The Handyman

It is quite unfortunate that the skills of the "handyman" are almost gone in our modern world.  Fathers used to fix their own cars and lawnmowers, Mothers used to sew and knit clothes for the families, people used to sharpen their own saws, build toy boxes for their kids... the list goes on and on.  It doesn't help any that a lot of tools available to us these days are, quite simply, crap.  It may seem that I'm wandering off the "handyman" subject, but worry not.  Everything will be tied up quite nicely in the end.  Hang in there.  Hand saws for example.  What does the average Joe do when he needs a hand saw?  He goes to the big box store or the hardware store and buys a saw.  I've certainly done this myself because I didn't really know any better.  My father taught me about tools when I was a child so I knew there were cross cut saws and rip saws.  Each was used for a specific task; cutting across the grain and cutting with the grain.  As I wrote that last sentence, I realized that a lot of people have no idea what wood grain is.  That's sad.  Anyway, the rip saw my parents gave when I was a child (a long time ago) had become dull and I needed a new saw.  I had just moved into my home and finally had a garage to use as a woodworking shop.  I had been breaking down long boards into rough length with a circular saw, which worked well, but I thought it a pain to drag out an extension cord and then have to put it away when finished.  So, I figured I would just run down to the hardware store and pick up a cross cut saw.  I was a little confused when I got there.  There were no rip saws and no cross cut saws, just "hand saws".  They had teeth like you would find on a Japanese style pull saw and those teeth were hardened.  I picked out a 26" saw with a wood handle that was labeled "finish cut".  I get a good laugh these days when I see the "finish cut" or "fine cut" labels on those saws.  The saw works well enough; it cross cuts and rips but does neither of them as well as a saw filed for ripping or cross cutting.  This new saw also had a handle which was designed for what is called a "four finger grip".  The four finger grip is all sorts of wrong, but we'll get into that later.  First, I need to write a little about my own journey through woodworking.

Dad is responsible for me being a woodworker, mechanic and handyman followed closely by my grandfather.  As I am apt to mention time and again, Dad and Grandpa taught me about tools and their uses as I worked alongside them.  One Christmas, my parents gave me my own desk.  A rite of passage in our family.  All of my siblings were given a desk at some point and my turn had come.  My parents, however, thought that a desk alone was enough, but a child want's something fun for Christmas.  Getting a desk is akin to receiving a sweater.  Practical, but not fully appreciated at the time.  So, Mom and Dad also gave me a few other things that year.  They got me the rip saw mentioned earlier, a small claw hammer, a try square, a tape measure and a huge box of wood scraps from the local lumber yard.  The desk was cool (I still have it), but the tools stole the show.  Save for the tape measure, I still have all of those tools.  Immediately I was down in the basement making all sorts of crappy things.  No glue, no real joinery, just butt joints and nails.  I was in heaven.  I was also experiencing some of my first disappointment.  Dad had a block plane and one wood chisel.  Both were dull as can be.  The chisel was sharpened on the grinder and the plane iron?  I didn't think to sharpen it at all.  Consequently, my experience with those two tools was not good.  My, how things have changed.  Bad experiences aside, I knew what my tools were and knew how to use them.  Something too many children these days lack.  Enter the "New Yankee Workshop".  I watched that show regularly until it ended along with "This Old House" and any other home improvement show that I could watch.  When I was in my mid-twenties, the building bug struck again.  I started paying more attention to Norm Abram. I would have also watched "The Woodwright's Shop" hosted by Roy Underhill but my local PBS station didn't have it in their programming.  Before the "Big Moment!" I had built a few things that were somewhat noteworthy.  My parent's basement got wet whenever the rain got too heavy and consequently my drum set would get wet and require a lot of maintenance.  I went out and got a sheet of cheap plywood and some 2x6s along with a box of common nails, some hooks & eyes, and some plastic furniture feet.  I built my own drum riser.  The power tools available to me at the time were my Dad's old table saw, jig saw and what I loving referred to as the "suicide drill" (electric, either on or off - no variable speed and a LOT of torque).  I had to cut the plywood into thirds in order to get it into the basement and then cut the 2x6s to length in order to make frames for the plywood to sit on.  A circular saw would have been ideal for that job, but I didn't have one nor did it cross my mind to go and buy one.  I went down to the basement and got the tools my parents had given to me many years before.  They had been hanging on the nails where they had always been.  I measured, marked, cut and nailed with those simple tools.  My drum riser turned out well.  In fact, having sold the drum set years later, the riser remained in the basement and eventually was left for the new homeowners when Mom sold the house.  I hope they found a good use for it.  The next thing I did was for some friends.  We had begun using their old barn as a car/tractor shop.  The two piece walk-in door (I think they're called Dutch doors) was all rotten and was in dire need of replacement.  The original door had been made by my friend's grandfather and was, of course, not something one could buy in a store.  A new door would have to be made to fit the opening.  My friend and I didn't so much as bat an eye.  We went to the lumber yard, got some boards, nails and built a door.  It's still there and doing quite well.  Clenched nails and all.  It was all simple skills with a very basic tool kit of saw, hammer and tape measure.  Stuff we had learned as kids in Cub Scouts and/or school.  Not exactly fine joinery, but butt joints, nails, screws and glue can build an awful lot of stuff.  Then came the "Big Moment".

The two previously mentioned projects had reignited my long dormant interest in woodworking. I started watching the woodworking and home improvement shows on PBS more often.  Then I saw "the" episode of the New Yankee Workshop that set me on my path.  Norm built a big table for a portable Delta Sidekick table saw that made the portable saw much more useful.  He also built a couple of saw horses for the whole works to sit on while in use.  Like a lot of Norm's projects, he gave just enough information for a person to build without having to order the "measured drawing".  I never got the table built, but I did buy that specific brand and model of table saw and made two saw horses.  That led to building a lot of what I call "Norm drawers" and a lot of frame and panel things.  Then I started buying woodworking magazines.  I have always been a voracious reader and a very curious person.  Whenever I needed to learn something I bought magazines or books so I could teach myself.  The time I started buying woodworking magazines was about the same time Chris Schwarz started at Popular Woodworking.  Though I preferred Popular Woodworking, I bought every woodworking magazine that was on the stand.  With the exception of a few years living in an apartment, I haven't stopped learning and building.  Like a lot of woodworkers, I was a power tool person.  I didn't know any other way.  Besides, the previous experiences with Dad's dull and poorly set block plane didn't help things.  It also didn't help when my brother decided to "help" me.  I had designed and built a nice box with a little drawer for a friend's black powder pistol.  Rabbets, nails, grooves and dados, but it had a sliding top and I was darn proud of it.  My brother wanted to help me trim the lid to length.  He took his #4 smoothing plane, which was not sharp, put the lid in his vise and proceeded to run his plane across the end grain.  You woodworkers out there can figure out what happened.  For everyone else, a dull plane does not cut end grain.  I ended up with a huge chunk of wood that had to be glued back on.  I was pissed.  That was not helping to reinforce hand tool usage.  So, I kept drinking the kool-aid and used power tools for everything.  Bought a crappy dovetail jig and router bushing kit so I could make high-falootin' dovetailed drawers.  It did not work well so I kept using rabbets and dados.  However, the magazines were starting to show a small amount of articles on hand tools.  I eventually bought a Record #4 smoothing plane (because I didn't know any better) and a set of fairly decent chisels.  The plane started not as a good experience, but not a bad experience either.  The chisels were a similar situation.  My problem was knot knowing what "sharp" was.  I had Dad's old oil stone and that was it.  I simply couldn't get the plane iron and the chisels sharp enough with that old stone.  So, I didn't use edge tools very much.  Years later I eventually found a sharpening method that worked and the light went on.  By this time I was a home owner.  I had a new Delta contractor saw, a second-hand chop saw, a hollow chisel mortising machine, a biscuit joiner, jig saw, sanders... I had a miniature version of Norm's shop.  I ventured into hand cut dovetails with horrible results.  I tried a bunch of different saws from the box stores and they didn't work for shit.  I didn't know any better.  Through the monthly writings of Saint Schwarz, I began learning the difference between good and bad tools.  The tool acquisitions continued.  A marking gauge, a dovetail marker, a honing guide, I rebuilt what was a shitty butt jointed and screwed table into a fairly decent workbench.  Then the shit hit the fan.  I bought Saint Schwarz's book "The Anarchist's Tool Chest".  I had kept up with his blogs and kept learning about hand tools but never really crossed the threshold until "The Anarchist's Tool Chest".  I decided to add a jack plane to my collection.  By then I knew I would never find a decent jack plane in a big box store so I signed up at Ebay.  I picked out an old Craftsman jack and won the auction.  I cleaned and oiled all the metal bits, ground a radius into the iron and honed it as good as I possibly could.  I took a board, put it on the bench, clamped it down and (as I learned from Saint Schwarz) pushed that jack plane ACROSS the grain.  Oh.  My.  God.  I instantly realized my workbench was in a bad way.  Within a couple of weeks I had a tail vise, bench dogs, dog holes in the bench top and a shooting board.  I flattened a board and then planed it to a specific thickness.  Everything, and I mean everything, fell into place.  A whirlwind of tool purchases followed.  Jointer plane, router plane, decent block plane to replace the home center piece of shit I already had, tongue and groove plane, hand drill, decent Disston panel and back saws...  I learned how sharpen saws and started sharpening my new-old saws.  As winter settled in, I moved to what I call "Winter Wood Shop", i.e. my basement.  I've built quite a few things with only hand tools.  I have never felt such satisfaction before.  Just a few years ago I would have laughed at the idea of building stuff with only hand tools.  I would have thought that it was impossible for mere mortals to be accurate enough with hand tools.  After all I had tried cutting dovetails many times with mediocre results.  But after making a few changes in the work bench and acquiring a small amount of decent tools, not to mention simply know the difference between good tools and tool shaped objects, made all the difference.  My projects still aren't all that great, but they're worlds better than they had been. The core of it all is the skill set I acquired as a boy.  Those skills have been the foundation everything else has been built upon.  Finally(!) all the skills I've learned have come together and I can see how they're all integral with one another.  It's the most wonderful feeling in the world when the smoke clears and everything falls into place. 

I would like to say the last piece of the puzzle has fallen into place and I'm completely independent, but that's not true.  Though I rarely have to call on others to do things for me, I still have a lot to learn.  I still don't know how to replace windows, replace water heaters and furnaces, rewire a house etc.  But, I'm proud to be a "handyman".  I enjoy doing things for myself and I also enjoy passing the things I've learned on to other people so they too can gain some independence.  Most people used to have these skills, but they've disappeared in recent decades.  With people like Saint Scwarz, Roy Underhill (who's been carrying the banner for hand tools on his show for 30 years and counting), Peter Follansbee, Megan Fitzpatrick, Robert Lang, Glen Huey and so many others, the "do it yourself" skills are making a comeback.  It's about time, too.  It's also great to see people paying attention to these skills and thinking that they have value in our modern age.  Now, to get a tool chest built, and finish that bookcase for my sister... and those cabinet doors for Mom's kitchen... a new work bench....

I suggest you get some tools and start building your own stuff.  Don't make it complicated.  Start with simple tools.  A decent hand saw, a hammer, a chisel or two, a tape measure, a couple of screw drivers...  Make your own tool box.  Build a saw horse or two.  Replace your own lamp cords.  Sharpen your own lawn mower blades.  Watch videos, read books, magazines and blogs.  Learn.  Don't set your expectations too high.  Believe me, I built a lot of crap and made a LOT of mistakes before I started getting better.  Most importantly, pass what you learn on to other people, especially kids.  We'll all be better for it.

The German Girl

I'm sorry, Kerstin.

Ever since my Dad died in '94 Christmas hasn't been the same.  A lot of families have their Christmas traditions and during my life, we've had some but they have been short-lived for one reason or another.  I've written previously about the traditional family things I've missed out on due to the large age gap between me, my siblings and cousins.  Those "traditions" changed frequently with the most stable part being my preteen years to 23.  My 23rd year was when Dad died.  Nothing has been the same since.  Toss in the loss of two cousins, three grandparents, a brother, one of my best friends... I sometimes think that I don't know how to celebrate Christmas anymore.  The stability I do have has come from my remaining family.  Years ago we stopped having Christmas at Mom's house and started holding festivities at my Sister's.  I have to say it has taken me awhile to become comfortable being a "Christmas nomad".  After my Sister and Brother in law (I will henceforth refer to him as "brother".  He's been around most of my life and is not an in-law, he's my blood as far as I'm concerned) bought their current home (it's huge), we started doing an overnight thing as near to Christmas day as possible.  The intent was originally for my nieces and nephews to all be together as well as the rest of us.  I wasn't too thrilled about the idea at the beginning.  I've always worked a night shift and have a seriously different schedule than everyone else; I've also never been able to sleep in "strange" places, i.e. not my own bed.  To add on to the schedule problem, I've been a smoker on and off (mostly on) for a long, long time.  When my Dad was dying I began to think about how I ended up smoking.  None of my other siblings are, or were, smokers.  I'm quite sure they've tried it on occasion, but never fell into the trap.  Somehow, I did.  Long story short, my Dad had a big influence in that area.  Please understand, when I was a kid in the '70s and 80s, smoking was not the social evil it its today.  The effects on our bodies was the same, but the social stigma was not attached.  I digress.  As my father was dying I realized he was probably the major reason I picked up the habit.  I don't hold him responsible, it was simply a different time.  However, I realized that my nephews and nieces were going to be rather impressionable at their young ages.  Somehow my Dad and I had been like-minded when the oldest of my nephews was born.  Dad and I never talked about it except for one time when I was in high school.  He knew I was smoking and he knew how addictive it was.  He confronted me about it one time and didn't scold me, but made his point in the way only he was capable of.  He was still smoking and henceforth couldn't scold me without being a hypocrite.  He simply said to me that he didn't approve of me smoking and if I was going to continue doing it that I was not allowed to smoke on his property.  With a few exceptions, I honored his request.  I also added to it.  By the time he died I had decided that my nieces and nephews would never see a cigarette in my hand or in my mouth.  I smoked in front of my Sister once or twice and one of my brothers fairly often, but never the kids.  I was hell bent on not having ANY influence on them.  As the kids got older I'm sure they were able to equate the smell of uncle Tim with smoking but, to this day, none have them have ever seen me smoking nor have really mentioned it.  I did discuss it with my two oldest nephews a couple of years ago since they were into their 20s and were not apt to be influenced by their wretched uncle.  The oldest of the kids know I'm a smoker, but since I've pretty much kept it hidden, they're thinking that it must be something to be ashamed of.  It will be awhile before the two youngest are clear of the impressionable stage.  I apologize for the long-winded side story, but it is relevant to the Christmas story.  So, having to spend a night at my Sister's over Christmas I, of course, had to be a non-smoker.  Those of you who have experience with someone going through with withdrawl (from anything really) know that it can be a rather bad time.  So, I had two things to battle.  Lack of sleep and nicotine withdrawl.  It has been a huge struggle to keep myself from turning into "Mr. Asshole" at these Christmas gatherings.  I loathed having to do the overnight thing.  Not because I couldn't smoke, but because I knew I would progressively become more of an ass the longer I was without cigarettes.  To top it off, in recent years, my Mother wanted me to drive her to my Sister's.  It only made sense.  Still, That was an extra two hours of driving that I had to battle.  The drive up wasn't bad, but by the drive home I always had a short fuse.  It took all I had to maintain my composure.  In my adult life, I made my Mother cry just once, and that was one time too many.  I have never felt like such a horrible person.  So,  knowing my limits, knowing what can happen to me, the overnight stays were not something I looked forward to at all.  Until this year.  Previous years, I had never had to work during the overnight thing.  There was a couple of years that I had to go to my Sister's after work, but was always able to spend the night.  This year it was looking like I would have to work Christmas eve and wouldn't be able to spend the night.  To my surprise, I was worried about it.  I still think it's a pain, but it's only one night.  Seeing my family in one spot all at the same time is well worth losing sleep and fighting the addiction demons.  Now my concern is what will happen when the kids are finding their own way in life and can't participate.  As the two youngest kids get into high school (considerable gap between them and the rest of the kids, all in their 20s) I think the overnight thing will end.  I'm not going to cry about it, but I worry about the youngest two.  This little event has been a large part of their world for many, many years.  I don't want them to have their Christmas traditions juggled about as it had been for me.  At least they'll have a stable family no matter what the event happens to be.  That's all I can wish for.  Now, just when you think I'm winding things up, I have more.  A lot more.  Hang in there.

[intermission]

Fall 1989.  I was introduced to Kiki (Her name was Kerstin, but she went by Kiki) by friends.  Kiki was an exchange student from Unna, Germany.  A beatiful girl with sandy blond hair and a smile that would knock your socks off.  As cheesy as it is, we fell in love very quickly and spent a lot of time together.  Her command of the English language was remarkable and we could converse normally with only the occasional pause to sort out some slang she had never heard before.  We went on dates, went to school dances, held hands, watched movies, made out... the things teenagers do (or at least did when I was a teenager).  Christmas eve 1989, Kiki's parents had scraped together enough cash to fly to the US and see their daughter.  They didn't speak a lick of English, yet they were here.  Kiki and I made plans for that night.  I was going to go to her host family's house meet her parents and hang out for a little while.  Keep in mind, this was before the world wide web, so other than phone calls and letters, Kiki had no way to connect with her parents.  No email, no IM, no skype... You get the idea.  Anyway, I was at my grandparent's house and then had to announce my departure.  Something I had never had to do before on Christmas.  I headed over to Kiki's place and almost wrapped my Dad's truck around a telephone pole due to ice and inexperience (strangely enough, that spin-out happened just six blocks from my current home).  Still, I arrived safely, met her parents and chit-chatted as much as possible given the language barrier.  Kiki then took me into her room, sat me down and handed me a little box that she had wrapped with much care.  I opened the box and saw the silver chain with the silver "K" she had always had around her neck.  It was strange that I hadn't noticed she wasn't wearing the necklace at the time.  But, she had given it to me as a token of our relationship.  It was a heavy moment that I didn't fully appreciate at the time.  About a month later I had asked her to accompany me to the annual awards banquet for the fife and drum corps I had been a member of for many years.  It was a way for me to reciprocate the devotion she had shown to me on that Christmas eve.  I arrived at her place to pick her up and she answered the door in pajamas.  I hadn't communicated our plans clear enough, she didn't understand or simply got the date wrong... Some innocent mistake.  I saw it as her not taking me seriously enough.  Something that had happened to me rather often in my youth (I was definitely NOT in the "in" crowd).  Like an ass, I stormed off.  Stupid, stupid, stupid.  Not long after, March as I recall, Kiki's friends were throwing her a going away party just before it came time for her to return to Germany.  I did not plan on going, but a former friend somehow dragged me to the place.  I refused to go inside.  Eventually, my former friend came back out and we left.  That was it.  I found out later that Kiki had started crying when she found out I was outside and had refused to come in and see her.  She left this country on an unhappy note because I was a complete asshole.  The two most bitter enemies of any person, pride and selfishness, had gotten in the way of something that was beautiful.  I had allowed those two enemies to enter my life and destroy something that was very precious.  Love.  Like the clueless youth I was, I shoved that night into a corner and tried to bury it.  The guilt, however, has remained to this day.  Starting Christmas eve 1990, I started driving by the place she stayed while in this country, this city, in my heart.  Not to be nostalgic, but to remind myself of what a horrible person I had been, and can be.  I loved that girl.  When it came time for her to leave I had no idea how to deal with that situation.  My simpleton mind found an excuse and used it.  Wrong!  I wanted her to stay.  I think she wanted to stay, but also wanted to go home.  I can't hold that against her.  Maybe things would have worked out.  Maybe I could have gone to Germany to visit her.  Maybe she could have come back here.  Unfortunately because of my mistakes, I'll never know.  Making Kiki cry and hurting her is the wound, thinking of what could have been is the salt I pour into that wound every Christmas eve.  This year is no exception to the rule.  Twenty three years after the fact and I'm still beating myself up.  I'm sure she's long forgotten about that asshole in Wisconsin, but me having been the cause of her pain, I can't let it go.  Beating myself up every Christmas eve is my punishment.  Merry(?) Christmas.

Memories and Perspective

I recently received a letter from an Aunt (my Dad's sister) letting me know my cousin sent her a photo that I had on Facebook.  I sent a letter back to her and my Uncle which wandered off into my memories of Dad's hometown.  Dad came from a small town that was typical small town.  There was a noon whistle, an evening whistle, neighbors sat on their front porches in the evening etc.  I loved that town, and still do, but my Smalltown is not the same Smalltown my siblings and cousins remember.  Except for one cousin on Mom's side, I'm the youngest of the family's generation by a considerable margin.  Eight years to be exact.  I grew up hearing stories about family trips to Grandpa and Grandma's for Christmas.  The whole family would be there, shenanigans ensued, inside jokes etc.  I did get to experience that, but I was too young to remember it well.  My memories of those Christmases are just bits and pieces.  What I mainly experienced was day trips.  Once around New Year's Day and usually once during the summer.  Dad took me up there once on a "father and son" trip, which he did for my siblings as well.  I have pretty good memories of that, but again, I was rather young.  Not long after that particular trip, Grandpa was bed-ridden.  He had emphysema, but from what I have heard, he just gave up.  So aside from the spotty Christmas and father/son trip memories, I remember Grandpa as a bed-ridden man who never left his room.  That is the main reason day trips became the norm.  Being a small town my parents had no issues with turning me loose.  In my younger days my brother, Chris, would also be with us and I would wander the town with him.  Chris would take me to the railroad tracks and we would pick up old spikes, sometimes we would go to the "river" which was nothing more than a stream, or maybe we would go to the mill pond which fed the river.  The same route was usually taken to these places and when I was old enough to go out on my own, I usually went to the same places by the same route.  I hadn't been anywhere else despite it being a small town so I never ventured outside what was familiar to me.  As I got into high school Grandpa and Grandma got to the point where the house had to be sold.  I remember a particular trip where Grandma gave me $5 and told me to go get myself some ice cream.  I didn't realize it at the time, but they were getting me out of the house so they could discuss where Grandpa was going to be put, where Grandma would live etc.  I went downtown and got nachos instead of ice cream.  In the process I decided to venture outside of what was familiar.  I went and saw the high school that Mom and Dad attended and then walked a different route back to Grandpa and Grandma's.  It was like seeing a whole new world.  There were spots in that little town where I knew exactly what was on one side of a street, but drew a complete blank as to what was on the other side of the street.  Crazy as it may seem, that's the way it was.  I had one last overnight trip to that wonderful town and that was the weekend when we got everything set up for the auction.  I figured it might be my last opportunity to explore the place I loved so much and I made the most of it.  I visited places I had heard my siblings and cousins talk about, went back to the "usual" places and generally explored the town.  In later years, my siblings and cousins couldn't quite understand how I wasn't able to relate to their stories.  My Smalltown was not the same Smalltown they knew.  When I left that place I figured I would never see it again, but I've been back there three times since.  For Grandpa's funeral, a quick stop when passing nearby during a camping trip and the last time for Grandma's funeral.  After Grandma's funeral, since I drove myself there and had no other obligations that day, I drove around the area a little more.  I went across the river into "Upper Smalltown" and, believe it or not, got lost.  I quickly found my way back to something familiar and then went home.  That was in 2000.  I haven't been back since.  I wrote about all of this in the letter to my Aunt.  My experience with Smalltown is unique compared to the rest of the family.  I also feel that I missed out on a lot of good times because I was so much younger than my siblings.  It's not a bad thing, of course, but I still feel like I'm being left out when we get together and talk about Smalltown.  I can't relate to their experiences, nor they to mine.  It's very strange.  My Uncle (Mom's brother) and Mom paid a visit to Smalltown a few weeks ago.  My Uncle hadn't been to Smalltown since the late 1950's when he was a boy.  The little village had changed so little that he had no problem finding his way around.

This same story can be applied to yet another place.  I have an Aunt and Uncle (now deceased) from Mom's side of the family that live in Tennessee.  Again, most trips were made when I was too young to remember much more than a few highlights.  With the exception of a trip down there two years ago for my Uncle's funeral, I hadn't been there since I was 17.  My Aunt and Uncle had lived on one of the mountains for a long time in a house they had built.  The trip when I was 17 was the last time I saw that house.  When Uncle developed health problems they moved to a nice gated community in town, right on the Tennessee River.  On the trip down for Uncle's funeral, I stayed at a rather nice hotel downtown.  I was on the seventh floor and had a great view of the city and surrounding mountains.  I didn't get to see the old house, but it doesn't matter.  I couldn't have found my way there anyway.  But, staying in the city for that trip, I got to see things I had never seen (or simply don't remember seeing) on previous visits.  I must say, I fell in love with that city. 

It's strange that a group of people, family in my case, can have memories of the same places, but yet those memories are completely different due to passage of time.  More accurately, the memories are the same, it's the perspective that's different.

Shop Class

I went through junior high (they're called "middle schools" these days) in the mid-1980's.  Personal computers existed, but were really nothing more than glorified calculators.  During the time I was in junior high, shop classes were referred to as "industrial arts" and these classes, though unknown to me at the time, were on their death bed.  I grew up in a manufacturing town where the middle class was dominant.  The majority of the families lived comfortably, but money was usually tight.  Fathers fixed thing themselves and built a lot of things that were needed.  It was quite normal for sons to help their fathers around the house.  Fathers would teach their sons about tools, how to use them and care for them.  As a boy I also learned about tools and their use through Cub Scouts.  Somewhere from my generation to the current generation, these skills have largely been lost.  The skills my father taught me I am quite sure he learned from his father.  When I reached junior high, it was only normal to take shop classes.  In seventh grade (my first year of junior high) there was a series of classes that were mandatory for everyone.  Girls and boys.  There was a shop class where basic metal and woodworking skills were taught, an art class which, again, taught basic art skills and a "home economics" class that taught simple sewing, cooking etc.  I, and many others, found the shop class and "home-ec" class to be a breeze.  Most of the things that were being taught, we already knew how to do.  As previously mentioned, my father had already taught me about tools and their use.  But let's not forget about Mom!  I learned a lot from her as well.  The home-ec class was a breeze because, due to my Mom, I already knew how to cook and sew.  The art class was the only one that was all new to me, but I soaked it up like a sponge.  As rudimentary as all these classes were, I still draw on those skills as a 40 year old diesel mechanic.  For example, recently I was at work and had a thermostat housing that was warped.  I pulled out a file and started draw filing it until it was flat again.  It occurred to me, while I was filing away, that I had learned that skill in school, at age 13.  Before I reached 16, I had operated a table saw, scroll saw, band saw, power planer, drill press, wood lathe, metal lathe, power hack saw, box and pan break, hand operated metal formers, soldering irons (the furnace heated type) and a whole slew of hand tools.  It was quite normal.  Enter the computer age.

Another skill I learned during my junior high years was computers.  I had been exposed to the Apple II computers in sixth grade, but it didn't amount to much.  It was simply learning how to turn it on, insert a floppy disc and load a program.  Similar exposure happened in seventh grade, but with IBM computers.  The big change happened at home.  My brother brought home a Commodore Vic20, probably intending it to be a gaming machine (if you could call a Vic20 a "gaming machine").  Like everything else of his I used it when he wasn't around.  Even then, the Vic20 was almost outdated.  The limited amount of software available for it was out of my reach since I didn't have any money.  What I could do was buy the occasional magazine "Run" which was all about Commodore computers.  Programs were included in the magazine... in print form.  They were all in Basic and had to be typed in line by line.  I had no storage device so each program was typed in, debugged, run and then lost when the computer was turned off.  I taught myself Basic this way.  Another skill that would lead me down different paths.  Upon reaching high school, a computer lab appeared.  I never got to spend much time there but it was a strange mix of Apple and IBM products.  Meeting certain credit requirements and still retaining classes that I wanted such as band and auto shop prevented me from taking any "industrial arts" classes until I was a senior.  I skipped the shop classes the first two years in favor of auto shop.  I wanted to know how cars worked.  My senior year, however, I had an open spot and signed up for a welding class because I wanted to know how to weld.  I had grown up knowing my father did some welding at the local factory (only spot welding as I found out later in life) and one brother went to the local tech school's welding program.  I, of course, wanted to emulate my heroes.  I suppose it was a sign of changing times that the welding class was cancelled due to a lack of people signing up for it.  In exchange I was thrown into a general metals course with a bunch of freshmen and sophomores.  I was a little disappointed, but it turned out to be a great class.  Some things I already knew how to do, but I learned two skills that would help me in later life.  I did learn how to weld in that class, but only in a general sense.  I learned how to use arc and mig welders and also how to gas weld with a torch.  Gas welding I had a problem with.  I just could not get the hang of it.  A freshman showed me how he did it and it all fell into place.  I also learned how to cast metal in that class.  I've never used that skill since, but I know how to do it.  Sort of.  The things I was learning in metal shop and the things I was learning next door in auto shop would, some day in the future, come together.

These days, the fear of students getting hurt on machinery and the thoughts that there is no practical reason to teach children "shop" skills, has led to shop classes disappearing from the schools.  I find that to be a serious problem.  Granted, the US isn't the manufacturing giant it once was, there is still a need for people in the skilled trades.  Digital technology, bio technology, financial management are where we are concentrated now.  But who will build the labs, the office buildings, the equipment and furniture inside them?  What about the factories that make the equipment and the tooling the factories use?  Who will maintain these labs and office buildings as they age?  The lack of interest in skilled trades as a profession has caused an imbalance that needs to be corrected.  Societies view on the skilled trades, among other issues has a lot do with the problem.  Shop classes have long been looked down on as a place for the kids who aren't smart enough, or aren't ambitious enough, to go to college.  Because of this view, manufacturing jobs are usually low-paying.  Who wants low pay?  Workers used to want to get into a factory, or cabinet shop, or machine shop etc.  I also think that parenting has a little to do with the problem.  Parents, naturally, want their children to have a better life than they had.  Since manufacturing jobs disappeared overseas, parents would do all they could to give their children the chance to go to college and learn how to be accountants, doctors, lawyers, scientists, computer programmers etc.  These people are needed, too.  With the rapid increase in all technologies, there needs to be people to fill those positions.  What good is a manufacturing job if there isn't a doctor who finds, through his research, a need for, say, a new heart implant?  The doctor finds the need for a product, an engineer designs it, a scientist comes up with a new material for the product, the accountants figure out how to pay for it, the marketing people figure out how to sell it and the people in the factory figure out how to make it.  Sometimes you really have to dig, but most professions are intertwined with each other to some degree.

There's long been a stereotype of the office worker looking down on the skilled trades, and the skilled trades trash-talking the office worker.  It needs to stop.  Sure, I might not make the same money as a diesel mechanic that an attorney makes, but I don't expect to.  An attorney would have spent, easily, twice the time in school that I put in.  Not too mention the amount of money they had to spend getting through school.  They SHOULD be taking home more money than me.  I will admit to trash-talking the professional trades in my younger days, but as an older (and, I hope, wiser) man, I see that everyone has their place.  When I was in school I preferred the shop classes, but I also learned so much from the other classes.  The typing class I took in tenth grade is a good example.  I took it partly because I wanted to learn how to type, but I also signed up because I figured spending an hour each day looking at girls (typing was still considered a "woman's job" even in the '90s!" wasn't a bad thing.  Oh, how I underestimated that class.  I took to it like stink to shit and, much to my surprise, got a lot of good grades.  That typing class went hand in hand with an English class I had.  More specifically, with the teacher of that class.  This teacher gave us a weekly vocabulary list of 20 to 30 words.  Through the week we learned each word.  How to spell it, its definition and how to use it.  Later, I purposely took a class on "Futuristic Literature" i.e. science fiction, because it was taught by the same teacher.  I have a larger than normal vocabulary due to that man and I am forever grateful.  As in shop class, the vocabulary lists were a skill that would be practical in later life.  I only wish I had given more attention to previous English classes.  If I had, my grammar and punctuation skills would be much better. 

To wind this up, this blog is a perfect example of what I have just written about.  I'll let it sink in for a few minutes while I go take a break.  Figure it out yet?  The fact that I'm writing this blog and the fact you're reading it is a tribute to many, many people.  The people who created computers.  The people who made the world wide web possible.  The people who design, manufacture, ship, sell and repair computers.  The people who build the offices, ships, trucks, labs and factories where the computer industry does its thing.  The teachers who taught us how to build things, how to write, how to spell, how to add and subtract, how to use computers and design software.  Without so many people sharing and using their skills, I would not be writing this blog, nor you reading it.

More Vatsim Shenanigans

I've been working a tracon for about seven hours straight today.  It's a minor, low traffic airspace that is next door to a major class B airport.  It's been so dead that I've been watching movies and occasionally glance at the scope to see if any targets are on the display.  Not long ago I scanned for targets, didn't see anything and then went back to the movie I was watching.  A minute later I hear the sound that announces a text radio transmission.  Looked at the display and saw nothing.  No flight plans shown, no targets, nothing but empty airspace.  I thought it was someone on the ground somewhere because I can't see anything below 1200 feet AGL.  Conversation with the pilot went something like this.

AAL964:  Approach, with you at FL110 (first hint it's a noob) 40 miles west of your airport (second noob flag), heading 273, speed 230 (third noob flag).  Request full stop landing (the icing on the noob cake).

Me:  AAL964, good morning.  Say airport you are west of.

AAL964:  ?

Me:  AAL964, there are 16 airports in my airspace.  I don't see any targets on my display so you'll have to be a little more specific.  You might not be in my airspace at all.

[Silence]

Me:  AAL964, open your GPS (almost every noob is GPS direct EVERYWHERE) and tell me the nearest airport to you.

Me:  AAL964, if you were 40nm west of my major airport, you're outside of my airspace laterally.  If you're still heading west you're only getting further away.  At 11,000 feet you're outside of my airspace vertically as well.  Since I don't see any targets on my display I can't see you.  You don't have a flight plan in the system so I am unable to know where you came from or where you're going.  It's reasonable to assume that you are, in fact, outside of my airspace.  Monitor advisory, frequency change approved.

AAL964:  Roger.

Now, I did actually have some idea where he was at from looking at Vatspy, but that software only updates traffic every five minutes or so.  He was actually EAST of my airspace the last time Vatspy updated traffic information.  I should have seen him on the radar display but didn't, so I couldn't actually verify his position.  He certainly didn't know where he was.

Not too long ago I was working a CTR position and had a pilot call me up from Toronto Pearson Intl. requesting take off clearance.  Thanks for calling up buddy, but you're in Canadian airspace and there's a whole other ARTCC between you and me.  He obviously had no clue where he was.