In 1983 I transferred from my job at the phone company employment office in Kansas City, Missouri, to a repair garage in Oklahoma City. I spent my first day on the job there as an "Exchange Repair Technician" riding with one of the crew members. Gene was a little older than the rest of us, and the most experienced. In the morning, he phoned into Dispatch and picked up a repair ticket and we drove over to it in his phone truck.
Gene was a wiry, slender guy, and he had a kind of slow, old school, polite demeanor typical of a lot of the native Oklahomans I ran into in the two years I lived down there. I had no experience with any of this, so as he drove, he started out my education.
"Around here," he said, "we don't talk about wires. We talk about pairs. Pairs of wires."
OK, I'm listening.
"All we really got to do is figure out what can go wrong with two wires, and fix it."
Which is about the most accurate, straightforward description of what was to be my job for the next two years that I ever heard.
A telephone circuit is a loop of wire, one side grounded, and one side with DC current on it. That's your pair of wires. They are called tip (ground) and ring (battery,) so named after their position on the typical cord board plug, that is, either the tip of the plug, or the ring, the circular band of metal below the tip, and insulated from it. I confess it was a long time before I understood that. What can go wrong is the two wires might be touching, which is a short, or either one might be broken, which we called an open, or either side might be touching the ground, as in the metal sheath surrounding phone cables. Also, one of the wires might be touching one of the wires on a different pair. A telephone cable has a lot of pairs of wires in it--the amount varies, from, say, 25, or 50, or 100, and so on, up to hundreds. You might say, "the houses on that street are fed by a 25 pair cable."
So, that was my world, at work. Fixing wires in cable, or in house wiring. That and fixing broken telephones, replacing cords--this was back when the phone companies, the Baby Bells, owned the telephones.
Some of the work was inside houses, some of it outside. People were glad to see us on their door step. We were heroes. Actually it was kind of fun, and I liked thinking that each evening when I went home after a day at work, the town was a little bit better than it was when I woke up that morning. That was about the only job I ever had where I could say that.
Friday, August 28, 2020
Wednesday, August 26, 2020
A Slow Afternoon
Laslo enlisted Snorri's help in building his ornithopter. He planned to use the flathead six engine from the '52 Dodge pickup, which otherwise had been rendered non-operational the last time "the Agents," as they were called, had lobbed a grenade--or something--over the wooden fence that defined the back lot behind the cafe. Laslo built a winch over the resultant crater in order to pull the engine out--it was the only recognizable part of the truck--and was pleased when Snorri, who had been watching from the kitchen's back window, came out and performed an impromptu design change that reinforced the strength of the wooden beams.
"Where did you learn to make a winch like that?" asked Laslo.
"It's like boats," Snorri said by way of explanation. He thought of a home far away and long ago where he built boats and sailed them. He never thought he would go this far. The two men pulled on the ropes, taking turns, until the engine was raised above ground level, and they swung it around and landed it on the rim of the crater. Laslo smiled down on it, beaming.
"I think this thing could run all day at about 3,000 RPM," he said to the slender man who stood next to him peering down on the greasy iron lump of an engine at their feet. "Do you know what an RPM is?" he asked.
"No."
"No matter," Laslo replied. "You're in charge of wing construction."
Snorri frowned as he nodded assent. He liked Laslo, and thought he would have made an excellent Dane. "I'll go ask Denise to help me . . . Google? . . . wings." He went back into the kitchen. As the screen door slammed and bounced behind him, Laslo glanced again at the engine and then went down into the basement to look for a battery and a gas can.
"Where did you learn to make a winch like that?" asked Laslo.
"It's like boats," Snorri said by way of explanation. He thought of a home far away and long ago where he built boats and sailed them. He never thought he would go this far. The two men pulled on the ropes, taking turns, until the engine was raised above ground level, and they swung it around and landed it on the rim of the crater. Laslo smiled down on it, beaming.
"I think this thing could run all day at about 3,000 RPM," he said to the slender man who stood next to him peering down on the greasy iron lump of an engine at their feet. "Do you know what an RPM is?" he asked.
"No."
"No matter," Laslo replied. "You're in charge of wing construction."
Snorri frowned as he nodded assent. He liked Laslo, and thought he would have made an excellent Dane. "I'll go ask Denise to help me . . . Google? . . . wings." He went back into the kitchen. As the screen door slammed and bounced behind him, Laslo glanced again at the engine and then went down into the basement to look for a battery and a gas can.
Enforcement
I'm here to tell you. You kids get OFF my GOTTdamm lawn.
Just kidding. I don't care.
 |
| I am not photogenic |
Just kidding. I don't care.
A Clash of Cultures and Subsequent Bureaucratic Nonsense
When I was eighteen years old and first moved to the town of Independence, Missouri, I got here in my '57 Chevy. I had recently bought it from a guy who lived in the Santa Cruz Mountains, just west of Los Altos, (if I recall correctly) for $300. It was a rare model, something called a Sedan Delivery, which was more or less a two-door station wagon, only with panel sides rather than the rear windows, and a rear tail gate that was one piece, hinging from the top. It had a blown engine, though I was assured it was just a blown head gasket and would be repairable.
That turned out not to be the case--it was not repairable--but I put another engine in it and eventually drove it from the Bay Area to Kansas City.
But the problem was I never registered the car in California. Per law, I had the "pink slip," which was the title, and it was signed over to me, but for much of the time I had the car while in California, it didn't run. Therefore, I couldn't get it inspected, and I couldn't get it titled. Instead, I got a 60-day emergency operating permit, and planned on getting a certificate of non-operation for the period that I was working on it. Bottom line, I never got it registered by the time I left the state, and I had planned on simply getting it registered in Missouri once I established residency there. So, off I go, with a bunch of documentation and DMV forms and assorted crap jammed into the glove box.
I got to Independence and pretty much forgot about all that stuff. I had the idea vaguely in mind that I would take care of it, but time passes differently when you're eighteen, I suppose. At any rate, one fine day I was driving through the town of Raytown, which was adjacent to Independence and known for its strict law enforcement. Let's say, to be polite, that I knew a few people who told me that they "never go through Raytown." Just avoid it. But, anyway, I'm eighteen, like I said. So, I had expired California license plates on my car, of course. They were the originals from when the car was new, as a matter of fact, that being how it worked in California. So here's a long haired kid driving this sort of "hippy wagon" looking vehicle, with expired tags, from California, no less, therefore probably jam packed in the back with smuggled marijuana. A Raytown police officer pulls me over, and in the ensuing conversation I point out that I have this here "emergency operating permit," as well as this here California driver's license, and he points out that both are expired.
Oops.
Later that same day, I'm in a holding cell at the Raytown police station, staring blankly through the black iron bars out at the small room where three policemen stand around a wooden desk with all my paperwork spread out over it, and they can't figure it out. No one can. Not even in California, not in Missouri, and certainly not in Raytown. As I watch, phone calls are made, and quiet whispered discussions take place until finally, after about two hours, I am released and given a ticket. It is something called an "equipment violation," so, technically, I just have to correct the problem and show up at a highway patrol station to have it checked off and then I am all set.
Never mind that it's not really equipment we're talking about, but, whatever. I am to go and get my car inspected and registered in ten days and show the highway patrol.
This is where the fun begins. I do get the car inspected, and I get my Independence City Sticker, which is a little sticker they sell you for $25 that signifies nothing, and does nothing, get my property tax waiver and then I go to the DMV. I produce the California title, the "pink slip" with the seller's signature. So far so good.
I am told it needs to be notarized. In Missouri, a title signed over like that needs to be notarized. I point out that in California, that was not required, that all I needed was the signature. I'm told that it still needs to be notarized. There are two problems here. 1.) A notary needs to witness the document being signed, which of course means it's too late--already signed, 1,500 miles away, and 2.) the guy I bought the car from is now in the army, in Viet Nam, 8,000 miles away.
But, I didn't know about the notary procedure, so off I go to find a notary. Soon I am educated, and I return to the DMV office. I wait in line. I get to speak to a nice lady, and I explain that no one would notarize the title because, as I said, it's already been signed. She says to me, in a hushed tone, "There's a guy down on 23rd street, behind the laundry right down there . . . he'll notarize anything."
I go there. I see the guy, ask him to notarize my title, and he says, hell no, he can't do that. It's already been signed! I am too young and dumb to understand what I was supposed to do next, so I storm out of there and return to the DMV office. I stand in the middle of the room, and ask in a loud voice to speak to whoever the highest authority in the building was, that I am wondering if I should just push my car off a cliff, or what. Yeah I really did say that. They were probably all just a little frightened.
The nice lady quickly motions me over to her desk. "Let me see the title." she says. I hand it to her. She takes out a blank sheet of paper and writes out a bill of sale. She studies the signature of my seller on the pink slip, then does a fair job of forging it onto the bill of sale. She folds the paper up again and again until it is a small square, rubs it against her leg so it looks aged, unfolds it, then opens her desk drawer, looks to her left and to her right, takes out a notary stamp and notarized both the bill of sale and the title, and then processes it all and registers my car.
I take my new Missouri license plates and quickly screw them onto the front and back of my car, sort of victorious, I think, but only conditionally.
That turned out not to be the case--it was not repairable--but I put another engine in it and eventually drove it from the Bay Area to Kansas City.
But the problem was I never registered the car in California. Per law, I had the "pink slip," which was the title, and it was signed over to me, but for much of the time I had the car while in California, it didn't run. Therefore, I couldn't get it inspected, and I couldn't get it titled. Instead, I got a 60-day emergency operating permit, and planned on getting a certificate of non-operation for the period that I was working on it. Bottom line, I never got it registered by the time I left the state, and I had planned on simply getting it registered in Missouri once I established residency there. So, off I go, with a bunch of documentation and DMV forms and assorted crap jammed into the glove box.
I got to Independence and pretty much forgot about all that stuff. I had the idea vaguely in mind that I would take care of it, but time passes differently when you're eighteen, I suppose. At any rate, one fine day I was driving through the town of Raytown, which was adjacent to Independence and known for its strict law enforcement. Let's say, to be polite, that I knew a few people who told me that they "never go through Raytown." Just avoid it. But, anyway, I'm eighteen, like I said. So, I had expired California license plates on my car, of course. They were the originals from when the car was new, as a matter of fact, that being how it worked in California. So here's a long haired kid driving this sort of "hippy wagon" looking vehicle, with expired tags, from California, no less, therefore probably jam packed in the back with smuggled marijuana. A Raytown police officer pulls me over, and in the ensuing conversation I point out that I have this here "emergency operating permit," as well as this here California driver's license, and he points out that both are expired.
Oops.
Later that same day, I'm in a holding cell at the Raytown police station, staring blankly through the black iron bars out at the small room where three policemen stand around a wooden desk with all my paperwork spread out over it, and they can't figure it out. No one can. Not even in California, not in Missouri, and certainly not in Raytown. As I watch, phone calls are made, and quiet whispered discussions take place until finally, after about two hours, I am released and given a ticket. It is something called an "equipment violation," so, technically, I just have to correct the problem and show up at a highway patrol station to have it checked off and then I am all set.
Never mind that it's not really equipment we're talking about, but, whatever. I am to go and get my car inspected and registered in ten days and show the highway patrol.
This is where the fun begins. I do get the car inspected, and I get my Independence City Sticker, which is a little sticker they sell you for $25 that signifies nothing, and does nothing, get my property tax waiver and then I go to the DMV. I produce the California title, the "pink slip" with the seller's signature. So far so good.
I am told it needs to be notarized. In Missouri, a title signed over like that needs to be notarized. I point out that in California, that was not required, that all I needed was the signature. I'm told that it still needs to be notarized. There are two problems here. 1.) A notary needs to witness the document being signed, which of course means it's too late--already signed, 1,500 miles away, and 2.) the guy I bought the car from is now in the army, in Viet Nam, 8,000 miles away.
But, I didn't know about the notary procedure, so off I go to find a notary. Soon I am educated, and I return to the DMV office. I wait in line. I get to speak to a nice lady, and I explain that no one would notarize the title because, as I said, it's already been signed. She says to me, in a hushed tone, "There's a guy down on 23rd street, behind the laundry right down there . . . he'll notarize anything."
I go there. I see the guy, ask him to notarize my title, and he says, hell no, he can't do that. It's already been signed! I am too young and dumb to understand what I was supposed to do next, so I storm out of there and return to the DMV office. I stand in the middle of the room, and ask in a loud voice to speak to whoever the highest authority in the building was, that I am wondering if I should just push my car off a cliff, or what. Yeah I really did say that. They were probably all just a little frightened.
The nice lady quickly motions me over to her desk. "Let me see the title." she says. I hand it to her. She takes out a blank sheet of paper and writes out a bill of sale. She studies the signature of my seller on the pink slip, then does a fair job of forging it onto the bill of sale. She folds the paper up again and again until it is a small square, rubs it against her leg so it looks aged, unfolds it, then opens her desk drawer, looks to her left and to her right, takes out a notary stamp and notarized both the bill of sale and the title, and then processes it all and registers my car.
I take my new Missouri license plates and quickly screw them onto the front and back of my car, sort of victorious, I think, but only conditionally.
Sunday, August 23, 2020
Sunday Search for Inspiration
It's always tempting to start out telling cockroach stories. Every telephone company repair tech has them--stories, that is--if they ever worked in the residential side of the business. You got your tool belt on and you knock on the door and when it swings open, you say, hi, I'm here to fix your phone line. And they let you inside and you check the line and maybe you have to work on the inside wiring, or the jacks, or the telephone set itself. Of course, this was back before the customers supplied their own telephones.
But, cockroaches don't care who owns the phones. They like to crawl inside dark, enclosed places, and they love company. If a household has a cockroach problem, then there will be cockroaches inside the phones--almost every time--or inside the little box-like phone jacks that we used to put on baseboards. Any little hiding place. For us telco repair people, it was a routine job hazard, just as wasps were when we opened up telephone terminals that were mounted on telephone poles in backyards and alleys.
I never thought about it before, but maybe you would be surprised at this. Maybe not. Telephone lines, and most of the related equipment, were not that complicated. I think we were paid--pretty well--in part for our willingness to subject ourselves to the rigors of outdoor work in a Midwest climate, as well as this whole insect thing. When I was a land surveyor, it was snakes and poison ivy. It's always somethin'.
But, cockroaches don't care who owns the phones. They like to crawl inside dark, enclosed places, and they love company. If a household has a cockroach problem, then there will be cockroaches inside the phones--almost every time--or inside the little box-like phone jacks that we used to put on baseboards. Any little hiding place. For us telco repair people, it was a routine job hazard, just as wasps were when we opened up telephone terminals that were mounted on telephone poles in backyards and alleys.
I never thought about it before, but maybe you would be surprised at this. Maybe not. Telephone lines, and most of the related equipment, were not that complicated. I think we were paid--pretty well--in part for our willingness to subject ourselves to the rigors of outdoor work in a Midwest climate, as well as this whole insect thing. When I was a land surveyor, it was snakes and poison ivy. It's always somethin'.
Wednesday, August 19, 2020
Political Rant Which You May Skip if So Desired
I had a thought about voting as I read through yesterday's news. The media, call it fake news or lamestream or, alternatively, Faux News, all of which, even sprinkled throughout as they are with the occasional actual journalistic effort, have got us all perceiving current politics as confrontational, hostile, dangerous, crazy, infuriating, or outrageous, and the issue of voting has been covered similarly. The very act of voting is front and center now, voting is the equivalent of a soldier going "over the top," risking immune system and well-being to resist the oppressive opposition (whoever that might be) and it has all somehow come to this: voting is a negative act--we vote against the other guy almost more than for our guy.
Just sayin'. Everyone should vote, but I hope not just the ignited, furious anti-whatevers. If you're not sure, or if you are upset and have decided to withhold your vote, or just turned off by the negative politicking, just ask yourself, if the election results came in, which result would make you say to yourself, oh good, glad that guy got it? You must have an opinion. So vote for that guy. Voting is not like going into battle. It's just the opposite, in fact. It's meant to be the peaceable way to resolve conflicts, or come to decisions.
Just vote. It's what we democracies do. It's no big deal. Until someone tries to stop you.
Just sayin'. Everyone should vote, but I hope not just the ignited, furious anti-whatevers. If you're not sure, or if you are upset and have decided to withhold your vote, or just turned off by the negative politicking, just ask yourself, if the election results came in, which result would make you say to yourself, oh good, glad that guy got it? You must have an opinion. So vote for that guy. Voting is not like going into battle. It's just the opposite, in fact. It's meant to be the peaceable way to resolve conflicts, or come to decisions.
Just vote. It's what we democracies do. It's no big deal. Until someone tries to stop you.
Friday, August 14, 2020
Another Week Passes
Friday again. I struggle to find meaning, for myself and for this blog, and it is just a little alarming whenever another week passes without my having made any progress on that. You might think it is from getting old, but the truth is that when young, it's not that we actually have meaning, it is that we're too busy to realize or worry about the fact that we don't. It's nice to be needed.
One time a few years back as my son was lecturing me (as he is sometimes wont to do) about thinking of myself as "getting old," he said I was "still relevant." This made me laugh. Not because I know that I am not necessarily relevant, but because he sounded so much like a Sixties Baby Boomer. I suppose we can't help but transmit some of that stuff. I guess as transmitted rhetoric goes, this was pretty benign. Anyway, he was probably talking about my continued willingness to loan him money from time to time. No--that's not fair. He's a good man.
So, as the years go by, dreams and aspirations become hobbies, which can be defined as stuff you like to do but no one else cares. One advantage is it takes a lot less energy to do anything when you're not trying to draw a crowd.
Meanwhile, while much can be said about my two years spent as a clerk at the phone company, back in the early 80s, the thing that I remember the most vividly was how, as the only guy in an office full of women, it would sometimes be tough to navigate all the office politics. I was often held to a different set of rules and standards when it suited the other clerks. It so happened that the last two guys who were clerks in that office wound up getting promoted to management pretty quickly, and of course leaving all of them behind. No doubt this bothered some of them, or it seemed to me that it did, and I eventually learned from an ally that some of them had actually gotten together and decided that they weren't going to let this latest guy (me) get promoted this time--not if they could help it.
They were very effective at this, even though it was moot, even though they failed to understand that I wasn't there to work my way into management--my plan, which was no secret, was to put in my two years to be eligible for a transfer, and get a job as an outside repair technician. Yes, and leave them all behind. So, I was treated OK, but only provisionally. I didn't care, that much, but the whole thing was sort of un-fun.
No matter. At about the two year mark, I figured out a way to get my transfer, even if it meant moving to Oklahoma; there was an oil boom going on down there, and much more work so that it was easier to get into the type of job I wanted. I submitted my transfer request, and it took about a month or so to get it. I was told one Friday that I was to report to work in Oklahoma City in a week. Luckily for me, the short notice wasn't a problem, and I got everything I owned into a '72 Oldsmobile Cutlass and drove down the Saturday before my start date.
I'll give you the spoiler. At that moment I had no reason to believe that Oklahoma City, a five hour drive to the south of Kansas City, would be anything other than a fine place to live. I saw this as a permanent move. I'd have to stay there for two years before I could put in another transfer, anyway. As it turned out, I was anxious to get back to KC some months before the two years were up, for a handful of reasons, and I managed to do so pretty much right after I had the two years in.
But that first day on the job, that was something. You might say a harbinger, but you might not if, like me, you weren't sure what that means. I found the work location, a long, low cinder block building next to a large, brick telephone central office, and I walked in and found the smallish room where my new crew was. I was a little early of course. The phone company was very big on punctuality, and this was my first day and all. It was a medium sized beige room with a cluttered wooden desk in one corner--the boss's, I assumed, though no one was seated there--and a couple of long tables in the middle of the room, lined with chairs, with a scattered array of telephones on them. A handful of guys were already sitting around, and they all looked up at me. Someone asked if I was the new guy, to which I answered yes and asked where the manager of the crew was.
"He's not here today," someone said. "He said you'd be here. You're supposed to ride with Gene."
OK, so my first day was to be spent riding along with one of the techs. Too bad I was so stupid I wasn't dressed for December weather in Oklahoma. I ascertained that Gene wasn't there yet. Then someone, who for the life of me for the next two weeks I thought was called "Little Phil" but whose name was actually Littlefield, (Oakie accents) looked up and asked me if I had ever done outside tech work before. They had no idea where I came from, or from what job. I said, no.
Littlefield just lowered his head and blurted "God DAMMIT! They were supposed to get somebody in here who could start working right away!"
"I'll learn as fast as I can," I said.
Welcome to Oklahoma.
One time a few years back as my son was lecturing me (as he is sometimes wont to do) about thinking of myself as "getting old," he said I was "still relevant." This made me laugh. Not because I know that I am not necessarily relevant, but because he sounded so much like a Sixties Baby Boomer. I suppose we can't help but transmit some of that stuff. I guess as transmitted rhetoric goes, this was pretty benign. Anyway, he was probably talking about my continued willingness to loan him money from time to time. No--that's not fair. He's a good man.
So, as the years go by, dreams and aspirations become hobbies, which can be defined as stuff you like to do but no one else cares. One advantage is it takes a lot less energy to do anything when you're not trying to draw a crowd.
Meanwhile, while much can be said about my two years spent as a clerk at the phone company, back in the early 80s, the thing that I remember the most vividly was how, as the only guy in an office full of women, it would sometimes be tough to navigate all the office politics. I was often held to a different set of rules and standards when it suited the other clerks. It so happened that the last two guys who were clerks in that office wound up getting promoted to management pretty quickly, and of course leaving all of them behind. No doubt this bothered some of them, or it seemed to me that it did, and I eventually learned from an ally that some of them had actually gotten together and decided that they weren't going to let this latest guy (me) get promoted this time--not if they could help it.
They were very effective at this, even though it was moot, even though they failed to understand that I wasn't there to work my way into management--my plan, which was no secret, was to put in my two years to be eligible for a transfer, and get a job as an outside repair technician. Yes, and leave them all behind. So, I was treated OK, but only provisionally. I didn't care, that much, but the whole thing was sort of un-fun.
No matter. At about the two year mark, I figured out a way to get my transfer, even if it meant moving to Oklahoma; there was an oil boom going on down there, and much more work so that it was easier to get into the type of job I wanted. I submitted my transfer request, and it took about a month or so to get it. I was told one Friday that I was to report to work in Oklahoma City in a week. Luckily for me, the short notice wasn't a problem, and I got everything I owned into a '72 Oldsmobile Cutlass and drove down the Saturday before my start date.
I'll give you the spoiler. At that moment I had no reason to believe that Oklahoma City, a five hour drive to the south of Kansas City, would be anything other than a fine place to live. I saw this as a permanent move. I'd have to stay there for two years before I could put in another transfer, anyway. As it turned out, I was anxious to get back to KC some months before the two years were up, for a handful of reasons, and I managed to do so pretty much right after I had the two years in.
But that first day on the job, that was something. You might say a harbinger, but you might not if, like me, you weren't sure what that means. I found the work location, a long, low cinder block building next to a large, brick telephone central office, and I walked in and found the smallish room where my new crew was. I was a little early of course. The phone company was very big on punctuality, and this was my first day and all. It was a medium sized beige room with a cluttered wooden desk in one corner--the boss's, I assumed, though no one was seated there--and a couple of long tables in the middle of the room, lined with chairs, with a scattered array of telephones on them. A handful of guys were already sitting around, and they all looked up at me. Someone asked if I was the new guy, to which I answered yes and asked where the manager of the crew was.
"He's not here today," someone said. "He said you'd be here. You're supposed to ride with Gene."
OK, so my first day was to be spent riding along with one of the techs. Too bad I was so stupid I wasn't dressed for December weather in Oklahoma. I ascertained that Gene wasn't there yet. Then someone, who for the life of me for the next two weeks I thought was called "Little Phil" but whose name was actually Littlefield, (Oakie accents) looked up and asked me if I had ever done outside tech work before. They had no idea where I came from, or from what job. I said, no.
Littlefield just lowered his head and blurted "God DAMMIT! They were supposed to get somebody in here who could start working right away!"
"I'll learn as fast as I can," I said.
Welcome to Oklahoma.
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