FACTORY TOUR

When kids leave home for the first time and live on their own they are expected to derail a time or two. Life without parental supervision; college parties, getting drunk and disorderly, and generally making fools of themselves are part and parcel to growing up. Then there's the moment when life's realities start to sink in. Job, marriage, kids (not necessarily in that order) and generally joining in with the mainstream of society, raising a family and becoming a decent citizen are all necessary to keep the world moving ahead. But there are times when that youthful recklessness comes back for a visit, even several years down the road.

Manufacturing--mass-production--is always interesting. Seeing that metal being heated into a molten state then poured into molds to become a transmission case or an engine block, then watching as those castings are machined and assembled into complete units, tested and sent to other parts of the factory; watching sheets of steel being cut out, pressed, and formed to become frame rails, fenders and hoods, then to watch all those pieces being assembled on a moving line where the sum of the parts becomes a car or truck, or a tractor or combine. Companies, like General Motors, Ford, Chrysler, John Deere and Caterpillar all manufacture products that are used by the masses to commute, transport, dig, plow and build (although some products are not used for what they were originally intended--more of that in another story). And it naturally raises one's curiosity to see how those products are actually made.

Almost all manufacturers offer guided tours through their various plants. Guided is absolutely necessary to ensure safety of the visitors as well as that of the workers. Through the various dealerships many mass tours are organized where the visitors are flown (and bussed) to several plants to see all kinds of work in process. John Deere, to name one company, is especially capable of handling those masses and seeing that all have a good time. They organize what is called The Deereland Fly-in, usually twice a year, and the select customers are brought in for two to three days of education, good food and a chance to rub shoulders with others from other parts of the continent (and even overseas).

Service personnel in dealerships are required to attend annual updates and service schools that specialize in the products they service. In the early days of JC's tenure as a service technician those schools/workshops were held right at the factories. During some of those trips factory tours were given so JC was quite familiar with the goings on there. After a couple of update sessions he was content to socialize with the other technicians then simply head for home when the course was over.

Well, it was in late February and JC had completed a four and a half day update course at the John Deere Tractor Works in Waterloo, Iowa. The course let out at noon on Friday and JC was back at his room packing his things and getting ready to head for home. An extensive two day drive and he would be home, possibly have part of Sunday to recuperate and be ready for the carnage that awaited him on Monday morning. To his surprise, the phone rang.

It was GA, JC's boss, and sometimes (read, often) adversary. 'JC, how was your course?' That was more of a statement to break the ice because GA never cared much about the courses that his service department attended except that they cost way too much and were a waste of valuable shop time. And that they were another ploy of the manufacturers to hold a gun to his head in order to be allowed to continue selling their product lines.

JC responded in true character: 'Just fine." Translation: 'Things were just great until you phoned.'

'JC, I've got a big problem: The Deereland Fly-in begins on Monday and I've got some things I've got to attend to here at home. I've got six customers coming down on the charter plane on Sunday for that tour and I was hoping that you could represent our dealership and go on the tour with them. Just meet them at the airport and take my place.'

'No problem; I'd be glad to do it.' JC hung up then proceeded to unpack and prepare to spend a rather boring couple of days cooped up in Howard Johnson's, reading and watching TV. It could've been worse; having to stay behind to watch a ballet or something cultural (therefore the last thing even remotely interesting) like that.

Sunday morning, JC checked out of his room then moved over to the Sheritan where Deere and Company housed all their tourists. He drove out to the airport, parked his truck and waited for the plane. It was about then he began to wonder what was in store for him.

Through the years it was commonplace for some of the factory tourists to go haywire. First time away from home and the wife and kids, and it was almost like being in college again. Party it up, have a good time then sober up and come home. There was in incident in Manheim, Germany, where everyone down one corridor was awakened at three in the morning by a woman shrieking and pounding on the door to one of the rooms.

'You bastard! You owe me a hundred Marks!' It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what kind of business the woman was in. And at breakfast the next morning the 'customer' showed up with a black eye. The excuse: walked into a door.

Okay...

Well the charter 737 jet landed and taxied over to the terminal. The weary travelers shuffled in and JC looked for his charges. Before he recognized any of them he did notice a couple of men in their early forties, quite well-dressed and each holding tightly onto a briefcase. Their red faces and somewhat disheveled appearances made it quite clear that they had consumed a rather large amount of alcohol both before boarding that plane and during the flight.

JC was glad they weren't from his dealership. Actually all of his group came out at once and none of them was the worst for wear. It could be that none of them drank either.

They all boarded the buses and drove straight down to the Sheritan where they were treated to an excellent dinner--courtesy, Deere and Company--in one of the large dining rooms and then off to their individual accomodations to spend the evening unwinding and getting ready for the first tour early the next morning.

JC's curiosity was aroused with the two partiers he had seen at the airport. He wondered if they would be in any kind of shape to actually go on the tour. Strangely he didn't see them at breakfast and they weren't on his tour group, but since there were over three hundred people at this event, they could easily be with another group.

They toured the John Deere foundry, then the Waterloo Tractor Works, then across the Interstate to Cedar Rapids where they toured the Engine Works. Then they boarded their buses and drove across the state to Moline Illinois, where they were fed and put up in the Sheritan Rock Island.

After supper, JC contacted a couple of friends he had met on one of his motorcycle trips and made arrangements to meet them at a tavern a short distance away. They shared a few stories, played a few games of pool then parted company. JC entered the hotel lobby and pressed the button for the elevator. When the doors opened JC was quite surprised at what he saw.

One of the mystery men he had seen get off the plane in Waterloo two days ago, was lying, spread-eagle on the floor of the elevator, head propped up against the wall, passed out cold. He was still clad in the same suit, only with the jacket open, shirt open, tie undone, and still holding tightly to the handle of his briefcase. JC had no idea how long the man had been there but it looked like he'd been going up and down with the elevator for some time.

Once securely in his room, JC phoned hotel security and advised them to check the elevator.

The next day, Tuesday, they toured the Combine Works, then the Plow-Planter Works, then at day's end they were bussed out to the Deere and Company World Headquarters where they toured that facility and sat down to an elaborate supper in the massive dining hall there.

By ten everyone was back at the hotel to unwind and prepare for the trip home.

The fortunate thing about the organized tours is that the host (in this case, Deere and Company) is very careful to keep track of everyone. Every morning there is a head-count and if someone isn't present, a search is conducted and the missing person found.

Well, they were missing someone. JC saw the one guy (same suit) from the elevator but he didn't see his buddy. Everyone was kicked off the bus and reissued their room keys. Back in their rooms a new head-count was taken. They were almost ready to summon the authorities when someone called out from down the hall: 'I think he's here!'

There must have been quite a party going on in that particular room as both beds were a shambles. The missing man was found, buck-naked, sleeping on the floor next to one of the beds.

And it wasn't his room!

It's needless to say that the trip back to Waterloo was rather quiet as the busload of tourists/partiers had other things on their minds aside from the breaktaking sights they had the privilege of seeing in those factories. Back in the airport terminal, JC said good-bye to his charges and watched as the weary travelers headed through security. Near the end of the line were those two, still wearing the same suits, still clutching their briefcases, shuffling through the gate.

To this day JC can't help but wonder what those guys actually saw.

FIRST LOVE

Everyone's heard the old adage: When spring is in the air, a young man's heart turns to love, or something to that effect. It shows how inept this writer is when it comes to mushy things. All too many times the only things that get my heart racing are objects with wheels and at least one engine. Maybe that's why it took so many years for the likes of me to find that special person to want to spend eternity with. I might add that she likes cars too.

Anyways, it was in the spring of 1967 (May to be exact) and the region was still digging itself out of a disasterous spring blizzard that had dropped over six feet of snow on us and everyone else. Everywhere between Great Falls and Lethbridge had been severely crippled to totally shut down from the deluge and Milk River was no exception. People had been marooned in every community that had a hotel or motel and the situation in those places also got rather dicey, especially when the local taverns started to run low on booze. But the sun was finally shining and the snow was disappearing fast. Needless to say, JC, hopeless gearhead that he was, was out patrolling the alleys in town, looking to see if anything new (and unique) had showed up since the last time he'd scoured the area.

Back then the alleys could often be a treasure trove of neat and interesting stuff, as long as you were interested in rusting hulks of what once were the family car, pickup truck or even a tractor. All the dealers had some interesting stuff jammed off to the side of the dealership and just off the alley. Quinn's barn, at least the yard in front of the barn, was one of the most popular places as it always seemed to have the most rapid rotation of used cars, trucks and tractors, courtesy, Quinn Motors, in its inventory; one could spend hours there alone. I might add that it was also the choice place for boys (and some adventurous girls) to gather in the alley behind the barn and have a smoke. I know that because Ms. Dorothy, our second grade, seventh grade health class, and ninth grade home-economics teacher lived just to the east of the barn and she caught us on numerous occasions.

JC didn't venture out to the barn today because his find would be located elsewhere.

JC was exploring the alley behind the Motor and Implement Company, so called because at one time, possibly between the sinking of the Titanic and the outbreak of the Second World War, the dealership sold GMC trucks, Buick and Pontiac cars, and various brands of farm equipment. Sometime in the fifties the farm equipment franchise was dropped and the dealership became the place to buy all GM products, not to mention whatever used stuff showed up. It was there that the starry-eyed eighth-grader spotted that gem, a 1947 Ford pickup in typical dark green, with cream trim and patina livery. That truck had recently been traded in and was parked there, barely off the alley, just waiting for the right person to come alone and sweep it off its--wheels (or vice versa). It was love at first sight. Maybe it wasn't a '38 or a '40 Ford but it still kept with the prewar styling that JC loved so much.

He went inside and asked Dean (the dealership owner) how much he wanted for it. '$150.00,' was the reply. JC was somewhat disappointed because the asking price was well over his net worth. In addition to the work he did on the ranch during the summer, he'd still have to set a lot of pins at the local bowling alley to raise that kind of money. But undaunted, he asked Dean if he could take it for a test drive.

I guess that Dean wasn't all that concerned that JC was still a couple of years shy of legal driving age (at that time the local law enforcement didn't seem to be all that concerned either) because he let him take it out for a short spin. He even gave him a battery and a set of jumper cables to help get the animal started. Seated proudly behind the wheel, JC proceeded to drive the truck down the alley.

It didn't take long to find out that the brakes needed some work. The first push on the pedal and it went down to the floor. JC didn't panic as there was a truck at the ranch that did the same thing and all that needed to be done was to pump the pedal. He just managed to get the truck stopped before he emerged from the alley onto Center Avenue. A quick spin around town and JC was back at the dealership.

'How about $75.00?' JC asked with as much authority as an almost 14 year old could muster. Dean, looked thoughtful. He might have originally thought that JC would've just parked the truck and run off but this boy was genuinely interested. 'How about $100.00?' Dean countered. Well, they haggled for a few minutes and JC finally drove his new sweetheart home after finalizing the deal for the lofty sum of $90.00, about ninety percent of JC's entire net worth.

Like all teenagers, JC's first thoughts were to customize the truck and build a hot-rod out of it. He talked to his friends about what he was going to do with it and he looked at all the car magazines for ideas. Then one day, that all changed. A local farmer stopped by the house to buy some vet supplies (JC's father was a veterinarian as well as a rancher and always kept a good stock of livestock medicines). The man saw the old truck parked at the curb and told JC that he had bought that truck new almost exactly twenty years before. After sharing a few anecdotes, he asked JC what he planned to do with it.

Hot-rodding it was suddenly out the door as JC's mind was immediately made up to restore the truck back to its original glory, right down to that ugly dark green paint and calf-scour yellow grill and trim. He told him so.

'Let me know how you do with it,' Ed, the original owner (and the name that JC later applied to the truck) said encouragingly. 'Good luck. I'd like a ride when you get it done,'

JC got right to work. First things first, he fixed the brakes, finding out that the left rear drum was so worn out that the stress ribs on the outside had separated from the rest of the drum, just dangling and clanging, necessitating its replacement. The right rear side was also useless as a torn piston seal and the resultant leak had been fixed by removing the line, inserting a nail head-first into the cylinder and reinstalling the line to plug the passage of the fluid. JC fixed it properly. He did the front as well and finally he got it to stop without having to pump the pedal. A tune-up and Ed was ready to take on the world.

Of course the truck became more than a plaything. When JC's dad saw what was being done, the truck got adopted into the fleet of ranch vehicles. By summer the truck had been assigned to the hay fields. Unfortunately the ranch foreman was less enthusiastic about it as Ed's battery wasn't in the best condition. If it didn't start within the first couple of turns, one had to either resort to the old push and bump method of starting or else hook up that set of jumper cables. Well, JC managed to stall it in the front of the fuel tanks and it wasn't about to start on its own. The foreman drove the larger 1-ton truck around front and proceeded to push-start Ed in reverse.

Too bad the 1-ton truck's bumper was too high and, right at the last second, jumped over top of Ed's bumper and pushed into the (until now) pristine grill, bending it. Ed started but JC was ready to knock the foreman's head off. I might add that JC hasn't quite forgiven the foreman for that poorly thought out act of push-starting the truck backwards.

By the end of the Ninth Grade, JC had owned his truck for a year. During that time he'd gotten to know Ed so well that he knew what was about to break before it did so he knew what to carry with him. A fuel pump was mandatory, as was a set of points and condenser. One time the starter button just came apart so until JC could afford a new unit, he just let the wires dangle and stuck them together whenever he needed and it started just fine. The truck suffered from the Ford characteristic of jumping out of 2nd gear, but it stayed in high so that was OK for the time being. On a hot summer day Ed didn't like to be left idling unless it was at a high speed or it would tend to overheat.

Well, it's going on to forty-seven years since that first day and the truck is still one of JC's most prized treasures. It's been fixed, driven and parked, then fixed, driven and parked again. Some years ago JC decided to embark on a full restoration but that got delayed by moves, job changes and life. There were times when he was tempted to sell it and let someone else's dream come true but he never did. His first wife pressured him to sell it but he simply told her that Ed was probably the only thing besides his family that never let him down.

The truck stayed but the marriage didn't.

Through the years, other vehicles have been added to the collection: Chas, the '49 Chevrolet; June, the '42 Ford; Albert, the '54 Meteor; Hawg, the Harley Davidson; Randy, the '38 International; Dale, the '36 John Deere tractor; and Brownie, the '79 GMC. But there's always the first vehicle, and Ed was the first.

Now that life has started to slow down, JC is now able to devote some more time to Ed's restoration. Unfortunately the original owner passed away a couple of years ago so JC won't be able to give him that ride he wanted. But JC is certain that Ed stops in from time to time to have a look over his shoulder, and make sure that JC is doing it right.

JC has often said that Ed will be the one that takes him for his final ride. Of course JC plans to have a lot of fun years before that time comes.

NICKNAMES

Those of us who work in the public sector meet all kinds of people. Most, we usually conduct our business with and then all is forgotten about them until the next time we meet for business or sometimes it might even be an encounter in the shopping mall or an eating establishment in the city. Those people slide into the category of ordinary people, mainly because that's what they are. Then there is the other category, that which is comprised of those who, for some reason or another, possess a characteristic that is unforgettable, even funny to the point of hilarious. Most of us manage to find ourselves the bearers of names that are different, maybe even a little insulting. Sadly there are some that are downright cruel; the latter of which I try to avoid.

JC ran a service department for a number of years. That put him in a position to meet all kinds of people. Just like other places of public service he dealt with a number of people, most of whom would fit into the ordinary category but there were a few who were so different that they were comical.

Looney Tunes were JC's favorite cartoons. The likes of Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Yosemite Sam, and others were highly entertaining and even into his 60s, are still something that he tunes into whenever he feels like watching a Leave Your Brains at the Door program. Before JC entered public service he often wondered where the creators of Looney Tunes and other programs came up with such colorful characters. In a matter of a year, he found his answer.

Albert was a long-time customer of JC's. From the beginning, Albert found he could trust JC and his department to solve nearly any problem he brought to them. But oftentimes Albert could be hard to understand. He was by nature a nervous person and often stammered. When he was excited he was even harder to understand. And under those circumstances his voice tended to elevate in pitch. Mix his tendency to stammer, his elevated voice and his nervous nature together and you had someone who talked just like Porky Pig.

Yabbadeea-dadeea-dadeea-da-that's all folks is almost what JC expected to hear when Albert finished explaining his problem. And that's when talking normally. Albert would often phone and try to explain what his engine was doing over the phone. 'Yabbadeea-dadeea-da-when I throttle up it makes a sound like: putt-putt-putt--yabbadeea-dadeea-clang-clang-yabbadeea-dadeea-clang-putt-putt.

Hmmm, that means your tractor's engine sounds like Porky Pig with a bad case of gas and hiccups in a hollow steel container. JC didn't say that but he was sure tempted to. "OK, Po--Albert, I'll have someone come out this afternoon." JC quickly hung up and then laughed himself silly.

JC's boss was more like Marvin, the Martian. Huff-puff-huff-puff--'that makes me furious!' Huff-puff-huff-puff--'you have made me very angry!' If he had a Centurian brush on top of his head and his feet looked like they were travelling at the speed of light, he might've been mistaken for Marvin.

Needless to say there were a lot of encounters with Marvin at JC's place of work.

Sherman was mostly a good friend of JC's although there were occasions when JC did some work for him. Sherman tended to be loud and sometimes spoke before he got all his thoughts sorted out. 'What--now I say what's the meaning of this unwarranted attack on my person?' That's right; Foghorn Leghorn. Sherman sounded and acted just like Foghorn. JC actually hung that title on him but Sherman wasn't all that receptive so, for the sake of a good friendship, JC retracted that handle.

Trouble was, a lot of people in that town still use it...

Now who can forget that guy with the bulbous cranium that is completely devoid of hair? His meffod of talking and his demeanor are unfo-gettable. So is his staccato Waff: 'Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah!'

Enter Lyle--Wyo. Wyo was ve-wy excitable and when he was, he sounded just wike Elmo Fudd. 'My twuck, my twuck, my f**&ng twuck's aw f**&d up. Transwation: my truck isn't running very well. Wyo even had a simiwo head with a weceding haiwine. He even had that Waff, but he wore Wubba boots instead of hunting boots. I also don't recall a hunting cap either.

One day JC and the crew were heading for their morning coffee break. The secretary happened to be stuck with expwaining Wyo's workorder to him. As JC walked past he let out a similar staccato laugh. The secretary stifled a snicker then very carefully talked to Wyo about the work that was done.

As soon as she was done, she stormed into the staff room and punched JC in the shoulder. 'You bastard! Do you realize how hard it is to keep a straight face when I'm talking to him?' She punched JC in the shoulder again and left the room.

An interesting footnote to this is that Mattie, then JC's fiance', was the manager in the bank in the town just north of Taber. It so happened that Wyo was a customer of hers as well. She could never deal with him the same way after hearing JC tell the story. Of course, after she shared the story with the rest of the staff, no one there could keep from at least letting out a snicker whenever he entered the branch.

Of course there are other people whose occupations alone generated the nicknames they got. Frosty was the local butcher who also ran his own locker facility outside of town. Slippery was one of the town's oil and bulk fuel agents. Then there are those whose nicknames took a little thinking but were obvious. Arby, so-called because of the initials: R-B. On the other hand there are titles that make little sense at all. I'm still trying to figure out where Mr. Bennett, the local liquor store operator, got the handle: Bugs. Or how my friend, Dick, got the handle: Paper Dick.

Now I know that it's impolite to make fun of another person's faults and handicaps but then, those people should be somewhat flattered that they made the list of the unforgettable instead of the ordinary. I might add that there are some out there who have branded yours truly as different, maybe even unforgettable. If that's the case, I'm all for it. The likes of Red Skelton and Bob Hope certainly made a lot of mileage off theirs.

BROTHERS IN ARMS

During quieter times when I'm sort of killing (read: wasting?) time, I like to browse through sites like Google and YouTube and see what's out there. Being a pilot myself, and having an interest in vintage aircraft, I often search out old training videos on aircraft such as the P-51 Mustang or the B-17 Flying Fortress. One day I was on YouTube searching for a video on the B-17 that I had watched before when I came across an image that had been taken from a painting. It showed a B-17 in flight with a German Bf-109 fighter flying beside it. At first glance, it didn't look all that significant but upon closer scrutiny, it was obvious that the B-17 had seen better times.

The bomber was riddled with holes from 20 mm cannon fire, flak, and smaller caliber bullets. Huge craters had been punched all along the fuselage; half the rudder was missing with the remaining part in tatters. The rear portside (left) horizontal stabilizer had been almost completely shot off; with one engine shut down, it was amazing that the airplane was still able to fly.

I clicked on the title and was presented with an ad for a book; a story that touches me deeply every time I revisit the site or pick up the book and read it.

December 20, 1943, and a bomber piloted by 24-year-old Lt. Charlie Brown had been on a run deep into Germany. They had received heavy fire and the plane was extensively damaged. The plane and crew were desperately limping home. Their tailgunner was dead and a couple of waistgunners had been hit badly. Lt. Brown was battling sluggish controls and doing his best to keep the plane aloft and get his crew out of Germany. Besides the airplane being so heavily damaged, there was still the German shore defenses to deal with but Lt. Brown was trying to cope with one problem at a time.

As he was fighting the controls he became aware of something off to the starboard side. He and his co-pilot gaped at the sight a Messerschmidt Bf-109E that had moved in and was flying beside them. The 109 pilot looked at them then lifted up and dropped down beside the portside of the bomber and he and Lt. Brown locked eyes.

Charlie would later recount that when he first saw the 109 he closed his eyes thinking that this was an illusion and would be gone when he opened his eyes again but there it was plain as day, an enemy fighter almost close enough to touch.

But the 109 didn't attack; it flew alongside the crippled bomber, escorting it past the German antiaircraft batteries with their bewildered crews staring at the two airplanes, and stayed with Charlie and his crew until they were out over the North Sea. The fighter pilot then waved and peeled away.

The B-17 was steadily losing altitude but managed to remain in the air until it made it safely back to England and was escorted to the nearest airfield. When they became Feet Dry (over land) their altitude was only 250 feet ASL. Luckily they were able to set the plane down without any further troubles. The wounded were taken away and the crew was debriefed. Eventually, the crew, along with two new members, would fly together again.

For many years nothing would ever be said about that German fighter pilot.

Some years later, Charlie Brown, now a successful inventor, was approached by a journalist to tell him about that incident. All that was in the report was that his ship had sustained heavy damage and they had made it back in (almost) one piece. Charlie was regarded as a hero who had managed to save the lives of all but one of his crew. He had flown a plane that had officials scratching their heads over trying to figure out how that plane flew at all and gotten back.

Charlie responded saying that he wasn't a hero at all; the real hero was that unknown fighter pilot, who had risked everything to escort them out of Germany when he was duty-bound to shoot them down. The journalist was rather astonished to think that Charlie was giving someone else, especially an enemy pilot, the credit. It was then that Charlie told him about the encounter; it was then, in 1987, that Charlie needed to find out who this pilot was.

It took him three years but Charlie Brown managed to locate the lone pilot, now living in Canada, after moving there some eight years after the war ended.

Lt. Franz Stigler had flown for over ten years; flown for the Luftwaffe for six. He had begun the war as a flying instructor, then was able to convince his superiors to transfer him to an actual battlefront. He was first stationed in North Africa then, when the tides began to turn against Germany, he was transferred back home to help defend the Fatherland.

Stigler's commanding officer was a veteran of the Great War. The man was a fierce warrior and an accomplished ace but he also fought by a code; a code of chivalry and honor. He told his pilots never to shoot at someone who couldn't shoot back. 'If I ever catch you shooting at a parachute, I'll shoot you down myself!' He told them, and they believed he'd do just that.

That was a code that Stigler would adhere to for the rest of the war.

As he would later recount, he first saw the B-17 fly overhead, in a northerly heading, obviously trying to get out of the country. He flew up to intercept it and that's when he saw how crippled the bomber was. He could see that there was no tail-gunner as the guns were hanging down. Along the fuselage were numerous jagged craters through which he could see crewmen attending to the wounded.

A quick burst from his 20 mm cannon would've ended the bomber's pitiful life right then and there but Franz made an important decision. 'It would've been like shooting at a parachute,' he would later say; he couldn't shoot it.

So he just escorted it out of Germany. He thought the B-17 would try for Sweden which was a lot closer but being a neutral country, the bomber crew would have no choice but to wait out the war. That might've been OK for Germany's plight but Lt. Stigler could see that the crew, even though badly beaten up, still had a job to do.

And this was not going to be their day to die. He just saluted them and wished them well.

Like Lt. Brown, he would never say anything about that incident until many years later.

Charlie and Franz met at a hotel in Seattle, Washington in 1990. Their reunion could only be described as one of mutual respect and brotherly love. Charlie would recount that it was like meeting a brother you hadn't seen in forty years.

For the next 18 years, the two of them would share a friendship that would last until they were taken to their eternal rewards. They met often and attended air shows and programs all over the continent; they were hailed as heroes by veterans and families of veterans from both sides of the conflict.

Franz passed away in 2008 at the age of 94. His obituary would read that in addition to his wife and family, he was also survived by his special brother, Charlie Brown. Charlie would pass away later that same year.

Their story is recounted in the book, A Higher Call, by Adam Makos. It shows that no matter the conflict, there are good people on both sides. Charlie Brown and Franz Stigler fought on opposite sides; they took orders and carried them out with the hopes that the ones ordering them into battle knew what they were doing. But in the end, what really mattered is that the fighting stopped and peace reigned supreme.

Charlie and Franz became best friends despite the odds. So, on this Veterans' Day/ Remembrance Day, as I pause to remember those who gave everything in the fight for our freedom, I will also remember two fighting men who became brothers during a dark time in history when war engulfed the world.

May God bless them all...

GLASS HALF FULL

I started life pretty much as a loner. There was close to three years between my older brother and I, and more than four between my older sister and I. As a result I got a lot of attention. I took to that like a fish to water. Life couldn't have been better until that fateful day in the early autumn of 1955 when my world shattered.

Well, I thought so at the time...

My little utopia was invaded by a little sister. Soon my world seemed to take a back seat to a lot of girl things. Dolls and cut-outs began to invade the space where cars and trucks and tractors once roamed free. Obstacles shaped like dollhouses and baby carriages became part of the landscape where construction and agricultural operations reined supreme.

Sissy stuff. And it was all because of that blond-haired sibling who was always laughing and happy. Her glass was perpetually half full and if it rained today, that was OK because the sun would be shining tomorrow. When would she realize that if it was raining today and the sun was shining tomorrow that the ground would still be muddy?

Glass half full...

Unfortunately I had to face the fact that this new bundle of joy wasn't going anywhere soon and I would have to find some way to pass the time away while she invaded my space.

Back in the fifties we had only one TV channel. CJLH TV, Channel Seven, started broadcasting in 1955. Sometime after that we got our first TV set and after a lot of frustration, Dad got the antenna positioned well enough for a signal strong enough to bring in the likes of Liberace, Ed Sullivan, Gunsmoke and Highway Patrol. In the morning it was Maggie Muggins and Friendly Giant. Unfortunately broadcasting didn't start until sometime in the morning, leaving the only choice to watch, the test pattern (often referred to as the boring Indian movie), which often offered some music. Before the test pattern came on, it was a scene akin to driving through a blizzard, accompanied by the uninterrupted sound of--noise.

Anticipating the oncoming morning programs, Diane would turn on the TV and then sit and wait, watching first the snow, then the test pattern, then The Nation's Business, and finally Friendly Giant. I found out that while the snow was on, I could sneak around the back of the TV, stealthily reach my hand around and with a quick flip of the wrist, crank the volume up to full, making the soft hissing a full fledged roar.

Diane would shriek and run to Mom, who would roust out the wayward troublemaker--me--and dispense severe (to me) justice, usually in the form of the wooden spoon across my butt many times, and followed by being sat on a wooden stool sometimes being forced to remain there until Friendly Giant was over.

Cruel and unusual punishment for sure. 

But somehow, through the years, the rivalry seemed to dissipate, especially when Diane's friends began to grow and mature, and actually become woman-like. Sometimes we would stay up and talk about dates until the wee hours in the morning. I guess it sometimes takes a long time for something good to come out of something not so good.

You could say that we eventually became best friends.

One thing I learned from this seemingly placid, even-tempered sibling was that she wasn't always that way. There were times when she wasn't so easy going. Some advice given to newly weds to determine how well the marriage is going to go is to put up wallpaper together; if you can accomplish that without killing each other, then the marriage has a better than average chance of succeeding. Well, we weren't putting up wallpaper together but Diane and Mom were. I came in at lunchtime and looked at their progress. Having a good eye for detail I noticed that two sheets didn't quite line up in a very remote corner of the dining room. I thought I'd mention it, just in passing. Not to be critical or anything.

That turned out to be a bad idea. Diane took offence to that little bit of criticism and unloaded a barrage of retorts, combined with a number of nasty words that would've made a sailor blush. I quickly took my leave and headed back outside before that long wooden pole she used to push that pasty paper high up on the wall got used as a weapon. To this day, I find myself thinking that if wallpaper does that to a woman's demeanor, the walls would best be left as they were.

Hmmm, bare plywood, or how about cardboard? Yeah, take the cartons that the new appliances came in and staple that to the studs? No paint, no wallpaper, just give all those who come to visit a felt marker and let them write some graffiti...

Fast forward a few years to when Mikenzie decided to put up wallpaper in our house. Let's just say that I would rather put up new shelves in the pantry, in the hall and kitchen closets, wash the vehicles, mow the lawn, get rid of the weeds, spread gravel, and drive uptown to purchase personal feminine products for her than help with the wallpaper.

And we got along just great!

Diane and I worked reasonably well together. If sick animals had to be looked after, we did what needed to be done. She was a lot of help. But she was also a little vulnerable to some of my pranks. Diane had been up in the alley in the north part of the feedlot working with a couple of colts we had in a small pen up there when I called her over to help me sort some yearling bulls. After we finished that task Diane headed back up the alley to continue her work with the colts and I headed up to do some repairs to the mangers at the north end of the lot. The east wall of the alley consisted of an eight foot high solid board fence. It had been there for a while and the elements were starting to take their toll, the ever present west wind breaking the odd slab, leaving a window or two that allowed one to see into the northeast pen. Diane was meandering up the alley next to the board fence and I was on the outside. I guess she didn't really know my exact whereabouts and had other things on her mind anyways. I simply stopped right there and turned, my face in the opening. Diane walked by and saw something out of the corner of her eye. She stopped and turned, not recognizing me at first but seeing more of a strange person framed in the broken board.

You'd have thought she'd seen a ghost. At least the expression on her face showed that. I don't recall that she shrieked or not but she was caught off guard. Luckily her reaction wasn't as severe as the aforementioned wallpaper.

Diane's ultimate goal was to be a housewife and mother. To achieve that, she had to find that perfect man. She started with a couple of my friends, and I honestly thought she'd do alright with one of them. I might add that I was a little miffed when she dropped them like a hot potato when Grant entered the picture. Of course I didn't know Grant like I knew my friends. Sometimes new friendships need some time to grow and develop and as Diane and Grant embarked on a life together, I began to get to know Grant and soon I realized what Diane saw and appreciated in him.

And that dream of becoming a mother was multiplied, not only by six but by a continuing further generation that is truly a gift.

Diane and I kept in touch, even when she and Grant moved halfway across the country. That telephone shortened the distance and it seemed that something was missing when we didn't have our monthly conversation. Any time something new came into my life she was often the first to know. And, I might add, when things in my life derailed, she was also the first to know. Needless to say, there was no doubt that when Mikenzie came into my life, Diane was the first family member (after Dad) I introduced her to.

So now as I pay tribute to a wonderful sister and friend, I have to say thanks. Thanks for being there for me, even when I didn't deserve it. I am indebted to you. Happy birthday, Three-score, minus two. May you have many more.

FED UP

It's with a bit of trepidation that I present this post. I originally wrote it over twenty years ago and it has been passed around some of my circles, all of whom enjoyed it, and have told me time and again that I should post it on my blog. However, when I started putting this together I became aware of many similar versions being told and retold in coffee shops and family gatherings, church socials and post offices, ranging from locations in Alberta to Montana, North and South Dakota to Saskatchewan, and Nebraska. Their origins were long before I was around. Since the story was told by a local handyman who hailed from Kansas, I'm using Kansas as the location of this story. I might add that there were some good things coming out of the Great Depression: a lot of good stories that were just as bizarre as this one. However, this story was first heard by JC in the local coffee shop in the fall of 1968 when he and Tude were taking a break from some earth moving chores. The story was originally told by Charlie, apparently a relative of one of the actual players, although so much water has run under the bridge in the intervening years that, everyone who is still living has forgotten just who he was related to. And he can no longer tell you, either.

Now, if I am treading on someone's toes, I am sorry. But it's about time this particular story was told.

So, here is the story, as told to JC (and the rest of Coffee Row who was there at the time) by Charlie, the local school handyman, and embellished (maybe, just a bit) by me. We'll call the leading character, Al, because it's short, easy to remember, and I can't remember what the original character's name was. Al's mother-in-law will be known as, Zelda, no explanation necessary.

Stories about mothers-in-law have run rampant since--well--there have been mothers-in-law. That (mostly fictional) overbearing, demanding, demeaning, meddlesome, parasol-brandishing blight on humanity has been the object of jokes and other stories in nearly every culture around the world. It has even made a great deal of mileage on radio and TV, being immortalized in popular shows such as The Flintstones and Bewitched. For years men (and women) have contrived to get even with that most notorious and undesirable part of matrimony, only to have the scheme backfire, leaving the triumphant mother-in-law waggling her finger at her son or daughter and uttering those four magic words: 'I told you so.' All in all, that beleaguered son, or daughter-in-law can get pretty fed up with those all-too-often encounters with their spousal matriarch. But did anyone pause to think that someone or something else might be just as weary, and just as determined to wage vengeance?

It was late spring, 1935, in the Kansas Dust Bowl. The Depression was still raging on with no end in sight but somehow people managed to get by. They worked together, played together, and helped each other out the best they could. As a result, the community was close, to the point of everyone knowing what everyone else was up to. The upside to this was knowing what others needed. And it was one of the things that attracted Al's wife to move out west.

Celeste came from Philadelphia, which like New York City, was the self-acclaimed cultural center of the United States. In other words, the elite considered themselves superior to anyone else, especially the peasants from the Midwest. Celeste's family could never understand why she fell for the likes of Al but then, they never knew how much true love could motivate a person. Misgivings were many but the couple built a life together.

Once a year, Zelda took the train out to Kansas and stayed--rather, endured the hillbilly lifestyle--for an average of six weeks where Al was largely ignored while Celeste was bombarded with how her life could have amounted to something if she had only heeded her mother's advice and married Alexander Schtuckupp or some other equally boring aristocrat instead of some backcountry hayseed whose idea of modern indoor plumbing was a pump jack over the kitchen sink, and a nocturnal visit to the bathroom required a lantern, coat, and boots. And when Al's presence was acknowledged, he endured a continuous barrage of insults, demands and constant reminders about how he had ruined Celeste's--Zelda's daughter's--life.

But it was only for six weeks. And who was counting?

Al's family car at the time was the battered remains of a Ford Model-A Open-Touring or Tub, as that body style was often referred. This one was even more open as the windshield was long gone; the only evidence that one ever existed was the two tarnished nickel-plated supports on the cowl which now led a new life as a place to hang a hat and coat whilst performing roadside repairs.

Six weeks over with and the day of departure finally arrived. Al wasted no time heading out to get the car ready for that eternally joyous six-mile journey back into town. Al even had a spring in his step as he fairly pranced around the car, checking the oil and topping up the gas tank. Everything was going so well until he happened to see a large dark spot under the front of the car.

The radiator core had finally given up the ghost and dumped all of the coolant on the ground. Al tried to top it up but water just ran out everywhere; there must have been a dozen leaks. It looked like the only way he could keep water in the radiator was to have someone straddle the hood with a bucket of water and keep the radiator topped up that way.

'Oh, Zelda, Dear...'

But all was not lost. Al was a resourceful person and he'd get his mother-in-law to that train if he had to harness the milk cow and hitch her to the buckboard. Before he had to resort to that though, he still had some ideas on how to get out of his predicament.

Al used to drive a Model-T, the precursor to the Model-A. He also had an ultra-modern John Deere D Two-Speed tractor. Both of them had plagued Al with radiator leaks, which were quickly and easily fixed with a little American Ingenuity in the form of a few handfuls of rolled oats. Toss in some rolled oats, add water and give it time to circulate around while the water soaked into the oats and caused them to swell and clog the leak. Of course if one overdid that, the radiator tubes could be just as easily clogged.

A Model-A wasn't all that different from a Model-T--Was it? Well, the Model-A used the new sliding-gear transmission which meant that it always had a low and reverse gear, while the Model-T could leave you stranded at the bottom of a hill with both gears out. And when you rushed into the general store to pick up a pouch of tobacco, you could leave your Model-A idling in the street, to actually find it in the same place when you came out again. The archaic Model-T with its planetary transmission tended to creep away and eventually drive off without you. Many a Model-T owner was seen chasing his Flivver down the street and across the church lawn before the cursed thing attempted to make a new entrance through the side of the building.

Yes, I heard about the announcement for those attending Weight Watchers to use the new double-doors at the side of the building.

 Back to the Model-T versus the Model-A, the radiators were similar and they both had a fan; that was similar enough...

Rolled oats, it was. But Al suddenly recalled something that was said in the coffee shop some time ago regarding that repair procedure. 'Mix up a paste of rolled oats, and wheat bran,' somebody said, 'Start the engine then add the goop along with more water. That way there will be a better chance of sealing the leak without plugging up the radiator.' That sounded like good advice so Al did just that; he mixed up a paste of that sickly-looking gruel, started the engine and proceeded to pour it in with water from the rain barrel.

Just like they had with his old Model-T and the John Deere tractor, the leaks began to dissipate until they had almost stopped entirely. For good measure, Al decided to toss in an extra handful of rolled oats, then filled a cream can full of water and set it on the floor in the back for the trip to town.

Zelda came out of the house, clad in her overstuffed, overpriced Navy blue travel dress with the white polka-dots. She also wore a gargantuan three-storey hat that must have dated back to somewhere near 19--0--Titanic. She constantly brandished her ever-present parasol, which Al thought to be totally unnecessary as the hat itself offered enough shade to double for the big top at the circus. Al carefully secured Zelda's steamer trunk onto the rear luggage rack then set her three sizeable, well-filled carpetbags onto the rear floor beside the cream can. He politely helped his mother-in-law into the passenger seat then slid in behind the wheel and braced himself for the six remaining miles he still had to endure before dropping Zelda off at the train station.

And he prayed that the train wouldn't be late.

They hadn't made it out of the yard before Zelda started in. She should be taking her daughter and her grandchildren back to a life of culture. The very nerve of this Neanderthal sweeping her daughter off her feet and dragging her off to some desolate cowtown where there wasn't even a decent theater group. "Mark my words, those boys are going to end up just like John Dillinger or Clyde Barrow because they've got no guidance and no hope for the future!"

And on and on...  Maybe those boys would take a shine to a Thompson machine gun and use their grandmother for target practice...

Al could dream, couldn't he?

Al kept his peace, counting the minutes until he was finally able to turn this blimp with an attitude over to the conductor. Maybe a quick drink at the local saloon afterward would settle his nerves and make this whole thing worthwhile.

The one thing that Al never bothered to consider between the Model-T and the Model-A was that the A was equipped with a water pump. Until then, Ford--and even John Deere--had been satisfied to let Mother Nature's law of Thermo-Siphon do the circulating. Water heats up in the engine block and cylinder head then naturally rises up through the upper rad hose to the radiator on its own accord. It cools off in the rad which makes it denser and thus heavier, so it settles to the lower part of the radiator where it rises through the lower hose back to the engine and repeats the cycle. Suffice it to say that the water pump tended to hurry the process.

Unfortunately, in this case, there was something that didn't want to be hurried up.

In the 30s and even the 40s--with the exception of those more modern pressurized cooling systems--a radiator cap was a rather rare commodity. With one constantly having to top up the radiator to combat the numerous leaks, the cap was usually forgotten on the fender and subsequently fell off somewhere along the--usually dirt--road. Or else someone who had lost his own rad cap before and couldn't bear to be without one simply boosted a replacement from the car of some unsuspecting owner when no one was looking. Of course, there was always a car with an unsightly piece of a shovel handle jammed into the opening as well. At any rate, no one paid much mind to that minor inconvenience as that little wisp of steam that streamed back from the filler neck gave indication that the cooling system was full and functioning properly...

Sort of.

Three miles to go and Zelda was into her third tirade. After berating Al for being such a dismal failure and how he'd missed his golden opportunity to become some big steel tycoon in the east, instead of becoming a dirt farmer in the Kansas dustbowl, and subsequently depriving his wife--her daughter-- of the better things in life, she was now complaining that the wind had shifted a bit giving that wisp of steam from the rad a more direct line to her face. She was about to repeat herself, lest her son-in-law(?), no, that bum that married her daughter forget every word she said when there was a deep gurgling sound from the depths of the radiator. A wisp of steam, somewhat larger than unusual, blew out from the open neck, spraying the hood and cowl of the car.

Then, as if Mount Vesuvius, itself erupted, a blob of yellowish oatmeal, water and rust blasted forth, the wind catching it and plastering Zelda in the face and running down the front of her fancy dress. Zelda, a mixture of surprise, shock, and indignation, opened her mouth to really give Al a piece of her mind when another blob of piping hot baby vomit caught her squarely in the chops and added to that glistening mess that had already ruined her attire. Another attempted outburst netted the same result so the ever-resourceful Zelda opened her parasol in an attempt to ward off the assault on her person. But another blob caught the edge of the umbrella and dribbled down into her lap. At the same time, a gust of wind caught Zelda's flimsy shield, flipping it inside out and rendering it more useless than it originally was. Another biological mortar was propelled into that monstrosity of a hat of hers, forever destroying its cosmetic effect.

By the time they made it into town, Zelda was plastered in slimy goo from head to foot, giving passers-by the impression that she'd been violently ill. That oversized hotel-convention center of a hat had been reduced to something reminiscent of dilapidated, flat-roofed tenement dwelling, slated for demolition. And poor Zelda had been miraculously transformed from something reminiscent of Taz, the Tasmanian Devil into a subdued, whimpering subservient shell of a human being. Despite Al's suggestion for her to see a doctor, she was not going to risk missing that train and having to remain one more day in this miserable wide spot in the road.

Much to the tremendous relief of her son-in-law.

The train was on time and Zelda, enduring the humiliation of boarding while still clad in that filthy outfit, was on her way back to the real world of theater, horse races, ballet, and pomposity.

Al did stop for that (celebratory?) drink at the saloon to steady his nerves; he might've even had a couple more. Surprisingly enough, that old Model-A's radiator never so much as let out a burp on the way home, and that makeshift repair on the radiator held up for the better part of a year when Al could afford to fix it properly.

The word quickly spread about Al's beloved tub exacting its revenge upon a rather unwelcome passenger. Some of his friends even asked if they could borrow the car to transport their own mothers-in-law to the train.

Zelda? Well, the train's attendant successfully treated her for minor scalds to her face and hands. She recovered fully and never berated Al again. I might add that it would be ten years before she would be able to make the trek back out west again because of the war. Time tended to mellow her out but on the other hand, Al was able to become a successful farmer, successful enough to be able to build a new house (from the Montgomery Ward catalog) with real indoor plumbing. He even bought a newer car with a closed-in body and complete with a hood that covered the radiator and cap. Those acquisitions, plus seeing the kids growing and developing into responsible citizens, convinced her that just maybe she'd misjudged him.

Just a bit...

DRIVE IN

In the decades following the war, people who bought new cars and trucks opted to drive them home from the factory. This practice, for a time, saved the cost of shipping the vehicles and offered the new owner an opportunity to see some other parts of the country; take a vacation if you will. JC's dad brought a couple of new three-ton farm trucks home that way, and even piggybacked a couple of new pickups home for the dealer in the process. JC's Uncle Woodie, who ran a thriving dealership in the home town, and a good friend, Ronnie, took the train out and drove a couple of new cars home. That particular event could almost make a story in itself. Suffice it to say that there were a couple of days when progress was rather slowed because of those buildings conveniently situated at the side of the road with numerous neon signs in the windows. JC's Uncle Alonzo, who could compete directly with Jack Benny for being frugal (to downright cheap), decided to save some money and made arrangements to pick up his new car at the factory.

It was in the late forties, somewhere around 1948, and Lonnie received word that his new car was on the immediate schedule to go down the assembly line. Lonnie took the train to Detroit, stayed overnight and visited the factory the next morning. He even managed to wrangle a factory tour in the process. Even for a cattleman, Lonnie was fascinated with how quickly a car went from the bare frame to an actual vehicle being driven off the line fully assembled two hours later. He was a little disappointed not to actually see his car being put together but he was able to see a lot just like it so that part of the trip was worthwhile.

Lonnie's car was processed, he was handed an envelope which contained all the necessary documents and, the most important thing of all, the keys to his new pride and joy. All formalities out of the way, he happily slid in behind the wheel of his new acquisition and headed for the highway.

Lonnie had never been to New York City and since Detroit was a lot closer to the Big Apple than the sun bleached prairies of home, he thought he might just as well take the time and see what NYC had to offer. He made the trip in good time, the new car purring right along, running better and better with each passing mile. A couple of days on the road and he was in the famous city.

It was after dark and Lonnie got a room in a hotel just off a rather narrow street near the top of a steep hill. He had no choice but to park his car in the street, facing downhill. Taking the necessary precautions, like leaving the transmission in low gear and turning the front wheels into the curb, he locked the car and went into his room to retire for the night.

Being an early riser, Lonnie was up and ready to face the day. He was one of the first to enter the coffee shop where he was shown to a table near the windows. Out of habit he picked up a copy of one of the local newspapers and took it to the table with him. He was always one who wanted to be kept informed on current events, even the local ones. Who knew, there might even be something to take home to Coffee Row.

Apparently there had been a car accident on one of the city's streets the night before and the paper had the full story plastered across the front page. The driver of a small delivery truck had misjudged the corner as he turned down a steep hill. He was unable to avoid bumping into a car that was parked at the curb. The report mentioned that it was merely a bump, which didn't inflict any initial damage but still exerted enough force to cause the car's front wheels to jump up and over the curb.

Back in those days, car engines didn't have a lot of compression so it didn't take much to get them spinning over. Add to that the steep hill, and even a dead vehicle could get rolling at a fair rate of speed.

Well, here it was, a car innocently bumped from behind, jumped the curb and rolled for a short distance down the sidewalk. Since the wheels were turned to the right, the car tended to continue in that direction, eventually veering right over and crashing through the front window of a store. By the time it came to a stop, the car was completely inside the premises with only the rear bumper and the taillights sticking out.

Lonnie read the article and shook his head in sympathy for the victim. 'Poor bugger,' he thought, 'one helluva way to start his day; somebody crashing into his car and wrecking it.' He studied the picture some more and to his mild surprise, he noticed that the license plate was from out of state; in fact the car was registered in Lonnie's stomping grounds. 'Coincidence,' he thought as he read on, 'I'd hate to be in that guy's shoes, this far away from home and somebody wrecks his car.'

He finished his breakfast and checked out of the hotel. Bags in hand, he proceeded outside into the late fall weather. As he walked down the hotel's wide sidewalk, he glanced over to the curb where he thought he'd parked his car. He was sure that he'd left it up the street from the hotel's entrance but not that far away. But then, it was fairly late, so it could've been further away.

Too bad remote keyless entry hadn't been invented yet.

Down the street, three or four places down from the hotel, there was quite a commotion. A couple of police officers were directing traffic while a tow truck was dragging a late model sedan, glass shards littering its roof, out of a building. 'Must be the car from the paper,' Lonnie thought as he watched the progress. He was surprised that he didn't hear the racket from the accident the night before as his room faced the street.

The tow truck finally had the car clear from the building. 'Damn! That's the same model as my new car,' Lonnie thought. He then gazed at the empty space at the curb where he had thought he'd parked his car. It was then that he noticed black tire tracks on the sidewalk. They continued over to the yard of a neighboring building. Ruts in the yard formed a trail into the next yard, through a low hedge and into the fourth yard where they headed right up to the front of that store. A sickening feeling began to take over as Lonnie realized what had just happened.

'Damn! That's my car!'

Yes it was Lonnie's new car that had been the victim of last night's accident. Fortunately the damage was mostly superficial and, with the exception of having to get a wheel alignment, the car was driveable. It would later be fixed in a shop at home. The company that owned the delivery truck assumed responsibility so at least Lonnie wasn't out of pocket for the damages. Unfortunately he had to stay in town for a couple more days than he'd planned to, but he was able to make the trip home without any more collisions.

And Lonnie, he opted to pay the freight charges on his next new car and stay home.