Funny old thing, life.
Two decades later, and actually longer for the piece of technology that I have just re-acquired in the last few weeks. I've not mentioned it in the blog yet, and I will not be mentioning it here for a year (in blog years). It was a piece of kit that replaced every item of my computing apparatus at work in 1996, but it did not happen as far as the diary account, for another year yet.
Suffice to say, I have one here in 2016, and I'm playing with it again, and here, even though two decades have passed, it is still, in my opinion, the best handheld computer device ever.
I will probably mention it soon, on the blog, but there's a year of stuff to process before that.
Please continue.
Saturday, July 16, 2016
Sunday, June 26, 2016
Abramisms Part 1.
Abramisms Part One : Questions, Questions.
"Do you know what you're doing?"
"How ya doing me old tater?"
"Am I keeping you up?"
"Do you like working here?"
"How ya doing me old fruit?"
"How ya doing me old flower?"
"Is everything under control?"
"Are you feeling sweepy?"
"You do know what you're doing don't you? {pause} don't you??"
Uncle Larry.
There was a short period in 1995 that the Menasco stress office could be compared directly to the Marie Celeste. It was adrift and deserted in a dishevelled but seaworthy condition, under partial sail, with nobody on board, and her lifeboat missing.
Ok, it wasn't that bad.
Mark Clemente had jumped ship for the calmer waters of DeHavilland and another of the capable analysts, Mong Lim Shim (often referred to as Long Thin Shim) was off representing Menasco somewhere else. The chap that I had inherited the Fokker 100 work from, Steve Harding, was also off to DeHavilland and it was sort of odd that the bulk of the work was being undertaken by myself, Larry Abram and Gerry Kouverianos and a job shopper from Boeing, Gary.
It did, at times, feel like some engineering buddy movie, with often what felt like an efficient symbiosis between the "three musketeers" with Gerry and Larry playing good cop, bad cop dealing with me, to keep me hard at work, but also to keep my spirits high.
It leads me to introduce something that is fundamental to the "feel" of the Menasco Design office at that time, with a direct focus on the Stress group. The boss, Lancashire lad Larry Abram would provide comic relief at most times for most of us, although truth be told, often the tension he was alleviating had been caused by his good self in the first place.
In time, myself and new additions to the Stress Office in the years that followed, would collate the punchlines of these comic relief moments, magical statements that perhaps you would have had to be there to truly appreciate, but for those that do remember, we collected them using one common noun.
Abramisms.
Ok, it wasn't that bad.
Mark Clemente had jumped ship for the calmer waters of DeHavilland and another of the capable analysts, Mong Lim Shim (often referred to as Long Thin Shim) was off representing Menasco somewhere else. The chap that I had inherited the Fokker 100 work from, Steve Harding, was also off to DeHavilland and it was sort of odd that the bulk of the work was being undertaken by myself, Larry Abram and Gerry Kouverianos and a job shopper from Boeing, Gary.
It did, at times, feel like some engineering buddy movie, with often what felt like an efficient symbiosis between the "three musketeers" with Gerry and Larry playing good cop, bad cop dealing with me, to keep me hard at work, but also to keep my spirits high.
It leads me to introduce something that is fundamental to the "feel" of the Menasco Design office at that time, with a direct focus on the Stress group. The boss, Lancashire lad Larry Abram would provide comic relief at most times for most of us, although truth be told, often the tension he was alleviating had been caused by his good self in the first place.
In time, myself and new additions to the Stress Office in the years that followed, would collate the punchlines of these comic relief moments, magical statements that perhaps you would have had to be there to truly appreciate, but for those that do remember, we collected them using one common noun.
Abramisms.
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Tubular
It is interesting to me that in 1993 I had been very much energized by the release of Tubular Bells II on CD but completely missed the release of the album Songs of Distant Earth the following year. It interests me because a common point of musical reference for myself, and another chap who was working in the Menasco stress office, Mark Clemente, was the genius of Mike Oldfield.
It was released in November of 1994, but I realise from my diary that I had sat down for a few long chats with Mark during his last week at Menasco in the December and perhaps at that busy time, neither of us knew of the existence of the new album.
The pace of work at Menasco was frenetic, and as I mentioned, the drawing release schedule for the V-22 had basically worn everyone out, so the upcoming Christmas holiday was a very welcome thing, and for Mark Clemente, and a bunch of others in the design office, 1995 would be a transitional year as they migrated to DeHavilland to work on the proposal for the DHC-8 400 series.
If I flash forward a few years, to 1998, I was again stoked to learn of a new album from Mike Oldfield which of course was Tubular Bells III, however, during those extremely busy years, where I too would be gainfully employed at Menasco on the 400 series MLG, I had missed a second significant Mike Oldfield album release entitled Voyager.
It was not until a year or so after that, that Mark and myself were once again working together and during one of our musical chats he informed me of those two albums and it was an amazing feeling of emotion for me, especially with the magnificent album Songs of Distant Earth, that I had finally discovered my "lost years" of Mike Oldfield.
It was released in November of 1994, but I realise from my diary that I had sat down for a few long chats with Mark during his last week at Menasco in the December and perhaps at that busy time, neither of us knew of the existence of the new album.
The pace of work at Menasco was frenetic, and as I mentioned, the drawing release schedule for the V-22 had basically worn everyone out, so the upcoming Christmas holiday was a very welcome thing, and for Mark Clemente, and a bunch of others in the design office, 1995 would be a transitional year as they migrated to DeHavilland to work on the proposal for the DHC-8 400 series.
If I flash forward a few years, to 1998, I was again stoked to learn of a new album from Mike Oldfield which of course was Tubular Bells III, however, during those extremely busy years, where I too would be gainfully employed at Menasco on the 400 series MLG, I had missed a second significant Mike Oldfield album release entitled Voyager.
It was not until a year or so after that, that Mark and myself were once again working together and during one of our musical chats he informed me of those two albums and it was an amazing feeling of emotion for me, especially with the magnificent album Songs of Distant Earth, that I had finally discovered my "lost years" of Mike Oldfield.
Sunday, June 19, 2016
A Ticking Box
I've just read an entire month of my diary for the August of 1994 and I obviously had difficulty at the time coming to terms with the fact that I had to work rather hard to gather my jobshopper dollars at the landing gear emporium.
Yet, the diary is full of light and they were indeed happy times regardless of the workload, and it was apparent that in quite an uncontrolled way, things were predominantly under control.
I had finished two different types of spectrum reduction programs, one for the FractuREsearch damage tolerance program from Mister Broek and the other for quick spreadsheet fatigue checks of various fibres on the periphery of sections. At the time the Menasco fatigue program was limited to a single fibre, so my spreadsheet could accelerate the identification of the critical zone and we could hone in.
If my stress concentration factors were correct...
I say things were predominantly under control as the design office were having some major issues with the drawing schedule for the upcoming CDR and it seemed that in the great scheme of things, a drawing of a washer carried the same weight in the schedule as a major structural component. It was a game of numbers for them, and with the strength, fatigue and damage tolerance analysis, it was a game of numbers for me.
I've said before about the DTA presentation for the CDR being more of a theoretical or "paper" report to tick the box, as with the percentage of completed drawings requirement box, that the number crunchers at both ends were busy trying to satisfy each other so that they could report back to their superiors that everything was on track.
It was true though, that in the September of 1994, everything was predominantly on track for the program, it was the happiest of times because of one major thing.
Nothing had gone wrong yet.
Yet, the diary is full of light and they were indeed happy times regardless of the workload, and it was apparent that in quite an uncontrolled way, things were predominantly under control.
I had finished two different types of spectrum reduction programs, one for the FractuREsearch damage tolerance program from Mister Broek and the other for quick spreadsheet fatigue checks of various fibres on the periphery of sections. At the time the Menasco fatigue program was limited to a single fibre, so my spreadsheet could accelerate the identification of the critical zone and we could hone in.
If my stress concentration factors were correct...
I say things were predominantly under control as the design office were having some major issues with the drawing schedule for the upcoming CDR and it seemed that in the great scheme of things, a drawing of a washer carried the same weight in the schedule as a major structural component. It was a game of numbers for them, and with the strength, fatigue and damage tolerance analysis, it was a game of numbers for me.
I've said before about the DTA presentation for the CDR being more of a theoretical or "paper" report to tick the box, as with the percentage of completed drawings requirement box, that the number crunchers at both ends were busy trying to satisfy each other so that they could report back to their superiors that everything was on track.
It was true though, that in the September of 1994, everything was predominantly on track for the program, it was the happiest of times because of one major thing.
Nothing had gone wrong yet.
File one away. Part Two.
It was around 7.30pm that night when I arrived home and John phoned me, there was a distinct shake in his voice and he really did sound quite distressed.
Apparently, this is what transpired after the morning jolly phone call :
The faceless person sitting in front of John, who had initially taken the phone call, and had known it was me, sat, watched and listened to the entire event and had immediately scurried back to the Chief of Stress at Dowty and reported what had transpired from his point of view.
The Chief of Stress had then arranged an "emergency" meeting for all the members of the stress office in the small meeting room, everyone filed in, wondering if they were being made redundant or something, and it began.
John described to me how horrible it was, that the Chief was literally red and shaking with anger, that he was telling everyone in the room (but directing it all squarely at John) that none of them should be talking to the competition about the secret things, and that from then on, there would be a closer watch of everyone (directed solely at John again) about infringements which could result in disciplinary action and possible dismissal.
Yet John's name was never mentioned in the meeting.
After the meeting, John had gone back to the Chief's desk and attempted to explain, but was fundamentally ignored, there was a sense that something was very broken.
In the evening, after the call from John, I called the Chief up and tried to explain, but even after all the time I had spent at Dowty working for him, five years or more, he would not listen to me either, and he terminated the conversation with the darkest of accusations.
I knew there was little use in talking to a man who had made his mind up, I just had to mentally file that one away for future reference regarding him...
...and his pet weasel.
Apparently, this is what transpired after the morning jolly phone call :
The faceless person sitting in front of John, who had initially taken the phone call, and had known it was me, sat, watched and listened to the entire event and had immediately scurried back to the Chief of Stress at Dowty and reported what had transpired from his point of view.
The Chief of Stress had then arranged an "emergency" meeting for all the members of the stress office in the small meeting room, everyone filed in, wondering if they were being made redundant or something, and it began.
John described to me how horrible it was, that the Chief was literally red and shaking with anger, that he was telling everyone in the room (but directing it all squarely at John) that none of them should be talking to the competition about the secret things, and that from then on, there would be a closer watch of everyone (directed solely at John again) about infringements which could result in disciplinary action and possible dismissal.
Yet John's name was never mentioned in the meeting.
After the meeting, John had gone back to the Chief's desk and attempted to explain, but was fundamentally ignored, there was a sense that something was very broken.
In the evening, after the call from John, I called the Chief up and tried to explain, but even after all the time I had spent at Dowty working for him, five years or more, he would not listen to me either, and he terminated the conversation with the darkest of accusations.
I knew there was little use in talking to a man who had made his mind up, I just had to mentally file that one away for future reference regarding him...
...and his pet weasel.
File one away. Part One.
The revised fatigue spectrum for the V-22 Nose landing Gear EMD had arrived on my desk from Doug Rhoads at Boeing and there was some confusion about the format of the load columns. It was early August in 1994 and the CDR was scheduled for the 14th September, so there was a fair bit of work to do for that presentation.
I called Doug and we chatted about the data, and what one particular column meant. I believe it was to do with the steering angle of the nose landing gear, so an additional step was required so that loads were broken out into their relative components before analysis. The fatigue analysis program at Menasco was almost identical to the one that it predated at Dowty, the difference being that the key documentation for all of the Menasco programs was kept in one book, in one bookcase, whereas at Dowty, every analyst had a relatively updated version of a book numbered S-1201
Doug Rhoads told me he would fax me the columns description, which he did, and the resulting couple of pages that arrived on my desk from Monique, our girl Friday, were comically extracted from the Dowty document.
In addition, a laugh out loud moment, the name on the top of the page for the person who had last updated those pages, was John Oh, a good friend, golfing and drinking buddy, who was still working at Dowty.
At Menasco, we all had our own phone on our desks, unlike the single phone system at the other place, so I decided as a joke to phone John up and have some fun.
I called and someone answered on a communal phone, I asked to talk to John and he answered and was happy to hear my voice. The next minute or so was comedy gold as I asked him to grab his copy of S-1201 and skip to the pages I had on my desk.
The conversation went something like this :
DW : "John, is that your name on the top of those pages?"
JO : "Yes?"
DW : "Then how the fuck did I, someone who works at the competition, get a copy of them from an American company, I thought it was supposed to be secret, have you been involved in some sort of industrial espionage?"
JO "....??"
There was a pause and then John realised I was having a laugh, the conversation continued for a few minutes of shooting the shit, he wanted to know how I was getting on at the new place and would I be playing golf with them at the Winchester Golf Club on Friday.
The call ended, and that was that, a bright moment on a dull morning...
I called Doug and we chatted about the data, and what one particular column meant. I believe it was to do with the steering angle of the nose landing gear, so an additional step was required so that loads were broken out into their relative components before analysis. The fatigue analysis program at Menasco was almost identical to the one that it predated at Dowty, the difference being that the key documentation for all of the Menasco programs was kept in one book, in one bookcase, whereas at Dowty, every analyst had a relatively updated version of a book numbered S-1201
Doug Rhoads told me he would fax me the columns description, which he did, and the resulting couple of pages that arrived on my desk from Monique, our girl Friday, were comically extracted from the Dowty document.
In addition, a laugh out loud moment, the name on the top of the page for the person who had last updated those pages, was John Oh, a good friend, golfing and drinking buddy, who was still working at Dowty.
At Menasco, we all had our own phone on our desks, unlike the single phone system at the other place, so I decided as a joke to phone John up and have some fun.
I called and someone answered on a communal phone, I asked to talk to John and he answered and was happy to hear my voice. The next minute or so was comedy gold as I asked him to grab his copy of S-1201 and skip to the pages I had on my desk.
The conversation went something like this :
DW : "John, is that your name on the top of those pages?"
JO : "Yes?"
DW : "Then how the fuck did I, someone who works at the competition, get a copy of them from an American company, I thought it was supposed to be secret, have you been involved in some sort of industrial espionage?"
JO "....??"
There was a pause and then John realised I was having a laugh, the conversation continued for a few minutes of shooting the shit, he wanted to know how I was getting on at the new place and would I be playing golf with them at the Winchester Golf Club on Friday.
The call ended, and that was that, a bright moment on a dull morning...
Blazingly fast online speeds.
Aside from a dying motor vehicle, I was still participating in a few of the best bulletin boards in my home town of Osahwa, which was nicknamed the motor city.
The host of the local board, Captain Aries, had convinced me that to continue in a meaningful way on his BBS I should upgrade my modem to the latest and greatest device, the US Robotics HST Dual Standard.
The actual price of the modem is lost in time, but I think it was somewhere around the $900 mark, and of course, the model was upgradeable so that it could communicate faster with other HST modems. The problem being that the online world was changing fast, and very soon, the proprietary ways of achieving blazingly fast download speeds would mean an evolution of the standards and my lump of a modem would be rendered obsolete. I would then need to find more money to continue in a meaningful way.
This process would of course continue for the rest of time.
The host of the local board, Captain Aries, had convinced me that to continue in a meaningful way on his BBS I should upgrade my modem to the latest and greatest device, the US Robotics HST Dual Standard.
This process would of course continue for the rest of time.
Found On Road Dead
The Ford Mustang was a mere six years old but it was falling apart in more ways than one.
I should have seen the signs in the first few months, I think it was a cold April when I arrived at the Ford dealership for an oil change, slammed the car door and it broke.
I think before I detail the small dramas in 1994 of my trips to Menasco, Oakville in the thing, I should highlight (again) that previous financial stupidity of mine, an oversight that should never have happened and a very good lesson in life regarding the need to pay attention to details.
Rewind to January 1988.
I had choked at the salesman quoting 48 months at $297 and he "worked his magic" so that the monthly payment was $272, but in the excitement of expectation of that new car smell, I had overlooked that he had not done that by changing the interest rate, he had merely changed the term to 60 months.
In a flash, I was unaware that I would pay an extra $2064 in total, but I was certainly pleased that I was paying $25 less per month...
I would not really come to the realization of monthly payments 49 thru 60 until the January of 1992 and before that I had boasted to my workmates that I was about to pay off the car, then eat humble pie a month or so later when an envelope arrived with the extra 12 months popped through my letterbox.
So much for me being a financial genius...
Fast forward to June 1994.
The Ford Mustang, with around 147000 kilometres on the clock, sat dejectedly on the side of the 401 highway on my way home from Menasco, the engine silent from fuel starvation, the fuel pump dead and gone.
It was almost time to see the signs...
I should have seen the signs in the first few months, I think it was a cold April when I arrived at the Ford dealership for an oil change, slammed the car door and it broke.
I think before I detail the small dramas in 1994 of my trips to Menasco, Oakville in the thing, I should highlight (again) that previous financial stupidity of mine, an oversight that should never have happened and a very good lesson in life regarding the need to pay attention to details.
Rewind to January 1988.
I had choked at the salesman quoting 48 months at $297 and he "worked his magic" so that the monthly payment was $272, but in the excitement of expectation of that new car smell, I had overlooked that he had not done that by changing the interest rate, he had merely changed the term to 60 months.
In a flash, I was unaware that I would pay an extra $2064 in total, but I was certainly pleased that I was paying $25 less per month...
I would not really come to the realization of monthly payments 49 thru 60 until the January of 1992 and before that I had boasted to my workmates that I was about to pay off the car, then eat humble pie a month or so later when an envelope arrived with the extra 12 months popped through my letterbox.
So much for me being a financial genius...
Fast forward to June 1994.
The Ford Mustang, with around 147000 kilometres on the clock, sat dejectedly on the side of the 401 highway on my way home from Menasco, the engine silent from fuel starvation, the fuel pump dead and gone.
It was almost time to see the signs...
Friday, June 10, 2016
Interlude 3. Just a set of tools.
A visit to Graeme Wright's house and many portions of booze to ease the terrible pain of working for a living. A slight realization that one day, just one day, if we had a plan then we might escape it all....
Little did we know then that we would.
Little did we know then that we would.
Interlude 2. The Tools of the Trade.
Another photo from that era, I think I took it for insurance purposes. All the kit I owned for doing my job at Menasco. It amazes me that within a year of taking this photo, I was using one device for everything I needed, and it is is not pictured here:
Interlude 1. The Bench
I still have the plans for this bench, provided to me by George Sonnenborg at Dowty, shortly before I left for Menasco in 1994, I borrowed Jim Collin's circular saw to complete it.
Total cost, which was mostly the lag bolts and the vice as I used all recycled wood, was fourty-two dollars.
I still have it to this day.
Total cost, which was mostly the lag bolts and the vice as I used all recycled wood, was fourty-two dollars.
I still have it to this day.
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
It's not Rocket Science
Life and work at Menasco was constantly busy, my inherited Fokker 100 issues, an avalanche of MRB work and a transition from the V22 Nose Landing Gear FSD to a fully redesigned EMD unit.
Douglas Rhoads of Boeing, an absolute crackerjack of an American character, had made my friends list of the time and we would speak about things we barely knew about, life, the universe and of course the evolving US Navy requirements for damage tolerance analysis. It was basically a philosophy of crack growth from an initial crack in the material and an assurance, or promise, that landing gear that had ballistic damage or an initial surface flaw from day one would still last a lifetime.
Whatever lifetime we had all dreamed up.
I would make an acquaintance, over the phone, with a chap called David Broek, and Menasco paid for his DTA package and some support, and in the following months, I really did need a lot of that support.
Gary Buss, a chap from the performance department, that group of people responsible for landing load predictions, fabricated a special hat for me during this time, a simple peaked hat with a battery operated propeller, and when the bosses were not looking, I would wear it with pride, because during my deliberations with Mister Broek, I truly believed that one day I would become a rocket scientist.
I could go on, and I often do, but the study of fatigue loads, their repetition within a spectrum, and the reasoning behind simplifying such a load history create such a fiction within the aerospace structural process that any faults in a subsequent analysis for damage tolerance could either mean absolutely everything, or nothing.
Yet, at a PDR (Preliminary Design Review) or a CDR (Critical Design Review) it was up to the analyst to justify every step in the process to the US Navy propeller heads, not only from the subcontractor or vendor, but also the prime analysts would stand up and vouch for elaborate benchmark processes of something that was, fundamentally mysterious and untestable.
The conversations with the expert, David Broek, as I wore my fancy cap, did little to reassure me that any of the work we would ever do could make our formal report worth any more than the paper that it was printed on.
Yet, it would be the future.
Douglas Rhoads of Boeing, an absolute crackerjack of an American character, had made my friends list of the time and we would speak about things we barely knew about, life, the universe and of course the evolving US Navy requirements for damage tolerance analysis. It was basically a philosophy of crack growth from an initial crack in the material and an assurance, or promise, that landing gear that had ballistic damage or an initial surface flaw from day one would still last a lifetime.
Whatever lifetime we had all dreamed up.
I would make an acquaintance, over the phone, with a chap called David Broek, and Menasco paid for his DTA package and some support, and in the following months, I really did need a lot of that support.
Gary Buss, a chap from the performance department, that group of people responsible for landing load predictions, fabricated a special hat for me during this time, a simple peaked hat with a battery operated propeller, and when the bosses were not looking, I would wear it with pride, because during my deliberations with Mister Broek, I truly believed that one day I would become a rocket scientist.
I could go on, and I often do, but the study of fatigue loads, their repetition within a spectrum, and the reasoning behind simplifying such a load history create such a fiction within the aerospace structural process that any faults in a subsequent analysis for damage tolerance could either mean absolutely everything, or nothing.
Yet, at a PDR (Preliminary Design Review) or a CDR (Critical Design Review) it was up to the analyst to justify every step in the process to the US Navy propeller heads, not only from the subcontractor or vendor, but also the prime analysts would stand up and vouch for elaborate benchmark processes of something that was, fundamentally mysterious and untestable.
The conversations with the expert, David Broek, as I wore my fancy cap, did little to reassure me that any of the work we would ever do could make our formal report worth any more than the paper that it was printed on.
Yet, it would be the future.
Monday, June 6, 2016
Mortgage Free
A photo of my good buddy Graeme Wright, who paid off his mortgage on the 20th August 1993 which is proudly announced on that shirt.
He never picked up the spade again and constantly encouraged me, and the lovely Karen, to do the same. In August 1994, we were on the flight path to do the same the following year.
Sunday, May 29, 2016
Time Capsule
29th August, 1994
"Remember these times Dave? - Work all week and play all weekend. Yes, the time of the mortgage, the mustang and Menasco (3M). Collecting Vinyl (still got any of those you old bastard or have you flogged them for a song?). In 1994 a Shure M70B cartridge was $19.95 at Radio Shack, can you find one now? - Perhaps I should have bought a few huh!!.Karen must still be around and bugging you still, what house are you in, didn't pick up the spade did you?..Anyway, hands across time. I pick up my beer and drink to you sir. I hope you have a long and happy life...Cheers! (gulp, gulp)."
A few days later we paid off a big lump of our mortgage and we owed less than thirty-five thousand on the principal and we were aiming to destroy it by the following summer. The reference there about picking up the spade again was directed at the mortgage removal process, that at some point in all our lives, we should put the spade down, stop digging ourselves into debt and fill in the hole.
Wise words from the younger Dave.
"Remember these times Dave? - Work all week and play all weekend. Yes, the time of the mortgage, the mustang and Menasco (3M). Collecting Vinyl (still got any of those you old bastard or have you flogged them for a song?). In 1994 a Shure M70B cartridge was $19.95 at Radio Shack, can you find one now? - Perhaps I should have bought a few huh!!.Karen must still be around and bugging you still, what house are you in, didn't pick up the spade did you?..Anyway, hands across time. I pick up my beer and drink to you sir. I hope you have a long and happy life...Cheers! (gulp, gulp)."
A few days later we paid off a big lump of our mortgage and we owed less than thirty-five thousand on the principal and we were aiming to destroy it by the following summer. The reference there about picking up the spade again was directed at the mortgage removal process, that at some point in all our lives, we should put the spade down, stop digging ourselves into debt and fill in the hole.
Wise words from the younger Dave.
Money. It's a gas.
The diary entries for the first week back at Menasco reflect the reality of it all :
Monday.
"First day at the new, better paying salt mines. I felt a bit lost but managed to run a socket program. I felt better after that. Fifty minute drive there, Sixty five minutes back home"
Tuesday.
"More feelings of being lost, doubts about what I've done are creeping in. However, as with all these things we shall see with time - never go with first feelings. Let's give it all a month or so. Reasonable drives, no badge yet"
Wednesday.
"Badge!. I got my little yellow badge today, so I must be one of the boys. The week is half over, Waltzing Weasel day. Beer makes all things better (except headaches, stomach problems etc)."
I refer in that last entry to the local British style pub in Oshawa that we would attend on Wednesday nights, and the headaches were from eye strain and allergies, the stomach problems caused by stress and a bad diet.
It is a fact, and it is reflected in the diary, that I would not have been doing all this driving back and forwards to work if it wasn't for the money and the first few months learning the ropes at the better paying salt mines and long hours took the summer of that year away.
I had become a money grubbing wage slave.
Monday.
"First day at the new, better paying salt mines. I felt a bit lost but managed to run a socket program. I felt better after that. Fifty minute drive there, Sixty five minutes back home"
Tuesday.
"More feelings of being lost, doubts about what I've done are creeping in. However, as with all these things we shall see with time - never go with first feelings. Let's give it all a month or so. Reasonable drives, no badge yet"
Wednesday.
"Badge!. I got my little yellow badge today, so I must be one of the boys. The week is half over, Waltzing Weasel day. Beer makes all things better (except headaches, stomach problems etc)."
I refer in that last entry to the local British style pub in Oshawa that we would attend on Wednesday nights, and the headaches were from eye strain and allergies, the stomach problems caused by stress and a bad diet.
It is a fact, and it is reflected in the diary, that I would not have been doing all this driving back and forwards to work if it wasn't for the money and the first few months learning the ropes at the better paying salt mines and long hours took the summer of that year away.
I had become a money grubbing wage slave.
Thursday, May 26, 2016
Monolith
There really is no fiction in what I am about to type, because I am relating my existence right here, in the now, to another person that I was fortunate enough to know, back in time.
Larry Abram.
Larry was a Lancashire lad. I believe he was born a little North of Blackpool, around Poulton Le Fylde, Fleetwood or even as high up as Morecambe. I had the good fortune to meet Jim Collins as part of my Canadian experience, and then even more so, but not diminishing my Jim experience, I met Larry.
In life you will meet a few of these people if you are lucky enough.
I have talked to many people who knew Larry, they will tell the same story about the man, that he was a phenomenon, a cantankerous curmudgeon of a chap with a heart of gold. They will wax lyrically of the extremes of his emotional entanglements with the art of engineering, they will recall, with a glint in their eyes how he was a storm of emotions, but a foundation rock of a way forward, that he could argue with you until he was blue in the face but five minutes later, still be the best friend you could ever have.
That was Larry Abram, without doubt the very best boss I have ever had, without doubt a man that I have hated and loved, all in the same day, but in retrospect a man who taught me more in my time around him than any of the other "superiors" could ever have hoped.
You will not meet many people in your life who live by a code of no bullshit and total fairness, and perhaps I am selling Larry Abram short by saying that he exceeded my expectations of what a "good boss" should be, but in my entire career, before and after, he became the benchmark.
Larry Abram.
Larry was a Lancashire lad. I believe he was born a little North of Blackpool, around Poulton Le Fylde, Fleetwood or even as high up as Morecambe. I had the good fortune to meet Jim Collins as part of my Canadian experience, and then even more so, but not diminishing my Jim experience, I met Larry.
In life you will meet a few of these people if you are lucky enough.
I have talked to many people who knew Larry, they will tell the same story about the man, that he was a phenomenon, a cantankerous curmudgeon of a chap with a heart of gold. They will wax lyrically of the extremes of his emotional entanglements with the art of engineering, they will recall, with a glint in their eyes how he was a storm of emotions, but a foundation rock of a way forward, that he could argue with you until he was blue in the face but five minutes later, still be the best friend you could ever have.
That was Larry Abram, without doubt the very best boss I have ever had, without doubt a man that I have hated and loved, all in the same day, but in retrospect a man who taught me more in my time around him than any of the other "superiors" could ever have hoped.
You will not meet many people in your life who live by a code of no bullshit and total fairness, and perhaps I am selling Larry Abram short by saying that he exceeded my expectations of what a "good boss" should be, but in my entire career, before and after, he became the benchmark.
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
It's all about me.
I imagine that we all have the level of conceit at one point in our lives that I had in the middle of 1994, it comes from some inner place in our psychological universe and I would be surprised if others have never experienced it.
I was riddled with it back in 1985, after my long stint in California at McDonnell Douglas, I arrived back to Wigan in the UK like some returning astronaut with an inflated ego and belief that I was better than the average working class man.
That soon changed back.
In 1994 when I left Dowty it was like I was following the yellow brick road to Menasco across in Oakville, so much money and in my tiny mind, the same workload, less responsibility and an accelerated financial plan as a result of it all.
Freedom fifty-five!
If I read my diary correctly though, very rapidly in those first months the avalanche of new money I was earning was being eclipsed by new things to buy in the small amount of hours left in the week and all the money was being consumed. I remember thinking this at the time, the phenomenon of how a puddle of water takes the shape of the ditch that it arrives in.
Douglas Adams memories there.
How many times in life can we make the same mistakes, our spending matching or exceeding our income and regardless of all our efforts the debt hole continuing to grow bigger?
It is all about me, and within a few months of working all hours "god sends" the realization with a capital "Z" arrived that we had wandered off the path and we started to curtail our "polo pony" ways to settle into a spend less, save more type arrangement.
Yet still have fun.
I could credit Dave Chilton (of Wealthy Barber fame) for this eventual change in our collective habits regarding money, but I prefer to give it to another man, someone who gives me a smile as I remember him, someone who said once that myself and the lovely Karen would be "as right as ninepence" in our little townhouse in Oshawa. A man who told me that as long as I was earning steak money and eating pies that I would always be happy.
Ron Barlow.
xx
I was riddled with it back in 1985, after my long stint in California at McDonnell Douglas, I arrived back to Wigan in the UK like some returning astronaut with an inflated ego and belief that I was better than the average working class man.
That soon changed back.
In 1994 when I left Dowty it was like I was following the yellow brick road to Menasco across in Oakville, so much money and in my tiny mind, the same workload, less responsibility and an accelerated financial plan as a result of it all.
Freedom fifty-five!
If I read my diary correctly though, very rapidly in those first months the avalanche of new money I was earning was being eclipsed by new things to buy in the small amount of hours left in the week and all the money was being consumed. I remember thinking this at the time, the phenomenon of how a puddle of water takes the shape of the ditch that it arrives in.
Douglas Adams memories there.
How many times in life can we make the same mistakes, our spending matching or exceeding our income and regardless of all our efforts the debt hole continuing to grow bigger?
It is all about me, and within a few months of working all hours "god sends" the realization with a capital "Z" arrived that we had wandered off the path and we started to curtail our "polo pony" ways to settle into a spend less, save more type arrangement.
Yet still have fun.
I could credit Dave Chilton (of Wealthy Barber fame) for this eventual change in our collective habits regarding money, but I prefer to give it to another man, someone who gives me a smile as I remember him, someone who said once that myself and the lovely Karen would be "as right as ninepence" in our little townhouse in Oshawa. A man who told me that as long as I was earning steak money and eating pies that I would always be happy.
Ron Barlow.
xx
Sunday, May 15, 2016
Huge
June, 1994.
I sat outside the Future Shop on Markham road in Ontario, just a block of two away from the Majestic Superstore where we bought our first stereo in 1988. I had just paid almost a thousand dollars to have an activated one of these in my hands. A miraculous wonder of modern miniature micro technology.
I sat outside the Future Shop on Markham road in Ontario, just a block of two away from the Majestic Superstore where we bought our first stereo in 1988. I had just paid almost a thousand dollars to have an activated one of these in my hands. A miraculous wonder of modern miniature micro technology.
Wednesday, May 11, 2016
Time Travel
The second stint of my Menasco experience began on the sixth of June, nineteen-ninety-four.
I will write about it at length as there are some fantastic memories of people that I must write down for my own enjoyment in future years, but my first comment about that particular chapter of my life is that I have never, and will never again I would imagine, experience time travel like I did during those four and a half years.
I was awake and on the road at five-twenty in the morning (I've just looked at the clock on the wall here and it is exactly that time) and my journey to Oakville from Oshawa would (in normal circumstances) take fifty minutes and I'd arrive at Menasco at around six o'clock.
I would then have a thirty minute or more sleep in the car, in a sleeping bag before heading into the plant when the canteen opened for the best coffee of my life and some breakfast.
I would leave work, usually, at six-thirty at night. The journey home would normally take an hour and I would phone Karen on my cell phone (it was huge) when I was close so that she could "get the tea on" and on Wednesdays we continued our mid week pub and NTN nights.
I worked Saturdays.
A normal working week at Menasco was almost always ten hour days, five hour Saturdays, fifty-five hours a week, plus travel time and that continued for two hundred and thirty weeks with a few vacations along the way. I have just calculated that a typical working week including travel was around eighty hours.
It was always busy, it was mostly fun, and my time there evaporated.
I will take the time to recall my favourite moments of those years, and try to fix those moments in some sort of timeline. At the moment though, in my mind, it feels too compressed, as though I was really only there for a happy year or so, but although I know that I loved the place I also have to acknowledge that at times I really loathed the place and my timeless reality.
Plenty of time to decompress those memories...
I will write about it at length as there are some fantastic memories of people that I must write down for my own enjoyment in future years, but my first comment about that particular chapter of my life is that I have never, and will never again I would imagine, experience time travel like I did during those four and a half years.
I was awake and on the road at five-twenty in the morning (I've just looked at the clock on the wall here and it is exactly that time) and my journey to Oakville from Oshawa would (in normal circumstances) take fifty minutes and I'd arrive at Menasco at around six o'clock.
I would then have a thirty minute or more sleep in the car, in a sleeping bag before heading into the plant when the canteen opened for the best coffee of my life and some breakfast.
I would leave work, usually, at six-thirty at night. The journey home would normally take an hour and I would phone Karen on my cell phone (it was huge) when I was close so that she could "get the tea on" and on Wednesdays we continued our mid week pub and NTN nights.
I worked Saturdays.
A normal working week at Menasco was almost always ten hour days, five hour Saturdays, fifty-five hours a week, plus travel time and that continued for two hundred and thirty weeks with a few vacations along the way. I have just calculated that a typical working week including travel was around eighty hours.
It was always busy, it was mostly fun, and my time there evaporated.
I will take the time to recall my favourite moments of those years, and try to fix those moments in some sort of timeline. At the moment though, in my mind, it feels too compressed, as though I was really only there for a happy year or so, but although I know that I loved the place I also have to acknowledge that at times I really loathed the place and my timeless reality.
Plenty of time to decompress those memories...
Fifty, the Magic number.
In those last two weeks at Dowty I wrapped up the work I had been doing to pass on, in addition the coffee machine chat group had grown and quite a number of people were telling me that "they would be next" which sounded very familiar to me, shades of my previous ship jumping experience.
In another deja vu moment from the closing days of 1989, Pete Clark the contractor came to me and with a wry smile used exactly the same sarcastic line, the only thing different was the number he used.
"If you're going there on anything less than fifty bucks an hour then you're being ripped off!"
Pete had added ten bucks.
I was leaving Dowty in Ajax for Menasco in Oakville and my hourly rate was to be fourty-two bucks, so for a brief moment, the sarcasm worked on me, but fortunately this time his jibe left no lingering doubts in my mind.
Pete Clark and the rest of the contractors knew what the desired goal was, the magical fifty bucks an hour, but few were achieving that at the time, probably because the agencies were taking their cut of the bigger slice of pie, just like TDM had done with me back in 1990.
This time though, I was on a "direct" six month purchase order, which may have been perceived as a bad thing of not having an agency to "look after my interests" for the long term, but in my mind all would be well and for the short term, fourty two bucks would be my going rate,
There was an assurance by new boss, Larry Abram, that with all the MRB work in the pipeline there would be plenty of overtime and although I would not reach that magical fifty dollar mark during normal hours, after the 44 hour point, my hourly rate would jump to sixty-three dollars.
A dollar and change per minute.
In another deja vu moment from the closing days of 1989, Pete Clark the contractor came to me and with a wry smile used exactly the same sarcastic line, the only thing different was the number he used.
"If you're going there on anything less than fifty bucks an hour then you're being ripped off!"
Pete had added ten bucks.
I was leaving Dowty in Ajax for Menasco in Oakville and my hourly rate was to be fourty-two bucks, so for a brief moment, the sarcasm worked on me, but fortunately this time his jibe left no lingering doubts in my mind.
Pete Clark and the rest of the contractors knew what the desired goal was, the magical fifty bucks an hour, but few were achieving that at the time, probably because the agencies were taking their cut of the bigger slice of pie, just like TDM had done with me back in 1990.
This time though, I was on a "direct" six month purchase order, which may have been perceived as a bad thing of not having an agency to "look after my interests" for the long term, but in my mind all would be well and for the short term, fourty two bucks would be my going rate,
There was an assurance by new boss, Larry Abram, that with all the MRB work in the pipeline there would be plenty of overtime and although I would not reach that magical fifty dollar mark during normal hours, after the 44 hour point, my hourly rate would jump to sixty-three dollars.
A dollar and change per minute.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
Harp and Thistle
The financial plan was firmly in place in 1994 and there were several things that we had adopted from consultations between the Dowty mob, a subscription to the Gordon Pape financial newsletter, detailed notes from numerous seminars (free cake!) and advice from Ken Miller, our financial advisor at the the time.
The nuts and bolts would have sounded crazy to me a few years before this, but we were at the point were we were borrowing money on a line of credit to maximise our joint RRSP contributions and usually after the investment deadline, most paydays were basically a wallet flush as we paid down the PLOC and our mortgage.
Karen and myself would jokingly say that we were broke, but financially, even before my jump back into contracting work, we were doing things right and the increased cash from job shopping would only accelerate the ending of the mortgage on our little townhouse.
If the PLOC was mostly paid off before we received our tax refunds from the RRSP, the remaining money would be paid directly off the principal of the mortgage. It really was a smart plan and indirectly forced us to "pay ourselves first" which of course is a Wealthy Barber reference and if you've never read that book, you should.
Ken Miller arranged another meeting for the Dowty investment group up at the local pub, the Harp and Thistle in Ajax, and once again, beers were quaffed and a lively discussion about money yielded another valuable nugget regarding our mortgage.
Ken advised that if wasn't the time for locking into any mortgage, and that we change to a variable rate. I remember that at the time it seemed a frightening prospect to "give up" the security of a locked in rate, but I respected his advice and the following week I was down at the bank for another "crazy" tweak to our plan.
In time I would call this evolving tweaking process by one engineering term that described an abrasive machining process to produce a precision surface.
Honing.
The nuts and bolts would have sounded crazy to me a few years before this, but we were at the point were we were borrowing money on a line of credit to maximise our joint RRSP contributions and usually after the investment deadline, most paydays were basically a wallet flush as we paid down the PLOC and our mortgage.
Karen and myself would jokingly say that we were broke, but financially, even before my jump back into contracting work, we were doing things right and the increased cash from job shopping would only accelerate the ending of the mortgage on our little townhouse.
If the PLOC was mostly paid off before we received our tax refunds from the RRSP, the remaining money would be paid directly off the principal of the mortgage. It really was a smart plan and indirectly forced us to "pay ourselves first" which of course is a Wealthy Barber reference and if you've never read that book, you should.
Ken Miller arranged another meeting for the Dowty investment group up at the local pub, the Harp and Thistle in Ajax, and once again, beers were quaffed and a lively discussion about money yielded another valuable nugget regarding our mortgage.
Ken advised that if wasn't the time for locking into any mortgage, and that we change to a variable rate. I remember that at the time it seemed a frightening prospect to "give up" the security of a locked in rate, but I respected his advice and the following week I was down at the bank for another "crazy" tweak to our plan.
In time I would call this evolving tweaking process by one engineering term that described an abrasive machining process to produce a precision surface.
Honing.
Sunday, April 17, 2016
The List of Kens
I understand if you have the impression that Ken Marlton and myself were leaving Dowty because of the taunting from our coworkers, because that's the way I've pitched it. In fact, there were several other things that a lot of the permanent members of staff had become pissed off with, and as I composed my two weeks notice letter, I could not resist making a list.
We had enjoyed a 37 hour week at Dowty and in one giant sweep of the pen, the company informed every one of the permanent office staff that in fact, the working week would now be 40 hours, and our salaries would remain the same.
An instant 8% pay cut.
Ken Marlton had told me what his salary was before leaving, something that was taboo in our industry, nevertheless, Ken had informed me that he been enticed into the managerial role with a salary 30% higher than we "senior" analysts were earning, all strength to Ken, but details like that along with a fake profit sharing scheme for the grunts added to the overall disgruntlement.
In my three years at Dowty, the yearly salary reviews had been phased out and management had started to display a "like it or lump it" attitude, something I had seen in previous employment, the odd thing about all of it was that management were quite surprised when we started to jump ship.
I was never on the Christmas card list, but my pointed letter of notice certainly placed me on what we ended up calling "the list of Kens" a list that had us permanently added to that bad monkey group in the eyes of a certain few.
A group that would continue to get bigger.
We had enjoyed a 37 hour week at Dowty and in one giant sweep of the pen, the company informed every one of the permanent office staff that in fact, the working week would now be 40 hours, and our salaries would remain the same.
An instant 8% pay cut.
Ken Marlton had told me what his salary was before leaving, something that was taboo in our industry, nevertheless, Ken had informed me that he been enticed into the managerial role with a salary 30% higher than we "senior" analysts were earning, all strength to Ken, but details like that along with a fake profit sharing scheme for the grunts added to the overall disgruntlement.
In my three years at Dowty, the yearly salary reviews had been phased out and management had started to display a "like it or lump it" attitude, something I had seen in previous employment, the odd thing about all of it was that management were quite surprised when we started to jump ship.
I was never on the Christmas card list, but my pointed letter of notice certainly placed me on what we ended up calling "the list of Kens" a list that had us permanently added to that bad monkey group in the eyes of a certain few.
A group that would continue to get bigger.
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
Notice.
Friday, 20th May, 1994
I had a version of Direct Access version 5.0 running on my IBM computer, which was possibly the most underpowered desktop PC in the building, but an absolute treasure for me with its ability to bypass the cumbersome office typing system with Wordperfect and the convenience of the beloved spreadsheet clone "Aseasy 123" that held my mortgage ending logic.
The urgency of the situation seemed to be heightened for some odd reason, and I composed my letter of notice simply at first, but then thinking about it, and I think we all do, I wanted to explain a little more the reasoning behind it all, you know, to get my point across.
Sigh!
In retrospect, for every one of us, making marginally political statements in letters of resignation is such a temptation, but in my great wisdom here as I approach my sixtieth year, I think we should all just move on and keep our reasons to ourselves.
However, in that moment of composing my magical words, I wanted to vent just a little.
I will see if I can dig out my copy of that note and post it here, because I bet parts of it are hilarious.
Anyhoo, as I was typing away, the Chief came up behind me and said something like "I can see that you're busy, but I'd like you to come back to my desk shortly for a meeting regarding your responsibilities on the Global Express work now that Ken Marlton has gone"
Great, Responsibilities, that's music to every permies ears.
I think the letter of resignation was sitting on my screen at the time but apparently the Chief did not see it, I nodded nervously and the meeting was arranged for eleven o'clock.
The race to get my point across was on...
I had a version of Direct Access version 5.0 running on my IBM computer, which was possibly the most underpowered desktop PC in the building, but an absolute treasure for me with its ability to bypass the cumbersome office typing system with Wordperfect and the convenience of the beloved spreadsheet clone "Aseasy 123" that held my mortgage ending logic.
The urgency of the situation seemed to be heightened for some odd reason, and I composed my letter of notice simply at first, but then thinking about it, and I think we all do, I wanted to explain a little more the reasoning behind it all, you know, to get my point across.
Sigh!
In retrospect, for every one of us, making marginally political statements in letters of resignation is such a temptation, but in my great wisdom here as I approach my sixtieth year, I think we should all just move on and keep our reasons to ourselves.
However, in that moment of composing my magical words, I wanted to vent just a little.
I will see if I can dig out my copy of that note and post it here, because I bet parts of it are hilarious.
Anyhoo, as I was typing away, the Chief came up behind me and said something like "I can see that you're busy, but I'd like you to come back to my desk shortly for a meeting regarding your responsibilities on the Global Express work now that Ken Marlton has gone"
Great, Responsibilities, that's music to every permies ears.
I think the letter of resignation was sitting on my screen at the time but apparently the Chief did not see it, I nodded nervously and the meeting was arranged for eleven o'clock.
The race to get my point across was on...
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
Phone Call number four.
The first phone call from Larry was to establish if I was willing to return to the Menasco Stress Office, the second from him was a question if I would work offsite for them, and then the third was a request for my resume.
I thought at first it was an odd request, as Larry already knew everything about me, but he explained that he needed it to attach to the purchase order.
I was an official purchase order and that made it all seem real all of a sudden.
Ken Marlton had left on Friday the 13th and we'd all been down to Wongs buffet for lunch, I had a quiet word with Ken as we said goodbye, he was the only one in the office that knew what was happening with me, we both had a quiet chuckle about it.
The fourth phone call was early on Friday the 20th May, and Larry told me that everything was approved and I should give my notice in.
I said I'd give my notice in the following Friday and I immediately sensed that the big grinning Lancashire cat at the other end of the phone changed his demeanour.
"You'll bloody give it in now!"
In that moment, Larry had become my new boss and when he said paint it pink, by golly, I'd be painting whatever it was he wanted a bright shade of pink.
The decision was made and all I had to do was create my polite resignation letter...
I thought at first it was an odd request, as Larry already knew everything about me, but he explained that he needed it to attach to the purchase order.
I was an official purchase order and that made it all seem real all of a sudden.
Ken Marlton had left on Friday the 13th and we'd all been down to Wongs buffet for lunch, I had a quiet word with Ken as we said goodbye, he was the only one in the office that knew what was happening with me, we both had a quiet chuckle about it.
The fourth phone call was early on Friday the 20th May, and Larry told me that everything was approved and I should give my notice in.
I said I'd give my notice in the following Friday and I immediately sensed that the big grinning Lancashire cat at the other end of the phone changed his demeanour.
"You'll bloody give it in now!"
In that moment, Larry had become my new boss and when he said paint it pink, by golly, I'd be painting whatever it was he wanted a bright shade of pink.
The decision was made and all I had to do was create my polite resignation letter...
Long time no chat.
Monday, May 9th. 1994
I could tell the person on the other end of the office phone line was smiling like a Cheshire cat, or should I say a Lancashire cat.
"Hello me old fruit"
It was Larry Abram, the stress office manager at Menasco Aerospace, and we had not exchanged a single word in three years, yet just hearing the old farts voice made me smile.
"A little dicky bird told me that you'd be wanting to come back and do a bit of jobshoppeurism"
I worked out quite quickly that the little dicky bird would have been Ken Marlton, and apparently Larry had phoned him and offered him the job first (yes, the ongoing story of my career) but as Ken had his own plans to leave Dowty he had refused, but told Larry that he thought that young Weldon was pining for the fjords once again.
That's the way I remember it anyways.
It was a short conversation really, Larry wanted me to come back to the fold and be paid "direct" and he assured me that there was plenty of work this time, some issue with the Fokker 100 and a mountain of MRB work to do.
"You don't mind lowering yourself to do a bit of MRB do you?"
I could tell the person on the other end of the office phone line was smiling like a Cheshire cat, or should I say a Lancashire cat.
"Hello me old fruit"
It was Larry Abram, the stress office manager at Menasco Aerospace, and we had not exchanged a single word in three years, yet just hearing the old farts voice made me smile.
"A little dicky bird told me that you'd be wanting to come back and do a bit of jobshoppeurism"
I worked out quite quickly that the little dicky bird would have been Ken Marlton, and apparently Larry had phoned him and offered him the job first (yes, the ongoing story of my career) but as Ken had his own plans to leave Dowty he had refused, but told Larry that he thought that young Weldon was pining for the fjords once again.
That's the way I remember it anyways.
It was a short conversation really, Larry wanted me to come back to the fold and be paid "direct" and he assured me that there was plenty of work this time, some issue with the Fokker 100 and a mountain of MRB work to do.
"You don't mind lowering yourself to do a bit of MRB do you?"
Friday, April 1, 2016
Christmas Card List
Ken Marlton, the permie, was not happy and was being harassed by the other permies and the elder statesman "new" jobshopper Jim Collins. Dave Weldon, the permie, although enjoying winding Ken up, was not happy and was being harassed by his own version of elder statesmen, the jobshoppeurs Dave Rutherford and Pete Clark and after all of it, something had to break.
May 1994.
After all his promises, Ken Marlton saw the light and gave in his notice at Dowty, in that exact moment he was expunged from the Chief's Christmas Card list forever, instantly no longer a friend and was to be sent to a sort of Coventry that fortunately for Ken involved being paid more and paying less tax.
And it saved Barry a stamp.
The knock on effect was that the Global Express landing Gear work had to be done by someone, and apparently, in addition to my already burgeoning responsibilities, that was going to arrive at my doorstep within hours of Ken's submission of renewed jobshopperism.
Apparently.
May 1994.
After all his promises, Ken Marlton saw the light and gave in his notice at Dowty, in that exact moment he was expunged from the Chief's Christmas Card list forever, instantly no longer a friend and was to be sent to a sort of Coventry that fortunately for Ken involved being paid more and paying less tax.
And it saved Barry a stamp.
The knock on effect was that the Global Express landing Gear work had to be done by someone, and apparently, in addition to my already burgeoning responsibilities, that was going to arrive at my doorstep within hours of Ken's submission of renewed jobshopperism.
Apparently.
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
The Chuckle Brothers
April 1994.
It was apparent that Ken Marlton was not enjoying the new responsibilities or consequences of being Stress Office manager. That's not a reflection on Ken, who was a great chap, but I suppose part of his daily burden was the subtle office psychological onslaught from a group of bored permies.
If I think about it though, we were making fun of ourselves in the process, mainly as most of the permanent members of the group acknowledged that the contracting life had definite benefits, usually associated with a lack of responsibility or consequence with the added seasoning of lots of money.
There were a few jobshoppers that I talked to on a regular basis. There had been the legendary Tony Burgess, a great chap who had moved up in the world to head TDM technical services, a contracting agency and who was my agent back in 1990 when I had my brief stint at Menasco.
John Jefferies of course, Pete Malaguti, Jim Collins and even though Ken Marlton was now a manager, I still considered that he was a jobshopper at heart.
Frank Sapala was another great guy, who's motto was "We don't talk about Frank" when it came to what rate he was on. In my time learning PATRAN in the CAD room, I would talk to Frank about life, the universe and everything. When the weekly contractor pay envelopes would come around, Frank would open his, smile insanely and then methodically rip the pay slip into fifty pieces.
Then there are the two that I am affectionately nicknaming the Chuckle Brothers.
Dave Rutherford and Pete Clark held varying places either side of me on the Dowty squash ladder, and we had great battles over at the sports centre of a lunch time. Dave was installed on a desk near the back of the stress office and Pete was usually in the CAD room. The friendly competition on the squash courts resulted in a lot of office banter that was especially comical when either one of them had beaten me, or vice versa.
The light teasing that I was applying to Ken paled in comparison to the quality work that Dave and Pete were subjecting me to on a daily basis, it was a similar process though, a couple of competent jobshoppers provoking a permanent member of staff. It was not always about performance in the squash arena either, their speciality seemed to focus on ridiculing career decisions, failed jobshopper attempts and the general financial struggle.
It seemed like torture at times, office bullying I suppose they would call it nowadays, but what they effectively did was change my state of mind and I suppose what we permanent staff were subjecting Ken Marlton to had the same effect.
The countdown was on.
It was apparent that Ken Marlton was not enjoying the new responsibilities or consequences of being Stress Office manager. That's not a reflection on Ken, who was a great chap, but I suppose part of his daily burden was the subtle office psychological onslaught from a group of bored permies.
If I think about it though, we were making fun of ourselves in the process, mainly as most of the permanent members of the group acknowledged that the contracting life had definite benefits, usually associated with a lack of responsibility or consequence with the added seasoning of lots of money.
There were a few jobshoppers that I talked to on a regular basis. There had been the legendary Tony Burgess, a great chap who had moved up in the world to head TDM technical services, a contracting agency and who was my agent back in 1990 when I had my brief stint at Menasco.
John Jefferies of course, Pete Malaguti, Jim Collins and even though Ken Marlton was now a manager, I still considered that he was a jobshopper at heart.
Frank Sapala was another great guy, who's motto was "We don't talk about Frank" when it came to what rate he was on. In my time learning PATRAN in the CAD room, I would talk to Frank about life, the universe and everything. When the weekly contractor pay envelopes would come around, Frank would open his, smile insanely and then methodically rip the pay slip into fifty pieces.
Then there are the two that I am affectionately nicknaming the Chuckle Brothers.
Dave Rutherford and Pete Clark held varying places either side of me on the Dowty squash ladder, and we had great battles over at the sports centre of a lunch time. Dave was installed on a desk near the back of the stress office and Pete was usually in the CAD room. The friendly competition on the squash courts resulted in a lot of office banter that was especially comical when either one of them had beaten me, or vice versa.
The light teasing that I was applying to Ken paled in comparison to the quality work that Dave and Pete were subjecting me to on a daily basis, it was a similar process though, a couple of competent jobshoppers provoking a permanent member of staff. It was not always about performance in the squash arena either, their speciality seemed to focus on ridiculing career decisions, failed jobshopper attempts and the general financial struggle.
It seemed like torture at times, office bullying I suppose they would call it nowadays, but what they effectively did was change my state of mind and I suppose what we permanent staff were subjecting Ken Marlton to had the same effect.
The countdown was on.
Monday, March 7, 2016
Spreadsheet Queen
I'll step back a year for a moment.
In those early months of 1993 the honing of the financial plan had continued, it was the usual RRSP time and Graeme Wright and myself were enjoying the various free seminars (and coffee and Donuts) that were offered in the Durham region.
In fact the financial discussions had spread to other members of the design office.
Ken Miller was our financial guy at the time, he was a pleasant man and he was recommended as a trusted soul by Jim Collins. A few of us in the office had subscribed to the Gordon Pape financial newsletter and in general, we were all learning about investing, Ken Miller actually organized a little get together at the local pub for those that were interested and the general discussion was good and positive and beer was alaways welcomed.
In 1992 Graeme had salvaged a little pocket computer (Chris Brookfield had thrown it away) and financial amortization formula had been adapted to BASIC and installed. In addition, we had programmed the Lotus 123 clone for this mortgage predictor and had both been using it to see the effect of balloon payments, interest rates and payment frequency on our respective loans.
It helped that I had grovelled to have a PC on my desk, A monochrome PC that had sat unused next to the Decwriter in the plotter room and the chief had reluctantly allowed it to be installed on my desk. As I have mentioned before, I was still very much the bad monkey and any sort of perk was frowned upon, so I felt "lucky" to have been given the opportunity of using an obsolete computer at my workstation.
Once the spreadsheet was constructed, Graeme was a regular visitor to my desk, and playing with mortgage numbers became a fascination in our lives.
It was obvious that the Weldon mortgage on our townhouse was not open enough, so we approached the bank to change that. Initially the bank came up with some huge penalty payment (in the thousands) but Graeme informed me that there were two variants of this penalty, one if you were changing institutions and another if staying with the same bank.
So, I trotted back to the bank and educated the clerk, who happily charged us $600 penalty for changing our mortgage to an almost fully open lower rate and in addition we changed from monthly payments to bi-weekly.
It only took about ten weeks to make that six hundred bucks back.
The original houseplan spreadsheet was used to budget the Weldon finances even more fanatically and almost on a weekly basis we were paying an extra fifty or a hundred dollars off the loan, I would nip up on a lunchtime, pay the mini-balloon payment and ask for a print out of the remaining principal and amortization period which of course was then checked with the mortgage spreadsheet to ensure accuracy.
This "second front" of financial smarts was the beginning of the end of the debt game for Graeme and myself and we both started to finalise our "Mortgage Free" or MF events.
The pair of us would both be "Out from under it" in the following two years, the Wrights received their "Mortgage Free Bucket" on the 20th August 1993 and the Weldon bucket arrived on June 17th, 1995.
And that was that.
In those early months of 1993 the honing of the financial plan had continued, it was the usual RRSP time and Graeme Wright and myself were enjoying the various free seminars (and coffee and Donuts) that were offered in the Durham region.
In fact the financial discussions had spread to other members of the design office.
Ken Miller was our financial guy at the time, he was a pleasant man and he was recommended as a trusted soul by Jim Collins. A few of us in the office had subscribed to the Gordon Pape financial newsletter and in general, we were all learning about investing, Ken Miller actually organized a little get together at the local pub for those that were interested and the general discussion was good and positive and beer was alaways welcomed.
In 1992 Graeme had salvaged a little pocket computer (Chris Brookfield had thrown it away) and financial amortization formula had been adapted to BASIC and installed. In addition, we had programmed the Lotus 123 clone for this mortgage predictor and had both been using it to see the effect of balloon payments, interest rates and payment frequency on our respective loans.
It helped that I had grovelled to have a PC on my desk, A monochrome PC that had sat unused next to the Decwriter in the plotter room and the chief had reluctantly allowed it to be installed on my desk. As I have mentioned before, I was still very much the bad monkey and any sort of perk was frowned upon, so I felt "lucky" to have been given the opportunity of using an obsolete computer at my workstation.
Once the spreadsheet was constructed, Graeme was a regular visitor to my desk, and playing with mortgage numbers became a fascination in our lives.
It was obvious that the Weldon mortgage on our townhouse was not open enough, so we approached the bank to change that. Initially the bank came up with some huge penalty payment (in the thousands) but Graeme informed me that there were two variants of this penalty, one if you were changing institutions and another if staying with the same bank.
So, I trotted back to the bank and educated the clerk, who happily charged us $600 penalty for changing our mortgage to an almost fully open lower rate and in addition we changed from monthly payments to bi-weekly.
It only took about ten weeks to make that six hundred bucks back.
The original houseplan spreadsheet was used to budget the Weldon finances even more fanatically and almost on a weekly basis we were paying an extra fifty or a hundred dollars off the loan, I would nip up on a lunchtime, pay the mini-balloon payment and ask for a print out of the remaining principal and amortization period which of course was then checked with the mortgage spreadsheet to ensure accuracy.
This "second front" of financial smarts was the beginning of the end of the debt game for Graeme and myself and we both started to finalise our "Mortgage Free" or MF events.
The pair of us would both be "Out from under it" in the following two years, the Wrights received their "Mortgage Free Bucket" on the 20th August 1993 and the Weldon bucket arrived on June 17th, 1995.
And that was that.
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
Bata Extravaganza
A few months earlier, the famous Christmas of 1993 we will call it for the sake of the story, another of the famous Bata Extravaganza's took place, something that was far removed from any of the Dowty Christmas parties for a significant reason.
No Dowty Christmas event ever had an open bar.
Karen was working in the payroll department at Bata, and to boot downtown in lovely Don Mills, a fantastic daily drive experience, especially in the winter months, and at the time, she was driving there in the family biscuit tin, the Ford festiva, and particularly exciting with a full set of severely bald tires.
Acknowledging that she had attended the shoe emporium for another year through all types of driving conditions they had presented her the annual unlimited access to booze at their holiday party festivus, and that was one thing we as a family unit would surely not miss, regardless of the weather. As a responsible thing, we always booked ourselves into the party hotel for the night.
I cannot brag here, I am sincerely a terrible drinker and an absolute child when it comes to free.
The event went as usual that Christmas, an initial cocktail hour, full on complimentary bar, followed by a parade into the main room, a formal three course meal, entertainment and jollity, and of course, prizes for the executives, management and key employees.
I wasn't any of the above, and in that first hour, especially with winks and nods from the enthusiastic bartender, I took absolute full advantage of the free bar, in addition, I was talking to one of Karen's workmate's husbands, and we got into a "fuckemall" type conversation. I went toe to toe, drink for drink with the guy, trouble was, a factoid I missed at the time, he had at least twice the body mass of my little self.
So the dinner gong went off, everyone paraded into the dining room, and me and Tom squeezed in another double before joining them all at the tables, for the celebration of managemental loveliness.
I decided to go for a quick toilet break and in the process my trouser button exploded. I found that I could zip up my pants but the top was spread out, so I had an issue and I went to the dining room and told Karen I would have to go to our room and install a button.
Time passed apparently.
This is my account, but apparently Karen's story is quite different which may be detailed later, regardless, the ending of my particular story was that I was happily asleep on the bed in the hotel room when the light went on, some crazy lady, presumably Karen, which I doubt as she very rarely uses any type of expletive, came up and loomed over me, said something that an experienced sailor might say and then the light went off and I smiled and went back off into a deep sleep.
Oblivious of any trouble I may have been in.
No Dowty Christmas event ever had an open bar.
Karen was working in the payroll department at Bata, and to boot downtown in lovely Don Mills, a fantastic daily drive experience, especially in the winter months, and at the time, she was driving there in the family biscuit tin, the Ford festiva, and particularly exciting with a full set of severely bald tires.
Acknowledging that she had attended the shoe emporium for another year through all types of driving conditions they had presented her the annual unlimited access to booze at their holiday party festivus, and that was one thing we as a family unit would surely not miss, regardless of the weather. As a responsible thing, we always booked ourselves into the party hotel for the night.
I cannot brag here, I am sincerely a terrible drinker and an absolute child when it comes to free.
The event went as usual that Christmas, an initial cocktail hour, full on complimentary bar, followed by a parade into the main room, a formal three course meal, entertainment and jollity, and of course, prizes for the executives, management and key employees.
I wasn't any of the above, and in that first hour, especially with winks and nods from the enthusiastic bartender, I took absolute full advantage of the free bar, in addition, I was talking to one of Karen's workmate's husbands, and we got into a "fuckemall" type conversation. I went toe to toe, drink for drink with the guy, trouble was, a factoid I missed at the time, he had at least twice the body mass of my little self.
So the dinner gong went off, everyone paraded into the dining room, and me and Tom squeezed in another double before joining them all at the tables, for the celebration of managemental loveliness.
I decided to go for a quick toilet break and in the process my trouser button exploded. I found that I could zip up my pants but the top was spread out, so I had an issue and I went to the dining room and told Karen I would have to go to our room and install a button.
Time passed apparently.
This is my account, but apparently Karen's story is quite different which may be detailed later, regardless, the ending of my particular story was that I was happily asleep on the bed in the hotel room when the light went on, some crazy lady, presumably Karen, which I doubt as she very rarely uses any type of expletive, came up and loomed over me, said something that an experienced sailor might say and then the light went off and I smiled and went back off into a deep sleep.
Oblivious of any trouble I may have been in.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
Oxygen Thieves
The Regional Jet and Global Express work had required a large influx of draughtsmen to be hired to meet the various schedules, but as I had mentioned earlier, there was little room to house them all.
A pair of terrapins, light blue/grey portakabins, had appeared and been fitted with a dozen or more drafting boards, and through an aggressive recruitment campaign, most of them had been installed with a jobshopper.
If you've been in any industry where something like this has happened, you will know the score, that little useful work went on in these sheds, and at a future date a manager had to be installed to monitor the inmates. It was a little like the Bob Newhart infinite number of monkeys joke....
"to be or not to be, that is the gozornonplat"
In the winter months before a prefect was installed I would visit the portakabins, they were connected to the shop floor by a wooden corridor, and on entering the corridor you could hear great laughter and jollity, that would suddenly be stifled as the sound of approaching footsteps were heard. I would enter the shed and be recognized as "not a boss" and the conversations would start up again.
A few of the jobshoppers had very little drafting experience in the industry, I think one had actually been a bouncer at a nightclub in his previous job and was being paid "the big bucks" for basically consuming oxygen.
One thing was for sure, they were all having far too much fun and for those few months before management realised their mistake, the portakabins were the happiest social scene at Dowty.
A pair of terrapins, light blue/grey portakabins, had appeared and been fitted with a dozen or more drafting boards, and through an aggressive recruitment campaign, most of them had been installed with a jobshopper.
If you've been in any industry where something like this has happened, you will know the score, that little useful work went on in these sheds, and at a future date a manager had to be installed to monitor the inmates. It was a little like the Bob Newhart infinite number of monkeys joke....
"to be or not to be, that is the gozornonplat"
In the winter months before a prefect was installed I would visit the portakabins, they were connected to the shop floor by a wooden corridor, and on entering the corridor you could hear great laughter and jollity, that would suddenly be stifled as the sound of approaching footsteps were heard. I would enter the shed and be recognized as "not a boss" and the conversations would start up again.
A few of the jobshoppers had very little drafting experience in the industry, I think one had actually been a bouncer at a nightclub in his previous job and was being paid "the big bucks" for basically consuming oxygen.
One thing was for sure, they were all having far too much fun and for those few months before management realised their mistake, the portakabins were the happiest social scene at Dowty.
Welcome back Kotter.
It was the new year, 1993 was over and things had moved along at the landing gear emporium.
Jim Collins was back, but not in his previous role as manager, Jim had returned as a contractor and was sat back at his old desk, earning more, paying less tax, and was enjoying his days. The desk in front of him was now inhabited by Ken Marlton, who in a strange twist of fate had been sweet talked into giving up his contracting position to have the grand title of Stress Office manager.
It had only been a few months, and Ken was not at all happy with this.
I always made a point of finding my way around to Ken's desk each payday, and as he opened his envelope I would sing "I know all there is to know about the crying game" as he shook his head. It seemed a constant shock to him, the amount of money that was subtracted for the various taxes and fees that permanent members of staff enjoyed.
I told him he was lucky, that the chore of keeping receipts and employing an accountant had been lifted from his shoulders. I would add as an afterthought that I felt that Jim Collins had pulled off a master stroke and I would ask Ken one thing before I wandered off back to my desk.
"What the hell did you think you were doing?"
Jim would chortle.
Jim Collins was back, but not in his previous role as manager, Jim had returned as a contractor and was sat back at his old desk, earning more, paying less tax, and was enjoying his days. The desk in front of him was now inhabited by Ken Marlton, who in a strange twist of fate had been sweet talked into giving up his contracting position to have the grand title of Stress Office manager.
It had only been a few months, and Ken was not at all happy with this.
I always made a point of finding my way around to Ken's desk each payday, and as he opened his envelope I would sing "I know all there is to know about the crying game" as he shook his head. It seemed a constant shock to him, the amount of money that was subtracted for the various taxes and fees that permanent members of staff enjoyed.
I told him he was lucky, that the chore of keeping receipts and employing an accountant had been lifted from his shoulders. I would add as an afterthought that I felt that Jim Collins had pulled off a master stroke and I would ask Ken one thing before I wandered off back to my desk.
"What the hell did you think you were doing?"
Jim would chortle.
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Ziggy played Guitar....
A short moment to jump back in time.
In late 1971, when I was 14, A school friend of mine, David Whitacker, loaned me the single "Space Oddity" with the B side "Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud" and shortly afterwards I saved my pocket money and bought "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars" album.
Whitacker was part of a group of friends at the time, there was me of course, Andrew Swift, and Dave Burt and later an outsider, Joe Haynes. We all had a little music thing going and those first three guys introduced me to a few things, Bowie being one of them, and of course, Deep Purple, and Black Sabbath.
And Gin.....
Joe Haynes was a different kind of friend, he tried many times to introduce me to girls and unfortunately for me at the time, I resisted.
Joe didn't and he went off and found his own friend, Katrina Burns.
I think Ziggy Stardust was the first "real" music album I owned. The following year, by mail order, I bought Aladdin Sane and it was another of those albums that I played to death along with "No Secrets" by Carly Simon, an album whose cover made me realise that Joe Haynes was probably right.
One clever online person recently said that the death of David Bowie was merely the "tip of the iceberg" and perhaps he be right, methinks we'll be having a tsunami of dead rockers in the next few years and I sincerely hope I outlive them all.
I am however, sad that I outlived my good friend Joe Haynes.
In late 1971, when I was 14, A school friend of mine, David Whitacker, loaned me the single "Space Oddity" with the B side "Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud" and shortly afterwards I saved my pocket money and bought "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars" album.
Whitacker was part of a group of friends at the time, there was me of course, Andrew Swift, and Dave Burt and later an outsider, Joe Haynes. We all had a little music thing going and those first three guys introduced me to a few things, Bowie being one of them, and of course, Deep Purple, and Black Sabbath.
And Gin.....
Joe Haynes was a different kind of friend, he tried many times to introduce me to girls and unfortunately for me at the time, I resisted.
Joe didn't and he went off and found his own friend, Katrina Burns.
I think Ziggy Stardust was the first "real" music album I owned. The following year, by mail order, I bought Aladdin Sane and it was another of those albums that I played to death along with "No Secrets" by Carly Simon, an album whose cover made me realise that Joe Haynes was probably right.
One clever online person recently said that the death of David Bowie was merely the "tip of the iceberg" and perhaps he be right, methinks we'll be having a tsunami of dead rockers in the next few years and I sincerely hope I outlive them all.
I am however, sad that I outlived my good friend Joe Haynes.
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
Ten Days
I have to take a moment out of the story and personally thank the amazing David Bowie for providing a large part of the soundtrack of my life.
Love.
Peace.
Love.
Peace.
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