A Grandpa's Notebook Part 13

After successfully testing Alamander, the Lord of the Sky turns the box of stories over to him. Alamander, with the box on his back climbs down to the Earth's surface along a rope ladder. He drags the box to the middle of a meadow, and removes the heavy padlock that holds the lid in place. Alamander, with Aringabella gripping his shoulder firmly and helpfully flapping his wings, lifts the lid and steps back to watch all of the world's stories gain their freedom to roam the world forever. This is what happened: There was moment of deep silence. Suddenly, the heavy lid flew up and over, and crashed to the ground. From out of the box's darkness gusted a powerful wind that whirled about and away in a cloud of dust.

In an instant there rose from out of the box swarms and tangles of flapping wings, waving arms, running legs, grasping claws, writhing tentacles, and a horde of strange wriggling shapes Their number was beyond counting. And from this twisting ma.s.s came sounds of laughing and crying, whining and humming, rustling and chattering, shouting and whispering, and snarling and hissing and howling, and even sounds for which, even now, there are no ways to describe.

Up and away, flying and running, strutting and crawling, staggering and marching and plodding and toddling, they cascaded over the sides of the box. Some took to the air, others moved toward the forest where they disappeared into trees, shrubs and flowers, and into the burrows of tiny animals and the caves of larger beasts. They dove into the river and the sea, and dug themselves into the ground or slithered under rocks. A few raced each other across the meadow and slipped into the homes and shops of the nearby village. They took to the air and the sea for distant places. Soon they were everywhere.

What did they look like? They looked like everything and anything: trolls and elves, trees and clouds, birds and people, horses and barns, airplanes and boats and s.p.a.ceships and stars in the sky, and all the things that are or ever were, and also things that are not and never could be. Stories look like anything that ever happened and which might yet happen in years and centuries to come. And stories are whatever people might wish for, and things of which they are afraid.

Soon the stories were all gone from the box in which they had been kept locked until someone came along who really wanted them freed. Now the stories could go wherever they wished, and to be for all time among the peoples of the world.

When people saw the stories, they took them in and gave them the food and shelter that stories need to be strong. In return the stories gave pleasure and knowledge and, at times, sadness, to the peoples of the world. Stories try to give those who listen carefully an understanding of how the Lord of the Sky means for the world to be.

Sometimes, the stories from Nyami's box did not change, and at other times, they were changed about by storytellers to give them other meanings. Sometimes this was good; at other times, it was not good, but it's how stories are meant to be. However they are changed, all stories are gifts from the Lord of the Sky, who has many names.

What happened to Alamander and Aringabella?

Alamander grew from boy to man, and, in time, he married and had a family. With the wise advice of his friend, Aringabella, he became a respected elder among the people of his village.

Often, in the evening, when the day's work was done and with his parrot perched securely on his shoulder, Alamander would lead his family to a quiet clearing along the riverbank where they would sit facing the river. They studied the world around them: flowers and trees, gra.s.s and rocks, and fallen leaves pushed along the ground by soft breezes. They looked out at the river and saw fish breaking the surface, and they listened to the hum of insects, the songs of birds, and the squeaking of bats. Raising their eyes, they gazed at the stars in the black velvet dome above, and they spoke their thoughts of how all these things came to be.

And as they marveled, Alamander would tell again how he and Aringabella had helped to bring stories to the world, and of the wonder of the place from which the box of stories had come.

''The people of Planet Earth,' he would say at the end, 'must deserve this great gift from the Lord of the Sky.''

Memoir: C'mon, Man, It's Only a Safety Pin!

How might teenagers of the 21st century and beyond relate to and communicate with grandparents and the elderly? Based on a real encounter, this story tells what happened during my chance meeting with a young adult. The give-and-take had to be cleaned up a bit for this telling, and the dialogue rounded out and organized for continuity and cohesiveness. Somewhat allegorical, the story demonstrates the cross- generation communications that can develop when even widely separated age groups are willing to listen to each other. Many of us have had comparable experiences; they deserve being entered into our lore. *** The rain sheets swirled in from the south, bent, and lurched aimless as drunken ghosts across the college campus. Winds lashed the high crowns of the eucalyptus, and dipped to whine along the corridors and pa.s.sageways that cut through the patchwork of modernistic academic structures.

Back and legs lashed by fierce gusts, disoriented to the direction of my destination, I took refuge under the dome of a kiosk. Backing around to the side opposite the driving rain, I doffed my cap to let the water drip; waiting was no problem. I scanned the dozens of leaflets clinging to the kiosk's curved wall, overlapping each other like fish scales: notices of student events long past and yet to be, and places and things from urgently needed to available for the taking.

'Hey, ol' man.'

'Yo.' I glanced back. He was in the borderland between the rain and the shelter, leaning against a patch of soggy leaflets. About seventeen in years, six in height, and as skinny as a drenched cat. Tangled blond hair, defeated by the rain, plastered his scalp.

His black T-shirt was wet, as were his frayed and torn jeans and once- white running shoes. At his feet lay a deflated haversack caked with whatever it had been dragged through, probably since elementary school.

'Whatcha doin' out on a day like this.'

His flat voice matched the bored, couldn't care less put-on that went with his years. Squatting, he drew a soil-brown cloth from the haversack and toweled his head and neck.

'Library,' I said. 'Where's it at?'

He motioned with the cloth. 'Behind that one with the big windows. I'm headin' that way, too.' He looked up at the sky. 'Gonna let up in a coupla minutes. What're you gonna do in the library?'

'Check the latest Writer's Market and LMP.' I looked closer at him and repeated, 'LMP. Literary Market Place.'

'What'll they do for you?'

'Point me in the right direction.'

'What for?'

'Peddle an article I wrote.'

'Oh. Writer?'

'Off'n on. Job. Retired now, but keep my hand in.'

'Hey, man, I like writin'.' He looked at me with interest. What's it take?'

'Writin'? Takes writin', and rewritin'.'

'C,mon, man. You're tryin' to sell one. Right?'

'Yeah.'

'So you've been there. Writin' for the real world; doin' somthin' you want to. What's it all about; like what are ya tryin' t' sell?'

'Industrial stuff,' I said, dismissing it all with a shrug and a wave-off. 'How to organize industrial tools to do a job, and then how to bring 'em all together with materials, parts, and nuts and bolts to come up with the finished product.'

'That's technical writin', huh?'

'Yep. Well, sort of.'

'Is technical writin' hard to learn?'

'People like you and me been doin' it since cave-dwellers first scratched pictures of rock-throwers on their walls. Finest kind training aid for their kids.'

I pointed to the printed and hand-scribed notes and graffiti in the patches of still exposed concrete.

'Content may have changed, but the idea is still to get a message across. What about you? Ever tried that kind of writing?'

'Technical stuff?' His shoulders rose and fell. 'Not much. Student, y'know. I'm still gettin' a.s.signments to write about my last trip to Disneyland. I do use trade manuals to tune the motor on my bike, and the book has lists and drawings of tools and step-by-step instructions on how to do the job. Use 'em all the time, but never thought about where they came from. You put that stuff together?'

'Made my livin' at it for a while before I retired. But, like I said, I'm a firehouse horse who keeps chasin' fires even after being put out to pasture. In my blood, I guess.'

He laughed.

'Tools in a repair manual,' he said, 'and all the different parts and instructions. How d'ya do it? Like, how'd you describe, for example, a tool?'

He scanned the sky as he spoke. The heavy overcast was lightening, and the wandering rain-ghosts had retreated to make way for drizzle. Rivulets snaked across the concrete quad from one puddle to another, eventually over-br.i.m.m.i.n.g into a furrow that widened and deepened into a trench entering a conduit to a ditch or storm sewer somewhere off the campus.

'Name a few tools,' I said.

He grinned. 'Pliers. Wrench. Screwdriver. OK?'

'OK,' I answered. 'More.'

His eyes contemplated the drizzle, came back to stare at the wet walls of the kiosk, settled on his haversack, and stayed. I followed his glance. A 4-inch long, candy-striped, enamel coated safety pin fastened down the flap of its side pocket.

'Safety pin,' he chuckled. 'Tool, right?'

'Could be. How would you get ready to describe it?'

He stared at me, his face gone blank. 'How 'to get ready' to describe a safety pin? What's this 'get ready' bit? It's just a safety pin. You're kiddin'.'

'The heck I am,' I said. 'You just called it a 'tool'. If you're going to describe it, know enough about it to find the words for the job. Words are also tools, whether they describe other tools, or tornadoes, toys, teeth, trees, or tractors.

'Start with thinking about the readers; will they be in an outfit that makes specialized equipment to fabricate safety pins; will it be a safety pin huckster contacting customers by phone, personal contact, or letter, or how about some kid's mom up-country in an underdeveloped country who never even heard about Velcro flaps on diapers, if she ever heard of diapers at all. Just a.s.sume the woman lives in a village where no one ever heard of safety pins until a K-Mart opened up alongside the town rice paddy. What I'm gettin' at is: who's the information for? How much do they really need to know in order to do what they want with the thing?'

The idea grabbed him and I let him lead. Backs against the kiosk wall, staring out at the drizzle but not seeing it, we a.n.a.lyzed a safety pin and how to lay the groundwork to describe it. He unfastened the pin from his haversack, and using it as an exhibit, we did a parts breakdown, recalled what we could about the range of popular sizes; we estimated raw materials requirements per thousand units; debated how to cut the pin retainer clip from flat stock and form it around the wire firmly so that a child couldn't separate one from the other; touched on features for machine tools to fabricate safety pins; then jumped to the economics of designing robotic machine tools to ma.s.s produce and corner the safety pin market.

We delved into designing a pin with enough stiffness in the wire so that the pointed end would not bend out of the clip head and keep the tip from accidentally disengaging; we laughed over deburring the parts so that Mom's fingers and the baby's f.a.n.n.y wouldn't get scratched, and quickly agreed on the need to coat the pin with a rust inhibitor to protect it from the corrosive effects of dank cloths in warm places. We explored packaging, marketing and replacement factors.

By now his hair was almost dry and he finger-combed it spikey.

'Hey, ol' man,' he said, 'this is a good rap, but it's only a safety pin.'

'Don't knock it,' I replied. 'Safety pins, in one form or another, have been industrial and household tools for centuries and will be for many more. Anyhow, we're using it as an example, the same principles apply whether it's a safety pin, a computer, TV, or s.p.a.ce ship. Getting back to your part of the job, when you've got it all together, and understand it and the customer's needs, then you're close to starting the writin' job.

'Based on who wants to know, you might need to spell out what the parts are made from, their dimensions, the diameter of the spring loop, and the wire's bending limits. You might need to describe the integrated clip head and the pin shaft and how they were attached.'

He stared at me, and his eyes widened in wonder at the boundless vistas I had just opened. He was far beyond safety pins.

'If you're interested in technical writing,' I continued, 'keep in mind that collecting data and understanding it precedes the mechanics of writing.' I paused. 'And when you do write, whatever you're writing about-a safety pin or a s.p.a.ce rocket, do it with such precision that what you come up with can form the image you want in the mind of someone who has been both blind since birth and incapable of feeling anything with his or her hands. That's the test.'

The look of discovery was replaced by skepticism. 'Aw, c'mon, man, that can't be the real world for technical writers,' he said. 'People who use tools learn by doing, or they follow a book. They see what they're working' on and feel things with their hands.'

'Let's think about that,' I said. 'Millions of people who see poorly, or not at all, or who have other sensory problems, use precision tools all the time. Many of them use tech data recorded on audio systems or in Braille. The entire field of communications to bypa.s.s sensory limitations is just beginning to open up; it'll be part of your world. Data in dozens of arrangements, for design, training aids, or operating instructions are needed by folks who, very often, haven't used the equipment before or who, for some other reason, need specs right there, alongside, all the time. In this world of thousands of languages and dialects, and physical and mental limitations beyond counting, even basic tools, like a safety pin, need to be understood all along the line from designer to user. Understanding means communications; think about it.'

We shared silence for a while.

'Hey, man, I like that,' he said softly.

We glanced at the sky. The clouds were breaking up. As we abandoned our shelter under the dome, he shook his head. 'All this from a safety pin,' he said. The look of wonder was back.

'A diaper pin?'

Raising my arm, I pumped my fist at the sky. 'Today, the diaper pin, tomorrow the world.'

We laughed. At the entrance to the library we shook hands and went our ways. I never saw him again, but I sometimes wonder what he chose for his life's work.

Memoirs: Hot War-Cold War: Back of the Line Logistics The 1988 Edition of the Encyclopedia Americana defines 'logistics' as: " the movement and maintenance of military forces. Along with tactics, strategy, and intelligence, logistics is one of the four main elements of military science. Logistics encompa.s.ses all of the planning and operational functions a.s.sociated with military supply, movement, and services. These include the design, procurement, and maintenance of materiel; the movement, evacuation, and hospitalization of military personnel; the transportation and storage of military supplies and equipment; and the design and construction, maintenance, and operation of military facilities and installations."

A copy of these memoirs has been furnished to the Air Force Historical Research Agency, Maxwell Air Force Base, Alabama, and to the Office of History, Air Force Materiel Command, Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio.

Parachute Rigger, World War Two, Hawaiian Air Depot, Hickam Field, Hawaii 1941-1948 Introduction.

In early 1995, the students at a middle school in a Northeastern city studied United States involvement in WW2. They initiated an e-mail project to invite memoirs from older Americans who had experienced that era in the Armed Forces and on the home front. The students wanted to learn about WW2 directly from the people who had served in the nation's wartime military and Merchant Marine, and from civilians who had produced, serviced and transported weapons, equipment, foodstuffs and other things for the war effort from where they were made to where they were used. They wanted to hear from those who had cared for the wounded and had helped in other ways.

Many older adults in the Internet community who read the students' invitation contributed their recollections of the war years. Their stories, in turn, brought questions from the students to which the elders responded. The Q&As, at times, became lively exchanges of ideas. At the conclusion, the students' teacher reported to the electronic community that the project was a success: the students learned history from those who had lived it. The storytellers, many long retired, fascinated their audiences with facts and personal reminiscences which might not otherwise have surfaced. Together with the students, the elders had constructed a bridge from the 1940s to the 1990s and, in doing so, had contributed to the historical records of an important era in American history. Further, the process had strengthened lines and clarity of communications and understanding across generations.

Memoir.

I wrote about my WW2 work as a parachute rigger. To set the stage, I described the parachute's purpose, e.g., to lower a weight, be it a human being or an object (cargo) at a safe rate of descent from alt.i.tude to the ground. In time of war, the controlled descent might be that of an aircrew member who had to abandon an aircraft because it could no longer remain safely airborne.

In another context, during WW2, more than one hundred thousand airborne troops parachuted from transport aircraft with their weapons and gear as part of military operations. At least equal in numbers, cargo parachutes lowered food, equipment, ammunition and other essential supplies to the fighting forces and to isolated civilian communities. Parachutes also have a wide range of uses in peacetime, as examples, sports parachuting, 'fire jumpers' fighting forest fires, and rescue operations in terrain or other circ.u.mstances that preclude less hazardous access.

Parachutes must work the first time; there are no second chances. *** In September 1941, I was a civilian parachute rigger for the Air Service Command at Patterson Field, near Dayton, Ohio. My job was to repair and pack-for-service personnel and cargo parachutes for United States Army Air Corps aircrews, Army parachute troops in training, and for U.S. and friendly foreign nations' special operations in which the U. S. was involved around the world.

The months from September through November of 1941 were busy times for our shop. An intense conflict raged across Europe and on many fronts in Asia and Africa. The United States Armed Forces accelerated their training programs, and Americans were also active in the war zones of other nations. The parachute shop, as in most other industrial shops at Patterson Field and many other air bases throughout the United States, worked a round-the-clock seven-day week.

Damaged man-carrying and cargo parachutes were brought to our shop in large quant.i.ties from United States training bases and overseas theaters of operations. Often, the parachute harnesses, which are designed to wrap around the jumpers to lower them safely, were shredded, canopies and shroud lines torn or severely abraded, and canopy containers (packs) and emergency survival accessories scorched or missing. I was part of a crew that repaired and packed all types of parachutes, and drop-tested a representative selection that had received major repair and packed for operational use.

The drop test consisted of attaching a service-packed parachute to a 120- pound weight or canvas-covered dummy, and loading the weights or dummies into a C-47 (Dakota) airplane. A 30-foot lanyard, with snap- hooks at both ends connected the parachute's ripcord grip to the airplane inside the door. The door was lashed open before takeoff. Each of the two men on the test crew wore a parachute and was also secured to the airplane frame by heavy belts as a precaution against falling out.

The pilot took off and circled the field at an alt.i.tude under one thousand feet. Approaching the drop zone, the co-pilot flashed a warning light above the door where the parachute handlers were stationed. At the next signal, the handlers, one on each side, heaved the dummy out. The lanyard, reaching full extension, pulled free the rip cord's pack closing pins, the pack flaps were instantly drawn back by strong bungee cords, and a small spring-loaded pilot chute ejected, opened, and caught the air stream, drawing the main canopy out to the full length of its shroud lines. The canopy skirt caught air, opened, inflated the canopy fully, and the parachute and its 'weight' descended. The ground crew tracked the parachute visually to estimate where it would land.

Ground crew work was not dull. I remember how we spread out along an aircraft's line of flight as it neared the drop zone, observed the chute ejection and canopy opening, and the dummy swinging in an arc underneath. There were times during low alt.i.tude drops when ground crew had to move fast to get out of the way. As soon as we thought that we knew where the parachute would land, we'd run toward it and, as soon as we got to where the parachute landed, jump on and pin down the dummy, haul in one (preferably two) of the webbing straps (risers), spill air from the canopy, and get it all together with the least possible damage to the parachute-and ourselves.

There were times, even on a relatively calm day, when a gust would pa.s.s across the field and re-inflate the canopy before we got to it. A partially inflated canopy in a gentle breeze can drag a 120-pound dummy along the ground faster than ground handlers can run. Also, a canopy (made of natural silk in those days) that drags the ground usually collects snags.

I'll always remember chasing a descending parachute that touched down in a sudden gust that dragged, rolled, twisted, and bounced the dummy along a gra.s.sy field we were using for the drop zone. I was closest and gave chase. Finally, with a lunge, I landed on the dummy, wrapped both legs around it, and grasped and hauled back one of the risers. I managed to spill enough air to deflate the canopy. Controlling a dummy that is being tossed around by a sudden gust is akin to riding a lively pony.

Back at the shop after the tests, we inspected every part of a repaired parachute closely to see how well it had withstood the test. Some years previously, apprentice parachute riggers were not certified until they had jump-tested a parachute that they, themselves, had inspected, repaired and packed. The requirement for certification of riggers by 'jumping their chutes' was suspended in 1941 because of enormously increased shop workloads shortly before the U.S. formally joined its allies in the war. *** On Sunday, December 7, 1941, I was working the night shift in the Parachute Shop. The j.a.panese attack on Pearl Harbor had occurred that morning and was being reported on the radio in continuous news flashes. About an hour after my work shift began, the shop supervisor instructed all parachute riggers to go immediately to the aircraft maintenance main hangar nearby. Several hundred men from aircraft repair, sheet metal, and instrument repair shops, and other shops on the base were already there when I arrived. They were milling about; I joined the crowd and wondered why we had been a.s.sembled.

A military officer climbed to the work platform at the top of an aircraft maintenance stand. Drawing everyone's attention, he announced that the Army Air Corps needed skilled technicians and supervisors immediately at Hickam Field in Hawaii. Whoever wanted to go, he said, should raise his arm and his name and badge number would be entered on a list.

I happened to be single, footloose and fancy-free at the time, and my arm got caught in the updraft. We were directed to stand by, and the others instructed to return to their shops. Those of us who stayed formed a line, our ident.i.ties were verified against our badge numbers and photographs, and our job t.i.tles entered on a list. Each was given an instruction sheet and ordered to comply.

The next morning, following instructions, I reported to the dispensary for vaccinations and immunization shots and on to the Personnel Office to sign papers that came at me from all directions. I was informed that I had one week to get my affairs in order; after that I would be on standby for departure.

A week later, along with several hundred other volunteer workers, I boarded a train on a siding adjacent a base supply warehouse. The train, with all windows covered by blackout curtains, departed Patterson Field, Ohio in the dead of night, and arrived three days later at Moffett Field near Mountain View, California. Disembarked, we lined up for bedrolls, and were pointed toward rows of tents in a muddy field adjacent a dirigible hangar. An instruction sheet, tacked to the tent's center pole, told us where the mess halls were located, and the meals' schedule by tent number.

Additional trains arrived in the days that followed. Hundreds of civilian workers joined us in the tents waiting for the next leg of our journey. We soon became acquainted; we were from all across the country: New York and Pennsylvania, Ohio and Georgia, Alabama and Texas, Utah and California. The Army Air Corps bases where we signed up were Griffis and Olmstead, Patterson and Robbins, Brookley and Kelly and Hill and McClellan. We were part of a vanguard moving out with little or no advance notice. Except for a carry-on bag with a change of clothing and a few personal items, our luggage had gone directly into the ship's hold.

Days pa.s.sed. The 'alert' came one night about 2 AM, shouted along the tent lines, 'This is it, you guys. Movin' out. One hour.'

In a torrential downpour, we slogged through ankle-deep mud and climbed into the backs of canvas covered trucks. Flaps down, escorted by an armed military escort in Jeeps, all the trucks were blacked out except for dim lights gleaming through slits in the headlights. We formed up as a miles-long convoy rolling north along US101 from Moffett Field, and arrived shortly before dawn at Fort Mason, adjacent Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco. The trucks filled the wharf in double and triple lines from end to end. A gangway led up to the deck of a ship alongside. We learned later that the vessel was the U.S. Grant, a World War I troop transport.

Herded below deck, we jammed into compartments where the narrow bunks were five high along aisles barely wide enough for pa.s.sing. A 'Now, here this....' over the loudspeaker restricted all pa.s.sengers to their compartments, and to pa.s.sageways only when necessary until we were out of the harbor. We were to have our life preservers with us at all times.

Hours later, the ship's vibration, a rolling about sensation in my center of gravity, and creaking along the bulkheads, told me we were under way. Scuttleb.u.t.t was that we were in a convoy escorted by destroyers. Enemy submarines were suspected off the coast. Rumors abounded.

We took turns going on deck by compartment number. The convoy of ten ships zigzagged frequently to minimize the success of an enemy air or submarine attack. Finally, on the fifth or so day out from San Francisco, land appeared on the horizon and, shortly afterward, we saw Diamond Head. Our ship left the convoy and entered Honolulu harbor.

We disembarked under heavy military guard at the Aloha Tower pier and boarded the Toonerville Trolley, as we got to know the train on Oahu's narrow gauge railway. An hour later, we were at Hickam.

The devastation was appalling. Burned-out hulks of bombed aircraft were scattered about on parking ap.r.o.ns and in hangars, and piles of debris lay along roadways. The roofs of military barracks hung down along the outside of the structures; they had exploded up and outward over the walls.