"The liars punishment is, not in the least that he cannot
be believed, but that he cannot believe anyone else"
- George Bernard Shaw
Dedicated to a few of those guys we know - lets include all the "one uppers" in there too
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A few past Sundays ago was spent most of the day helpin' two old buddies saw cut a pretty large, uprooted, deadfall oak tree into firewood. Was a bit of a chore. The old oak was at the least 3ft diameter at the caliper; maybe 60ft length. Sectioning the tree by chainsaw was the easy task. Hauling the 14 inch length, quite heavy, cordwood up a bit steep slope over considerable distance turned out to be the big job.
Had worked with "Chuck", on whose property the tree toppled, long ago and for quite a few years, both of us employed by US Steel. Subsequently, did a bit of reminiscing throughout the course of the day. Both our recollections drew a blank, name wise, when it came to recall of one fellow worker in particular. It was one of those instances, too, where the guy's name was right at the tip of the tongue. Try as you might, ya' just can't remember. As well, one of those instances which won't quit nagging' at ya'.
Got home later that afternoon. Thoughts of the name still lingering at the back of the mind. Turned on the television to check out the weather forecast. The set happened to be tuned to an episode re-broadcat of the old 60's series, 'My Three Sons'. Let it play as the local news and weather was still about a half hour off. Went out to the adjacent kitchen to check the fridge for dinner possibilities.
Half listening to the show, overhear one of the "sons" making a telephone call. The dial-up connects...
"Could I speak with Leonard Jones, please"...
What the... that's the name we'd been tryin' to recollect all day... what the f*k is the likelihood of that happenin'... ??!!
Couldn't rewind, but luckily could "On Demand" and fast forward... and damned if that ain't who he asked for!
Haha - probably should have run right down and bought the days lottery ticket.
Better yet - possibly an act of spiritual awakening of higher order. The Great Spirit manifests in mysterious ways. Was Sunday, too. We'll stick with this latter surmise - ain't gettin' any younger.
Jotted down the facts for those who may scoff:
04/13, Pluto TV, ~ 5pm broadcast; 'My Three Sons', Season 3, Episode 8, ~ 23:50 in
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Our US Steel tenure included around seven years working at railroad maintenance and construction. Probably ninety-five percent all hand labor at the time. Hefting and laying track rail, steel plates and cross ties; drivin' rail spikes; snuggin' bolts for splice bars; spreading and tamping gravel ballast. Always outside. Somewhat remote locations. Loved it. Considered it more of a daily physical workout other than a job. Then afterward would hit the gym every evening for at least two hours "pumping iron". Was in pretty good physical condition to say the least.
Driving railroad spikes with a spike maul (aka, spiking hammer) is at first considerably more difficult than it appears. Not only accurately hitting the head of the spike, contact between spike head and hammer has to be square and flat. New guys were always in for at least a month of total harassment by the "gang" before achieving any level of proficiency. Everyone went thru it. Like any other skill, though, ya' continue to persist onward until one day, miraculously and as if overnight, ya' got it. Like ya' been doin' it all your life. Every guy in both gangs (There was an A and a B gang) were eventually master steel driving men. A few would rival 'John Henry' himself. From pulling track gauge to within a fraction of an inch to driving a spike one handed in three to five blows.
Our own hammer proficiency served us extremely well one evening while cruising a local downtown summer street carnival. One of the attractions was the popular "game of skill" wherein' you're handed a heavy wooden mallet with instruction to strike a ground level wooden pad (lever) which in turn drives a steel projectile up a tracked tower, maybe twenty foot maximum height, to strike and ring a large circular "fire bell" to win the game. The tower was incrementally marked off at various heights with expressions such as "wimp", at the lowest level, then progressing thru "weakling", "he-man" and such, on up to "superman" at the bell. Not just a prize-driven objective, the game in-turn "confirmed" your strength as it stood in the world of "real men" depending upon the height you drove the projectile.
The huckster operating the concession was quite the showman as well. Direct from central casting. Big, heavy muscle man. Bald with broad handlebar moustache. "Ol' Huck" would coerce and cajole passers-by to take the hammer. He'd really lay it on a guy if accompanied by a hot babe. Occasionally he'd grab the mallet himself and damn near drive the bell right off the top of the pole. He also had a 8lb, 36" sledge hammer that he would hold at arms length, then slowly lower to touch the tip of his nose, then reverse the action. The next day we told a buddy, who was no slouch for a display of strength himself, about this guy. He went down that night and almost brained himself attempting the sledge hammer feat. Couldn't clang the bell, either. Close, but not quite Superman.
Anyway, the "High Striker" was three swings for a buck, as recalled. Hitting the bell all three times would give ya' a choice of some pretty decent prizes. Anything less and ya'd get a cheap blow it-and-roll out noisemaker or plastic horn or such for your effort. All the attempts we'd witnessed were pretty feeble. Guys were barely driving the projectile 3/4 of the way up the tower at best. I'd noticed that each guy was striking the pad at a bad angle - at least forty-five degrees. Stiff legged. And with a wide, wood chopper grip. I was also keepin' a close eye on Huck for any sort of connivance on his part, but couldn't pin him down to anything.
I pay the dollar. Huck is tossing his jibes while alternately all over the gal I'm with. I figured to contact the pad dead-on and square - matched grip, roll the wrists - drop the knees to follow the arc of the swing - just like driving a railroad spike. The motion was by now second nature, anyway. Didn't even have to focus on it. Observed that Huck approached it the same way. Over the head and direct.
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The secret of the Striker illustrated
Proper technique and ya' don't even have to swing hard - just let the hammer do the work. Physics. Like hitting' a golf ball. You can drive railroad spikes all day and not even get tired. Bad form on the Striker and at best you're shown a weakling
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An image from a 1935 issue of Popular Mechanics magazine.
It was a pretty steamy summer night and our gal was dressed in turn for a hot evening. She had Huck's full attention, to say the least. Should he have any trick's up his sleeve, told her to remain standing behind me where Huck would have to move away from the Striker, and distanced from any trickery, to continue planting his paws all over her. He took the bait. If she'd have had a hook in her he'd have been floppin' around like a big ol' snared carp.
Three bucks, three tries. Nine swings, nine clangs of the bell.
Huck was a bit reluctant to let hold of the take. Let the gal pick out the three grand prizes for herself. She was pretty gracious none-the-less. Got our prize later back at her place.
It's good to be Superman.
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Prior to acquiring sufficient time and seniority to bid into the steady daylight track worker position, we put in a 3-4 year stint in the plant's main coke producing facilities. Production is pretty much where all the off-the-street new hires were positioned.
Coke production involved various duties and functions involved with operation and maintenance of several "Batteries" of coke ovens. A Battery consisted of a unit of maybe sixty interconnected ovens. Each oven is individually charged with a load of coal. The coal charge is heated and baked at high temperature over a period of hours to remove all the volatile substances. The solid residue, termed "coke", is later used in steel making. The coke additive reduces the need for iron to the process.
If not for the weekly alternating three-shift schedule, we would have probably stuck with that routine. Nothin' worse than having to exit a summer evening good time to go to work at 11pm, though. The pay was a bit better in the production work. However, evening fun was guaranteed clockin' out a 3pm M-F.
Would occasionally catch a shift operating the unit 'Quencher Car', aka, "Hot Car". The Hot Car was an electric, operator driven gondola rail car used to transport the just-baked and burning oven charge of coke from the oven to the unit 'Quencher Tower'. The gondola would enter the open base of the tower and park. The operator would then engage a switch to in-turn engage the tower operation which would release several thousand gallons of water for a timed period to quench the hot coke of fire and flame (and produce a huge plume of hot steam - the "cloud making machine" as termed by pedestrian passers-by outside the mill). The Cab Car electrical contacts sat on a temporarily de-energized dead rail which killed all power to the cab until the quenching process was complete, ensuring that the load of coke was sufficiently doused. Once the quenching process was complete and power returned, the operator would motor along to an opposite side of the track storage "wharf" and dump the load on his way to the next oven to repeat the process. The dumped load would eventually be transported by conveyor belt from the wharf to various elevated hoppers for loading into dump trucks and rail cars.
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Hot Car in action - catching a typical oven
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Looks like an occasional, under processed "green oven".
Either way, a pretty spectacular spectacle after dark
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Good shot of the gondola and cab preparing to side dump at the wharf. Notice the gates in the lower right corner of the image. The wharf operator would subsequently open a select number of gates to allow gravity to slide the coke down the wharf revetment onto the conveyor belt.
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Very cool evening shot of three Quencher Towers in simultaneous operation at PAs Clairton Coke Works.
Image credit: Thomas Delegram© Facebook
The full-time operator who broke us in on operating the Hot Car included a few tricks and cheats. The switch which energized the quencher tower and in-turn temporarily killed the power to the cab was engaged by prodding a rubber pad, which hung on a safey rail at the tower entrance, with a long wooden pole extended thru a small hole opening from the operator cab. One trick was to drive a few feet beyond the switch when arriving at the tower. Toss the cab into reverse. Quickly prod the switch in the return pass. Remain traveling in reverse momentum before braking maybe five feet beyond. This would park the cab with one electric contact beyond the dead rail and on a "hot" lead. The cab would remain energized. This trick allowed the operator to by-pass the quenching timer and de-energizing function.
Individual crews serviced a (typical) unit of three Batteries. Other than guys bidding in and out, new hires and such, each crew remained the same. Job functions included machinery operators, skilled labor and utility support. A good analogy would be a military platoon composed of three squads. In this case one squad each manning the Battery unit top side (filling the ovens), "Pusher" side (pushing the charge from the front of the individual oven) and coke side (opposite, discharge side of the oven). This analogy is also a good fit for the time as well. The whole plant workforce was composed mostly of WWII, Korean War and recently returned Vietnam War vets.
As we recall, an eight hour production shift consisted of "pushing" a mandatory schedule of around eighty ovens. Beyond eighty was rewarded by a decent incentive bonus come payday. Less than that was frowned upon by upper management with some explaining to do by the shift supervisors. Considerably less than that had those same supervisors chugging' pints of Pepsi-Bismol.
Production schedule was pretty much forgone during daylight shits. The mill was somewhat heavily regulated by intermediary labor, safety and environmental factions with many "observers" lurking about. Strict adherence to rules, regulations and best practices was paramount. Was a time for most maintenance and repair. Evening and night shift those folks, for the most part, were absent. Then it was business as usual.
Became pretty proficient on the Hot Car and was soon the regular scheduled backup operator when the regular "hot car man" took the day off. Usually a midnight shift as he was an occasional high timer. Also if he would temporarily fill a higher rated machine position when those fellows took the day off. The hot car was the key to moving the whole operation, our opinion. Used to rock that thing. Would time tooting the signal whistle to have them begin pushing an oven while well down track and en route. Upon arriving at the oven coke would just be falling. Hot, flaming orange coke would be bouncing off the cab. Black smoke, cinders, sparks. Hit the bake hard, toss it in forward. Just barely catch the flaming and smoking charge. Still, always managed to fill the gondola "even keel". Speed on down to the quencher. Do it again.
One midnight shift saw us runnin' the wheels off that thing. Was around three in the morning and we were maybe three-quarter ahead of schedule. Someone mentioned that we may be breaking a shift record for production. No idea what that was or if even true. Decided to crank it up a notch. Always used that cheater quencher switch trick to short the quench time and speed up the process. The boss knew it but was never once reprimanded. Was makin' his life easier and his performance lookin' good ta' boot.
Decided to short the quench time even shorter. Got to the point the car was out runnin' the production crews. Was now settin' at the ovens waiting on them. Finally got to the point that the wharf couldn't keep up. After about the tenth oven was now setting at the wharf waiting for some movement. They appeared at a standstill and had yet to discharge an opening for another coke dump.
Setting and waiting; someone is calling:
"Hey Hot Car man!"
"Hey Hot Car man!!"
Open the door and step out on to the cab deck. Immediately am doused by a jetting fire hose spray of smelly sump water. Almost got knocked right off the platform. The wharf foreman at the nozzle:
"You son-of-a-bi*ch... You'r burnin' up my f*'k'n wharf!!!"
And he ain't lettin' up on that fire hose.
The boss shows up seconds later and launches into a total ass chewin' Pretty sure he got a few irate radio calls before proceeding on down. Screamin' and hollerin' - thought he was going to have a heart attack.
End of shift and while grabbing my time card he hands over a fistful of write-up slips.
Stuck 'em in the shower room locker with the rest of the collection.
There's a moral in there somewhere.
