Miscellaneous -- recorded: 12/23/08

I was born during WWII, I was loved and raised by my parents and grandparents, I had five younger brothers and sisters and loved them all.  We were not rich but we did not hunger, we did not lack for comfort or clothing ... and, most important, we were taught to think, encouraged to think, welcomed to disagree (but required to support our positions) and welcomed from youth to behave like and participate like adults.  

From age six, instead of an allowance, I received a salary ... which I earned at the family newspaper ... and which increased steadily as my skills increased.  If my father rarely offered gratuitous praise, he did offer a more substantial recognition in two forms: the offer and trust of responsibility and monetary recognition of skills.   To quote (or, perhaps, paraphrase) Kipling (see "Kim"), departmental praise is the finest draught of all.

During my youth, there was Eniac -- a massive and mysterious device with tribes of acolytes attending and, while hailed as a marvel, was actually a very fast and very accurate idiot ... or, more accurately, a device aspiring to be an idiot.  At this same time, my first "computer" was a device called Geniac ... which was actually little more than an electronic slide rule: three dials with logarithmic scales, three logarithmically-wound potentiometers and an electrical "null" meter (and two batteries).  You set up your problem on two of the dials, held down a button and then rotated the third dial until the meter nulled ... and that was your answer.

It wasn't really as efficient as my dual-base log log trig rule (a Pickett) and far less portable but it was a computer ... right?  So I loved it.

And I built a specialized computer (in a cigar box, of course) which challenged people to solve the classical fox, geese and corn problem ... and buzzed at them if they made a mistake -- that is, if they created a situation where, in the absence of the farmer, the fox could eat the geese or the geese could eat the corn.

About this same time, our local phone office was replacing their old "bangers" with newer switches and I dearly longed to buy a hundred or so of these bangers to build some sort of computing device.  (Bangers were two-step decade switches but so named because they were noisy.)  While they were being offered for sale, the $10 per unit price was prohibitive ... aside from the need for auxiliary components such as a power supply, some sort of display, some form of input ... well, somewhere here, you're talking real money.  (In 1960, electronics components were expensive ... even if I was earning several times minimum wage.)  However, expense limits aside, I did have a lot of fun thinking about the design ... probably more than I'd have had building it.

But I did build a lot of things.  I had multi-level mazes for mice (studying the effects of tranquilizers and amphetamines on their learning patterns), built tons of toys for my siblings (just ask them), devised games for them as well and spent lots of time exploring My Big Backyard (miles and miles of it, all the way out to the caprocks).

Later, when I was in the Navy, electronic components were getting much cheaper (plus there was always salvage; a perk of my position) and while I was working with analog computers (navigation and firecontrol among others), I was still building "gadgets".  

One was a six-inch sealed cube (fiberglass over metal, blue silver-flake finish) with red and white bulbs in a heart on the front, a lens in the center with the (obvious) message behind it.  The cube sat on small brass feet, the bulbs flashed randomly and a label on the back warned "Danger!  High voltage!".  Note that I said "sealed"?  It didn't plug in to anything, there was no on/off switch, no external power ... just magic.  (Okay, there was a 90V drycell inside -- the high voltage cautioned against and enough to give you a nasty shock so it wasn't a lie.)

The device was built functioning, sealed and finished still functioning, shipped (to Mary) still functioning and, years later, still delivering the message.  (Worked too ... and that's the final test of any gadget, right?)

Another, rather a spur of the moment device, was a small Japanese puzzle box -- the kind where you have to slide, twist, slip, repeat several steps to open -- which I left in my parent's motel room awaiting their arrival for a visit.  The box bore a button (labeled "Push") and a switch (labeled "Off).

That evening, their arrival was announced by a phone call ... my mother's voice (and a siren in the background) with her saying "You cad!  You absolute cad!"  The inviting button -- of course -- set off the siren while the "Off" switch (spring-loaded) would cause the siren to wind down and finally cease ... but only as long as the switch was held.

There was, fair's fair and good design demands, another switch inside to reset the circuit but, for that you had to open the box ... the puzzle box.

Of course, once she'd figured it out, Mother kept the box, leaving it on her desk as a "trap" for visitors.

Gadgets!  Hey, just ask anyone who knew me; they'll probably have a gadget story of their own,  (Like Chris and the McGyver Mobile, for one.)

Naturally, I've built a lot of "serous" gadgets as well -- optical systems for imaging gem stones, collaborated on devices for remotely measuring an animal's health (bovine only), several computers (back when you still saved money using a soldering iron ... you couldn't just plug parts together, you had to really build them), an experimental entertainment system for Disneyland ... actually, it's hard to remember then all and a lot of them have been for friends/family.

Case in point, when I was in my teens and Dad decided to change the newspaper format from the conventional large page to a tabloid format.  He showed me what he wanted (as an end result) and suggested that maybe I could figure out how to modify our folder/cutter for the desired purpose.  The folder/cutter was a massive machine that ate huge sheets of newsprint (after printing), turning them into a sixteen page newspaper.  What Dad wanted was a 32 page paper but with pages half the size.  This wasn't vanity or frivolity -- it was a lot easier to sell someone on a full page ad (but a smaller page) than on a half-page.   (Well, yes, maybe there was some vanity involved but it was the advertisers', not the publisher's.)

An hour or so later, I handed Dad a 32-page tabloid (well, granted, all the pages were blank but it was a proof of concept/function).  I believe it took a week or so to make the full change in layout and most of my cardboard became plywood, binder twine was replaced with metal clamps, etc but it was still my redesign.  (I've always suspected that Dad might have had the same approach in mind but he still threw it to me as a puzzle ... in the full expectation that I would find a solution.  And that's "departmental praise"!)

Or ask Sean, Melanie, Chris or Heather about the travel bingo game when Mary and I took them to the Caverns at Sonora.  The very simple (computer printed) game cards called for them to find such mythic creatures as dragons, elves, giants, unicorns, pegasi ... well, you get the idea?

Of course, the kids protested that we were handing them an impossible list.

We just smiled and told them it was a challenge.

Then they spotted a pegasus (a red one on an old Mobil station sign) ... and they were off and running.  At that point, the challenge wasn't who could score a BINGO but whether they could find each and every creature on each and every card.  (They did ... and then started looking for ones we hadn't included -- a very successful "gadget" even if it existed only in their minds.)

And, yes, both Mary and I spent a lot of time tinkering with their minds.  I'd pick Chris up after school (he's a child of our heart if not of our genes) and keep him until his mother got off work that evening (hey, just ask him -- we're a whole world better than daycare.)  Sometimes I'd leave him at the bookstore with Mary where she had her own method of 'tinkering".  She would hand him a number of bobbipins and, anytime he interrupted her with a question (this was our business and our living) it would cost him a certain number of pins.  No pins, no questions.

Result?  He very quickly figured out: 1) what would it cost him to ask a question, 2) could he get the answer without asking 3) what was the optimum strategy at any time.

And as for my tinkering, my approach was to challenge them all.  When they asked questions, I asked a counter question: "How are you going to find out?"  No, I wasn't refusing to answer, I just demanded that they outline an alternative method of finding the answer first.

Of course, the results -- in time -- became something like this:

Me: "How are you going to find out?"

Them: "Well, I could ... okay ... thanks ..."

Of course, they all claim that they can hear me in their sleep challenging them but the real payback came years later when I was on the phone with Melanie and her son (then eleven) interrupted with a question ... and I heard this "echo" (shifted in resonance, register and timber but still an echo) asking: "How are you going to find out?"

Yes!

They all are "thinking adults" (which are much rarer than they should be) and we are pleased and proud.

And, some years ago, Melanie was visiting us in Boulder, Colorado in the spring.  Boulder Creek -- dropping nearly a mile in a sixteen mile distance -- was frozen; wide flat shelves of ice, then a curved edge dropping an inch or two, then another wide flat expanse.  This was Melanie's first visit to the mountains in the cold season and she stood looking at the ice and said: "You know, that looks like you could walk on it."

"Go ahead," I suggested.  I knew it was thick enough, perfectly safe ... in that respect anyway.

Melanie took two steps, halted abruptly, planted her fists on her hips and turned.  "You're doing it to me," she challenged. "Aren't you?"

"Doing what?" I managed to keep a straight face.  (Actually, I'm quite adept at that -- I often need to be.)

"You've been doing this to me all of my life!"

Ah hah!  A glimmer!  "Can you be more specific?"

"All my life," she growled.  "All my life you've been telling me to get into trouble ... when I wouldn't get into too much trouble!"

Yep, the penny had finally dropped.

On a parallel, a couple of years ago, I came across an article about how -- and why -- you should encourage kids to get into trouble. (Hey, how else can they learn anything?)  The author had included a list of ways and troubles and, amused, I'd sent the list to Chris, asking if I'd missed anything.

His emailed response was prompt.  "No, you haven't missed a one ... but I think you invented a few more."

And I guess I should tell one on Sean as well.  Not sure exactly when but Sean was -- I think -- about 16 when the first Indiana Jones movie came out.  Naturally, Sean was immediately entranced, wanted a fedora, etc.  That summer, when we were on a trip, he found a shop selling bullwhips.  I showed him what to look for (I played with them myself when I was a kid -- even made a couple), explained a bit about the different types, recommended a standard of quality and then left him too it. 

He bought the whip he liked -- it was his money and he chose neither the cheapest nor the most expensive but settled on a good quality leather whip without foolish additions -- then, as we walked outside, I asked him to let me see it.  He handed it over.  Then -- from about eight feet -- I snapped him in the leg with it.  He yelped (naturally enough) then looked thoughtful and, as I handed the whip back to him, nodded ... and rubbed the welt I'd raised through his jeans.

It was all the safety lecture needed ... (Told you: they're all smart, thinking individuals -- and well trained and challenged!  Always well challenged!)

[RETURN]