly contain myself by the time they reached the Boyd's house two doors down. I would jump from bed, race across the hall to Kim and Beth's room so I could get to the front window by the time they reached Don's garbage cans next door; all the while shouting, "The Garbage Men Are Here!!!! The Garbage Men Are Here!!!!"
I threw open the shade and I watched with delight as they reached our house and began their ritual of emptying our garbage! My joy was complete if they actually ran the compactor in front of our house!
Twice a week.
Every week.
Somehow Kim and Beth did not share my enthusiasm for the garbage truck. I never understood how they could be so disinterested and, in fact, hostile to the invitation to watch the garbage men as they passed our house.
Those days are only memories now, of course. Somewhere along the way we all switched to plastic garbage cans and then on to the large totes that are automatically dumped into the truck without human intervention. It has become such an un-glamorous job; merely driving the truck from house to house as the boom reaches out from the truck to grasp the can to be lifted and dumped. Even the compactor is hidden from view.
My sons never experienced the joy of watching the garbage men dragging cans into the street and tossing them onto the back of the truck. They never got to stare out the front window, hoping that they would run the compactor at our house!
There simply isn't anything about garbage collection any more to get a boy all fired up; ready to race through the house exclaiming, "The Garbage Men Are Here!!!! The Garbage Men Are Here!!!!"
Garbage days were a huge deal. The garbage collectors came up our street quite early in the morning. This didn't present any problems because I was completely tuned in to the sound of the garbage truck and knew their route so I would never have to miss them.
Everyone had the old galvanized garbage cans back then, and the garbage men did nothing to dampen the sounds of their work. The truck noisily worked its way up the street with two garbage collectors following behind. One would grab the cans from each side of the street and drag them to the back of the truck where they would kind of toss them onto the back of the truck, tip them over to empty them and drop the now empty cans back onto the street. Once emptied, they would gather the cans - we had four kids so we almost always had two cans out front - carry them back to the grassy strip between the curb and the sidewalk, plop them down and toss the lids on top. You could hear them coming for blocks. I can still hear the glorious sounds of their work in my mind.
There was one minor detail that seemed to cause a small disruption in our otherwise relatively peaceful home.
My bedroom faced the back yard.
The garbage truck came by on the street in front of the house.
This meant, of course, that I could not watch them from my windows. The only way I could watch them complete their task was to cross - ever so quietly - into Kim and Beth's bedroom at the front of the house to peek out their window.
I would lie in my bed listening for the sounds of the approaching garbage truck; the excitement building as they came ever closer to our house. I could hardly contain myself by the time they reached the Boyd's house two doors down. I would jump from bed, race across the hall to Kim and Beth's room so I could get to the front window by the time they reached Don's garbage cans next door; all the while shouting, "The Garbage Men Are Here!!!! The Garbage Men Are Here!!!!"
I threw open the shade and I watched with delight as they reached our house and began their ritual of emptying our garbage! My joy was complete if they actually ran the compactor in front of our house!
Twice a week.
Every week.
Somehow Kim and Beth did not share my enthusiasm for the garbage truck. I never understood how they could be so disinterested and, in fact, hostile to the invitation to watch the garbage men as they passed our house.
Those days are only memories now, of course. Somewhere along the way we all switched to plastic garbage cans and then on to the large totes that are automatically dumped into the truck without human intervention. It has become such an un-glamorous job; merely driving the truck from house to house as the boom reaches out from the truck to grasp the can to be lifted and dumped. Even the compactor is hidden from view.
My sons never experienced the joy of watching the garbage men dragging cans into the street and tossing them onto the back of the truck. They never got to stare out the front window, hoping that they would run the compactor at our house!
There simply isn't anything about garbage collection any more to get a boy all fired up; ready to race through the house exclaiming, "The Garbage Men Are Here!!!! The Garbage Men Are Here!!!!"
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