Religiosity
by jonmoney on Aug.30, 2011, under Spirituality
What’s wrong with church? Read on. This is MY opinion, based on personal experience.
Jack was a regular guy with an average relationship with Jesus. Jack went to work everyday, paid his bills on time, was married to Jill and they had two kids, Penny and Nicholas. They lived in an average home in an average community. They also attended an average church with lots of others who were on the same path with the same goal: Getting to Heaven. Jack’s church life was great. He had lots of church friends that included him in their “clique”. Lots of preachers, teachers and even some church members don’t like to hear the word “clique.” But for most churches it’s a sad truth: When the “faithful” gather together, either you’re in, or you’re out. Usually your income, beliefs, and your outward appearance plays a role in your acceptance. Jack wore a few hats in his Church Walk. He was a Church bus driver, he taught Sunday school on occasion, he even filmed the Sunday sermons for the shut-ins. He and Jill helped out with the youth group, and Jack was eager to shake hands and hug every member he could come in contact with. But on the inside, there were problems. Jack was unhappy in his marriage. Although on the outside, everything looked great, he was dying on the inside- wishing his life would be over so he wouldn’t have to spend another moment with his mate. Jill knew there were problems. They talked at length about them. She even said “If you want out, go. I won’t badger you for money, everything will be fine. But Jack knew better. And, Jack knew he would have to answer to God if he did. He would also have to face the ill-things his Church friends would say about him, because they would most certainly choose sides. Jack talked with God at length about his problems: With Jill, work, his life. God understood. Jack asked Him, “How do I make this right? How can I be happy?”
We, as Christians tend to believe that we must follow every commandment and “do good” or we’ll go to hell. Jack was no exception. God revealed to Jack that marriage is a union between two souls. However, if there was no love in the first place, how could there be a union? How could there be a “marriage” in His eyes? God further revealed, “You could stay in this marriage and be unhappy. However, I don’t want you to be unhappy. I did not put you on this Earth to be unhappy.” He continued, “If you stay in this marriage, you’re living a lie. That in itself is a sin. If you leave this marriage, that also is a sin. So, either way, you have sinned.” Jack was astounded and felt even worse. God continued, “Now, why did you think you could take this walk without Me?” Jack was puzzled. God said, “If you go through life striving not to sin, then WHY did I go and send My Son to die on the Cross for you!?!?!?” Bottom line: Jack had sinned. Twice. God forgave him and life went forward. However, because of his discontent in his marriage, Jill would not give him a certificate of divorce until he went before the preacher and spilled out his life, groveling at their feet. Upon doing so, the preacher advised her to hire an attorney (who, by the way, was a good friend of a church member there,) and several other church members sided with her advising her on actions to take against Jack. His good friend, Mike, who helped him film sermons denounced his actions even so far as to call him names and belittle him. Suddenly, all those church friends weren’t such good friends after all. And no one from that church- no, not one- even attempted to stay in contact with Jack except for one woman whom several church members referred to as a “lesbian” and no longer attended that church. So, basically, you go to church, give them your all, and then if you falter, they cuss you and “disown” you from their family. Why? Because your individual walk does not fit their walk and now you’re different. A “black sheep”.
Jack was not a stranger to these bizzarre, yet not uncommon ordeals: Years earlier, one church-going individual forced him to talk in tongues when he didn’t even have a full understanding of it. Another church said that he couldn’t become a member unless he was baptized into their faith… Jack gave his life to God when he was ten years old. He was baptized as a public confession of this change in his life. However- this church- would not recognize him as a member lest he was baptized in their baptismal pool. Soon after doing so, he and Jill were more or less blackballed from their Sunday School class because Jack was an outwardly-going lower-middle-class individual and everyone there had incomes greater than his. Years before he got married, Jack had feelings for a young woman who said she would not date him unless he went to her church and was converted to Mormonism.
Put away your reasons, your thoughts and beliefs for a moment. If there IS an afterlife, (and there IS); do you want to go to Heaven, or Hell?
Let’s face it: When a person comes into his or her relationship with Jesus, there are some overall reasons. For the majority of folks, it’s because they don’t want to go to Hell. Some just don’t know what to believe. Still, others do so because of the state of the world today. Some view Church as a safe, friendly place where everything’s good and no bad can exist. Many develop a church life to “front” -or hide- the real issues in their lives- “If I go to church, the ‘good’ in the activities will hide the ‘bad’ in my life. Eventually everything will be good.” So they throw their lives, free time, selves and money at the church. In return, they would think that they were doing something for Jesus. They are. But, how much of this does Jesus require? Jack’s story does have a happy ending. He now has a very clear understanding of God and a wonderful relationship with Him to boot. Jack had to learn that church is a place- or a “hospital” for sick souls. Everyone there has their own set of problems. Not only that, everyone has their own relationship and understanding of God. And, everyone is at a different mile marker or even on a different highway when it comes to their walk with God. We as human beings need to be cognizant of different peoples’ beliefs. If their belief doesn’t work with ours then we can choose not to let those beliefs taint- or change- our individual relationship with God. Most importantly, we must be cognizant of the presumptuous ways of humans in general and their affinity to be “mainstream”. This “Me-Too” mentality reveals that humans will conform with others in an attempt to fit in. Where am I going with this? Understand that your individual walk will be different from others’. What can you, as a Church-goer do to welcome non-members?
- Accept people for who they are on the inside. This takes time, so you’ll have to get to know them.
- Don’t judge others by their beliefs.
- Don’t judge others by the clothes they wear.
- Don’t judge others by the amount of money they make.
- Even if your new member is obnoxious, love him/her anyway.
- Don’t be presumptuous. Be real. Really real.
- Families don’t stop loving when the going gets rough.
- Don’t let your beliefs interfere with others’.
If we could all abide by these simple rules, wouldn’t church be better?
You Are GUILTY!!!
There was this guy I knew once. He headed up a youth group at a church I went to. He seemed to have this idea that “tough love” was the way to go and that NOTHING you do is good enough for God. Well, if you aren’t saved, this would be true. Almost. If you aren’t saved, the only thing you can do that would please God is to get saved. However, this guy went as far as to put on his answering machine “Jesus died for you. What have you done for him?” …No pressure, here… How would you like to be a kid in HIS youth group? Jesus raised the standard of law. He also raised the standard of Faith. Guess what? He fulfilled all of it! How can you be a failure at law or Faith if He fulfilled both? Why as Christians do we struggle and strive to do right when He died to make us all righteous?
What did Jesus save you from? (You’ll love this one!)
There is a fine line between morality and Christianity. You hear all the time: “You’re a Christian and you do that?” Over the years, Christianity has been taught in such a way that “God is good” and “God loves you, but will like you more if you are better.” So, what did Jesus save you from? The devil? Nope… He came to defeat the devil. And that, He did. He came to save you from God….Hello?…. You still with me? The opposite of God’s Law is not sin. The opposite of God’s law is Grace. You don’t believe me? Read the Bible. You can’t criticize morality. You just can’t… Everybody wants to live in a moral culture. The Church teaches morals. When you mix morality and Christianity together, dangerous things can happen. It will drive you absolutely bonkers! DON’T get mixed up in thinking you’ll never be good enough for Heaven! If Christianity is a form of behavioral modification, then use a taser instead. It’s quicker and easier. Do you see where I am going with this? If you think your “little sin” is enough to get you “kicked out of Heaven” when you have already been saved, then you must not think much of Jesus’ Death on The Cross! Wake up! Stop thinking you’re a loser! God thinks you are a WINNER! Feeling guilt for screwing up (sinning) is normal when you are saved. If you were not saved, you would not feel the guilt. Now… If you feel guilt for something you have said or done, first of all, ask God for forgiveness- But not with empty words- Take the time to truly identify the reason for the sin, how God would REALLY feel about it, then get down on your knees and REALLY ask for forgiveness. That’s not all though: Forgive yourself. How can God throw your sin into the sea of forgetfulness if you keep bringing it up in your mind? Finally, don’t go out of your way trying not to sin because of fear; do it out of love for God, yourself, your family, and all others around you. God loves you so much that He sacrificed His Only Son so you could make it into Heaven should you receive His Timely Gift: The Gift of Salvation. It’s easy to accept His free gift. Don’t expect to know everything about this Gift when you first get it. Just let it “GROW” on you because it will!
Now, onto the rest of my mixed up views on religiosity: If you take away the boundary between “sin” and “not sin”, suddenly the temptation looks less enticing. If you were a kid, would you sneak a cookie from the cookie jar if Mom said it was OK to get one whenever you wanted? No, in fact, you might not eat as many as you would if the supply was limited by Mom saying you can’t have one whenever you want it. Sure, at first you would gorge yourself and get sick from eating so many… Then you would learn “If I do that, the end result will be this…” Now.. Apply this “by-product” versus “requirement” to Grace versus Law and learning from your transgressions.
Jesus saves… So quit trying (to save yourself…)
Jesus did not die to make perfect people. He died to make righteous people. If you put a new roof on someone’s house and they turn right around and go to the trouble and expense of building a new roof on top of it after you’re done, what is the point of fixing it in the first place? If you’re so busy trying NOT to sin, then why did Jesus die for your sins? Perhaps there is some question as to one’s belief in his salvation if the person goes through life trying not to sin. One should also concern himself with the outrageous thought that he or she might be “self righteous.” Yup. That’s right. Why try and live by laws that were taken away when He died on the cross for you? Not only did He take away your sins, He erased the boundary of “sin” and “not-sin”. How can you sin if there is no longer a boundary? So quit trying to be perfect. “Being good” is hopefully a by-product of being saved. However, it’s not the first object. You’re already righteous. “You are my much loved child, with whom I am well pleased.” Now… Relax and believe it! If you walk a tightrope and try not to fall, you’re going to fall. But if you walk out there and believe in yourself, have confidence in knowing what you’re doing, and know that your Father is right there cheering for your every step, you’ll have a better chance of making it across. And, how can you tell others not to sin if you have a problem with sin, yourself? Remember the parable about helping your neighbor with a speck in their eye while you have a plank in yours? Here’s the deal… Admitting your sins is more than verbally saying “I did it, I am guilty.” In fact, that statement is downright wrong. Admitting your sin is also coming to terms with the fact that you can’t lose weight, stop smoking, stop cussing, etc… etc… Now, with that in mind, with all those faults and failures, guess what… He loves you anyway! Relax and know that there is a stronger power on your side and tell others to focus on that love and power themselves. Once you come to terms with your faults and shortcomings, and forgive yourself for them, now you have the freedom to overcome these shortfalls one-by-one. It also frees you to love yourself. Once you love yourself, you learn how easy it is to love others.
So, am I saying to you to go and be saved, then go out and sin? Of course not! I am saying to you that the Ten Commandments are written as an everyday guide to make your life easier and if you follow them, you will indeed, have an easier life. They are also written as a “testament” that we CANNOT follow them to the letter. There’s where Jesus comes in. God knew when Moses wrote the laws that we couldn’t follow them. That’s why He sent His only Begotten Son. Whoever believes that Jesus died for their sins will have eternal life in Heaven. If it is written, how can the Lawyers and Pharises dispute this by saying “Y’know… You CAN lose your Salvation!” Think of how much God loves us. Now, think about how He loves His only Son. If you “screw up”, you’re not going to hell and Jesus is not upset with you, nor is God. Just admit you screwed up, learn from it, and go on. You’re NOT putting another nail in His Hand. He only had to pay ONCE.
Music
by jonmoney on Aug.30, 2011, under Uncategorized
Music, to me, is a way of communicating the incommunicable. Sound-Object Recognition is a theory I have been working on for years. However, Sound-Object Recognition is in the “eye of the beholder”- It may only mean something to the person forming the parallel. A simple parallel would be envisioning a very obese man while listening to music including a wind instrument such as a trumpet or tuba. I associate a string orchestra with trees full of leaves in a gentle breeze during the summer. But the parallels go way beyond this. A keen ear and a sense of envisionment are crucial for “S.O.R.”
Taking things a step further… Remember, this takes lots of imagination… You’re driving down a road… You’re really into a piece of music. The music somehow fits the road and it’s surroundings. The road curves just as the tune plays over again one note higher than before. Or, same tune, the sky is spotted with clouds and intermittent sunshine… The sun comes out from the clouds lighting up the landscape just as the climax of the music hits.
My favorite Jazz Musician of all times is The Pat Metheny Group. Pat has a unique way of expressing himself through his music. Some of his earlier music lies in a class I would like to call “Avant Garde”, or a style of music that requires an imagination, a keen ear, and the ability to understand the message. Oftentimes, I would tell friends “You have to have a road map to figure out where he’s going with the tune…” Later tunes of his still lean toward the earlier styles; but about 60% are more tailored toward the layman.- An easily followed melody with adaptations and additions throughout the score, and a climax followed by the original melody at the end. Some tunes give you that “Kansas-farm-at-sunset” feeling while “Follow Me” makes me think of a city’s history: Development from settlement to a large metropolis, followed by the reflection of what the city once was. This song also serves as a backdrop to the restoration of my old ’56 Chevy (Chub.) Dire Straits’ “Telegraph Road” best depicts metropolitan history, and a person’s struggle to survive in the modern day bustle. However, while Dire Straits’ Telegraph Road’s words tell the story, Pat’s style communicates the same without words. Pat’s usage of instruments in “Last Train Home” lends heavily toward the “S.O.R.” theme.
The group, “Boston” always reminded me of mid-to-late ’70′s model Pontiac Trans Ams. When I was growing up, many times I would see a cool T/A with Boston blaring from the cockpit as the car drove down the road. Spyro Gyra, in my opinion, along with Kenny G and Fourplay often remind me of Yuppies trying to impress each other by playing mainstream Jazz. Dire Straits will always mean cruising in a mid-70′s Chevy van because of my brother’s career of laying carpet and driving his van to the jobsite.
From my most misunderstood years as a young adult, Alan Parsons Project echoed from the cockpit of my 1968 Pontiac GTO. I was turned onto Alan Parsons by a young couple who lived below me in an apartment complex. The best way to explain this music in this period of my life is to say “You figure it out.” I grew away from Alan Parsons Project mainly due to the law I was under at the time: In trying to please God and be an upstanding Christian, I let a religious acquaintance fool me into believing that Alan Parsons Project played “Devil Music”. When I asked him, he replied that the instruments used in creating the music were of the devil. Please see my blog on “Religion” for my views on these kinds of people.
Vince Gueraldi and David Benoit will always mean “Charlie Brown” and the rest of the “Peanuts” gang to me, while Pat Metheny’s awe-inspiring “Imaginary Day” CD will hold strong as the sound track to my struggling through my divorce. His “A Map Of The World” Sound track, another very-well done masterpiece is the backdrop to my overcoming said divorce and settling into a new life.
“S.O.R.” is multi-faceted. It can paint a picture with an infinite palette of colors, and a depth and realism that is second to none. Or, it can be a reminder of something in our past. In some cases, it is the here-and-now. Music in our everyday life is like the music played during our favorite television program or music video. The only requirement is that we expand our minds and let our imaginations take us there.
Be on the lookout for samples of Sound-Object Recognition on this webpage very soon.
Sound-Object Recognition and the principles surrounding it are copyright © 2011 by Jon Money. All rights reserved. No portion of this blog may be copied without exclusive written permission by the Author.
Electronics…
by jonmoney on Aug.30, 2011, under Uncategorized
Move over, Edison…
SYNOPSIS
Early in 1975, I had an old tube-type desktop radio. It had rounded corners, a ribbed front, and two knobs at the bottom. I lived in Sand Springs, Oklahoma in a bedroom that had red velvet-designed wallpaper. It made horrendous popping noises as it peeled off the walls. (Yeah, I’ve been known to peel the wallpaper off the walls…) Anyway, this old tube-type radio (it was an AM radio) had fairly good reception. At night, I could pick up all kinds of neat stations from far-away places. I decided that “more antenna is better” and began building a selectable antenna system. It incorporated several lengths of wire and some were coiled in a spring shape. I managed a marginal gain in reception due to this little system I designed. My then brother in law saw my interest in electronics at that point and bought me my first 20-in-one electronics project kit. I built every project that it had to offer. Later I found an old 65-in-one project kit laying forgotten in a garage after its previous owner had moved away. I quickly grabbed it up and went home, building every project in the kit and examining each one as I built it. Later on, after carefully studying schematic diagrams and experimenting with a few things, I began designing my own projects. The stories below are not in chronological order. They all tie together as different subject matter but all occur in and around the same time.
SUN DECKS AND TAPE DECKS
In 1977, my brother built a sun deck outside my bedroom window. We had a dog that stayed underneath the sun deck. I decided I wanted to hear my radio outside without letting the air conditioning out. So, I wired a speaker out to the sun deck. I put a speaker underneath the sun deck for when it got too hot outside and went below to stay cool. Alas, the landlord said the sun deck looked bad in front of the house. He offered we could reconstruct it behind the house on the west side. I moved the sun deck. I also wired the speakers to the new location. The speakers began sort of a “one-way intercom” but with no way to talk through it. In the winter of 1977, I got a new cassette recorder. I played with it continuously. I used to watch “Emergency!” reruns after school. I would record the shows on cassette and replay them after time to go to bed. Almost always I would get caught by my Mom, who hated the fact I stayed up past bedtime.
AN INTERCOM SYSTEM WAS BORN
I experimented with the tape player and quite by accident stumbled onto the fact that if I plug my earphone in and hit “record”, it would become a very loud “P.A. System” in my ear. Using this discovery, I developed a series of plugs that when I plug them into the earjack and microphone, the people on the intercom would hear me… And when I reversed the plugs, I would hear them. Mom loved the fact that that the intercom became a two-way system capable of listening outside around the windows and doors. Over the 30-month duration of the intercom system, it got a name: I.C.C.S. or (I)nter(C)ontinental (C)ommunications (S)ystem. Good friend and constant companion, Willie St. John came up with the name. It also grew in size: At first, just my room was wired. (It was a one way communications system, or “extension speaker”.) Then, I wired out to the sun deck. Again, this was a one-way communications route, or another “extention speaker”. Next, Willie and I had talked and we decided to build a remote “station” at his house. We took a fluorescent lighting ballast found in the garbage, dismantled it and used the wire from it’s transformer to wire to Willie’s duplex. The strands of wire were thin (about the thickness of 3 hairs) and they had to run above ground from rooftop to rooftop. However, there was a fear of lightning striking and the wires were torn down.
MORE CHANNELS THAN CABLE TV
Later, Willie and I ran the wires underground using speaker wire. There were 3 wires total; “Ground”, “Channel 1″ and “Channel 2″. We had to have a ground. It wouldn’t work without it. “Ground” was one half of the speaker wire. Channel 1 was the other half of the speaker wire. Channel 2 was several wires tied together from end to end to go the 175 foot distance to the next duplex. During this time, our landlord wanted to get in on the fun. We wired him in. He kept an ear out for our reports of noise outside and when necessary investigated with a gun in hand. Shortly after some “Star Trek” “Intruder Alerts” and too much Tequila ingested by said landlord, he was disconnected. My brother moved out. I took over his room, got a bigger walk-in closet, and all my electronics went in there. With the help of my allowance and birthday money, we grew from 2 channels to 7, and had a seperate seven running around my duplex.
BASE STATIONS THE SIZE OF “NORAD”
The base station grew from 2 or 3 switches to 48 and was quite unique… It consisted of a shoe box turned upside-down with switches mounted in cutouts on the box. Connections were made by spring terminals. There were a lot of bells and whistles. Later base stations built had amplifiers that replaced the tape players. We used light emitting diodes to show signal strength. We didn’t understand how to hook them up and burned out a few of them. Willie always had his own base, as did I. We were careful to document every single change and wire in the entire system. (I have kept every single piece of paper to this day 30 some-odd years later.) Soonafter, I purchased a second-hand CB radio good friend Johnny Rodriguez along with a 45-ft. tall “Star Duster” base station antenna. There was a “PA” jack on the back of the radio and I wired it into the intercom. The sound level when plugged into the jack was very high. Willie and I blasted each other out of bed a few times, and I put in a noise-activated switch that would sense noise on the line above a certain volume and automatically cut the incoming wires of the intercom system off.
PATROLLING THE STREETS
The CB Radios became so popular that we got walkie-talkies and rode our bikes around looking for trouble. When we found it, we radioed home for help. 1978 was really cool. This was also the same time I began shaving and drinking coffee; I was due to start this since I was a grown-up fourteen years old. I began dating and got my first french kiss which almost made me throw up. I was a nerd in school; I had only a few friends: Willie St. John, his brother Steve, Darrin and Mickey Hardin and Banyan Mooney. Let’s not forget Carole Martz who would call me daily. We would talk on the phone for hours and every conversation would end with her yelling and hanging up on me. We were never a couple; she was more interested in fixing me up with her friends; none of which ever appealed to me including the girl who shoved her tongue down my throat.
DEATH OF A DREAM
On December 28th 1979, the intercom system, its wiring, and all associated jargon was unhooked, boxed up and put on a truck. We moved across town to Brookside, a midtown-Tulsa suburb. The wiring would never be used again; and the biggest-bestest switchboard ever built would be lost in a fire five years later. The final words were spoken on the wires that cold morning in December: “I am one in spirit… I am inseperable… I am the I.C.C.S… Never to be duplicated, always will be remembered…” The wires, not used ever again for an intercom, in later years were used in wiring up the speakers in my ’70 GTO. But… That’s another story.
Cycling
by jonmoney on Aug.30, 2011, under Uncategorized
Cycling has always been a favorite pastime of mine. I learned to ride a bike at age 10. My first bike was a 26″ green single-speed coaster-brake bike. It was difficult for me to learn how to ride on since I was so short. The big thing those days was a 10-speed and they were quite expensive. In an effort to be like the 10-speeds (and satisfy my attraction to manual transmissions in general,) I made a gearshift out of a 6″ piece of coat hanger wire. This wire was carefully fashioned into a gearshift with the same bends and angling as the tall four-speed shifter found in the school bus I used to ride on on the way to school. The school bus, a 1968 Dodge D-600 had a noisy transmission that sang a different raspy song in each gear. The gearshift on the bike, serving no purpose whatsoever, gave me the false impression of a very close ratio four speed. This bike was ridden on the dirt trails of the North Woods in Sand Springs, Oklahoma. One particular ride netted an out-of-control crash that scraped me up pretty good. However, the crash kept me from going over a 40-foot drop-off into a chasm where the old brick factory once stood.
Imaginative? Yes. Goofy? Probably. Fun? For me. Practical? Not on your life.
My next bike was, in deed, a 10-speed that was bought for fourty dollars at a garage sale. Since I was poor and thirteen, my then-brother-in-law bought it for me and I paid him back by doing odd jobs around his house. It took forever, it seemed, but was well worth it. That bike, in the end had every accessory known to man. My thirteenth year (1977) found me in the midst of the CB-Radio craze. With an allowance later, I bought an AM/FM/CB Radio that was made for a bike. It added to the pleasure, as well as a speedometer, head and taillight, turn signals, mirrors, a whip antenna, and generator. This bike made several trips across town via side-streets as well as visits to the neighborhood fire station (my hangout) and one very long trip to the other side of town in a different direction.
Gaudy? You bet. Fun? Absolutely. Goofy? Definitely. Would I do it again? You betcha.
Next bike was a 1977 Free Spirit bought for another fourty dollars. It endured two speedometers after I broke the first one that had racked up over 6,000 miles! Also, the Free Spirit was treated to a 12-speed cog-swap that numerically lowered the gear ratios. What this meant was, my hill-climbing “low” gear that originally topped out at about 18 MPH topped out at 25 MPH after the swap. After the Free Spirit, I was given a Peugot racing bike. The Peugot was fast but got faster with a new set of racing cogs. This was the first bike I ever owned that broke the 42-MPH barrier. It endured several grueling experiences not fit for its construction including traversing dirt trails on a rural Stroud, Oklahoma farm.
Fun? Yes. Fast? Yes. Do I miss it? Yes. Would I do it again? Definitely.
Next, was a no-name 10-speed bike which was yellow in color and was owned by myself shortly after getting married the first time. This bike was raced in four Tulsa Hospital-sponsored “Corporate Challenges”, which were developed to bolster health and fitness as well as competition between local businesses. These races were 10 kilometer races around Mohawk Park. The first year, I trained for a few weeks and tried to show off during the race. After the first lap, I appeared to be “pushing bricks” and was extremely worn out after the race. I came in 2nd from last. In the following years, the races were taken more seriously and I came in around 10th place out of some 200 racers.
Fun? Oh, yeah! Would I do it again? Only if I could go faster without collapsing. The marriage? It sucked.
Now, I own a mountain bike with 18 speeds. If I can ever clean the garage enough to get to it, it will again be on the road. This very modest bike is heavily constructed for rough terrain (or for a fat ass like mine), has knobby tires and deep-reduction gearing for steep climbing. This bike’s only luxuries include a water bottle and a speedometer. It has endured top speeds of around 28 MPH with extended cruising speeds of 22 MPH. I’ll get there again; I just need to get into shape and lose about 45 pounds!
Biking for me has been extremely fun, has reduced stress and kept me out f trouble as a kid. Without this hobby, surely my personality would not be as well-rounded as it is now.
The Road
by jonmoney on Aug.30, 2011, under Roads
Remember as a kid (well, some of us…) when you went down to the corner drugstore and went inside to escape the hot Summer day? Remember those ice-cold malts that cost a fraction of what they do today? How about the old drive-in theaters? “Coke” was a drink you could buy out of a vending machine where you lifted the lid, plopped in a quarter and moved the drink through a maze of slots until you got it to the space where you could pull it out right next to where you put your money in… Remember those!?!? I do. I also remember vacationing in Colorado and Wyoming at age 6. Interstates were being built everywhere. I remember travelling on a 2-lane road where off in the distance another two-lane paralelled the one we were on, and in between us was a wide open expanse of land where soon a superhighway would lay. I remember riding on countless miles of Portland cement that made the car’s tires go “Blip-blip-blip” as the tires went over the expansion strips. I remember when Route 66 was real and the signs were still up because it was still a Federal Highway. I remember riding into Old Keystone and hearing Dad talk about the coming of the time when the town would be underwater and part of Oklahoma’s Keystone Lake.
More recently I remember driving on US60 between Pawhuska, Ok. and Ponca City, Ok. The old highway existed to the South. It would appear in it’s grand majesty, laying dormant and rotting away beneath the weeds growing through it’s cracks, it’s center dividing lines were blackened with age. As I drove the lonely trek to Ponca City, I remember my Constant Companion, Old US-60 struggling to keep up. At times it would fade into a farmer’s field as if to say “I’m dying… Please don’t let me die…” Suddenly a lone drainage culvert appeared in the field where the old alignment once was. It’s tall, thick concrete railings rose high from the road bed, towering over the weeds. I used to imagine the white and black striped “caution” signs that marked them. The new alignment, smooth and wide curved grandly through the hills of the Tall Grass Prairie. It seemingly boasted it’s wide shoulders and smooth concrete making travel easy for hordes of tired truckers, minivans full of screaming kids and SUVs full of tree-huggers. Yes, the new road was quite an improvement over the narrow Portland and asphalt that used to connect from Bartlesville to Ponca City. New roads were a necessity; and they came just in time for the Baby-Boomers and their demonspawn.
I have always had an affinity for roads. Old ones made of concrete are best. Big ones that curve around the town squares, and four-lanes that bypass the towns altogether typically suck, in my book. Unfortunately, Interstates have their place in America. They make travel more efficient by going around the small towns and some bigger ones. They have lots of mundane, sterile places to stop and buy something cold to drink. And the person selling you your refreshments is chewing gum and has earrings where I would never even dream of having them. Other features abound, weird hairstyles, ripped and tattered clothing, and an attitude that says “I don’t give a damn about you, now go away so I can call my boy/girlfriend.” Yeah, the big roads are good… Trucks ride your butt and crowd you as they go around you… Tree-huggers in their SUVs complete with bumper-stickers that say “My child is an honor roll student at Miss Bessie’s Day Care” pass you at 90 miles per hour with a cel phone in their ear and a bottle of spring water (bottled in New York) jostling in it’s cupholder. Endless, boring stretches of nothing From Sea to Shining Sea.
This website is dedicated to those old, tired (and some still drive-able) stretches of forgotten two-lanes. Just ask and I will probably be able to tell you a different way to get from “Point A to Point B” (as long as you’re in Oklahoma.) See, we started building roads in 1926. Oklahoma became a state in 1907. Our roads, like many others, curved around the hills and followed creeks and streams because it was cheaper to build them that way. They couldn’t blow through a hill like they do today because there wasn’t enough funds. The road builders could build miles of road compared to blowing up one hill. The bridges were narrower back then because if they made them any wider, they couldn’t build as many. And, the small town’s commerce depended on that meandering two-lane road made of high-quality Portland cement. Most old roads and bridges were funded by the Works Progress Administration. This was an Administration formed by the U.S. Government to put people to work during the depression.
The roads built by those in the depression still yet carried thousands more from their depressed lands in Tennesee, Arkansas, and Oklahoma to California where it’s land promised more than the former had to offer. Realize that it wasn’t just “Okies” that were dirt poor… It was folks from Texas, Kansas, Oklahoma, Arkansas and Missouri, among others. The dust bowl days only added to the agony of the depression. Steinbeck was a real dork for portraying “Okies” as poor and fleeing their grand state. After all, many, many “Okies” stood their ground and rode it out. Those who did were glad they did, and became or remained upstanding Citizens of their towns and state. Needless to say, Steinbeck gave us a bad name.
Back then, a road trip took several days, lots of food, a spare tire or two, a jug of water and a sense of humor. They just don’t build them like they used to, do they?
Forthcoming, you will see a detailed road map from 1928 featuring America’s highway system. You’ll see directions on how to get to some of these now-forgotten stretches. And, if you have a sense of adventure like I do, you just might drive one or two of them.
Stay tuned.
Old Roads And Bridges
by jonmoney on Sep.03, 2010, under Roads
I think it was back in the ’60′s when my family went on vacation to Wyoming, Colorado, and surrounding areas. We took an almost-new ’65 Volkswagen bus to the mountains with our little tent-top camper in tow. I think I was somewhere between four and six years of age when we took that trip; it seemed like it took forever. I remember the road we traveled on was next to a ton of construction that, in later years I figured out was an interstate being built at the time. When we returned from the trip filled with geysers, mountains, and salt water taffy, I began making road pictures. Years later, while invoking skills learned from a lesson in art class, I mixed vehicles with roads and did a really cool 2-point perspective drawing of a moving van driving down a highway. I recall I made a pretty decent grade on it; but my love of roads didn’t dwindle there.
Back when I worked for an electrical supply company, I used to drive a big, honkin’ huge 5-ton International stake bed truck with a drop-axle out back, air ride seat, 5-speed transmission with two-speed axle, and an air horn that the kids on the road always wanted me to honk. It ran a gut-blistering 63-1/2 miles per hour and got 8.28 miles per gallon sipping diesel and spinning a turbo all the while. I drove all over the state when the speed limit was a double-nickel and couldn’t pass a flock of geese flying in a head wind… But I sure loved that ol’ truck. I logged several hundred thousand miles driving the two-lanes of Oklahoma. Come rain, snow, tornadoes, hail, high winds, or blistering heat, there I was in that ol’ ’89 International screaming down the two-lanes at 63-1/2 miles per hour. Years later I graduated to a brand new ’94 Freightliner and 48′ flatbed trailer. We lumbered down the roads in high gear at a sleepy 1200 RPMs and 70 MPH but still made a side-trip or three down an old stretch of concrete every now and then.
Sometimes I would get bored or need to find an outdoor bathroom (usually consisted of a small grove of trees or behind an abandoned structure) and I would take off on an old stretch of concrete. It was narrow, sometimes bumpy, usually an old bridge or two… Sometimes the old road would call out to me like an old friend saying “Hey, C’mere and check this out…” I’d travel that stretch of old ribbon; and it was like a wrinkled old person reaching out a hand to say “Lemme tell you a story…” I’d see gnarled old trees, rusted old trucks, run down buildings and houses and imagined once upon a time kids playing out in the front yard or walking down to the corner store… Not a care in the world except what time dinner was and not to be late or they’d get a “whoopin’…” Good times… That old road would curve around first left and then right as if to say “Look at this… And ain’t this real cool lookin’…” I’d curve around hills and through the woods past creeks that ran clear and cold. Nothing here but me, my truck and a strip of forgotten highway anxious to show me its beauty.
I’ve traveled literally every foot of new and old Route 66 in Oklahoma and Kansas. But hey, 66 isn’t the only road; it’s the Mother Road that started it all, this is true… But others have showed me many great views: US70, US69, US75, OK51, OK33, US64 and US62 just to name a few. I could go on for days talking about these old “folks” long since retired from carrying carloads of families on vacations, tired truckers and wartime heroes coming home to start a new family. I got to imagine it all while driving on these old roads and eating chicken salad sandwiches, honey roasted cashews and drinking ice-cold Dr. Peppers. I had a front-row seat to the greatest historical movie of all times.
After I graduated from my truck driving job and moved up into sales and automation equipment, I missed the old road so badly that I would take trips just to take pictures of the old concrete, faded stripes and signposts void of any highway signs… At one point I made a video… I even developed my own map-making program on my old and archaic Radio Shack Color Computer… I started writing a book about old forgotten highways… None of this satisfied my hunger for driving the old concrete ribbon and seeing history thriving at its dirt shoulders. I don’t think anything will ever satisfy that hunger- That innate desire to see the sights; to see the concrete rise and fall and angle left and right. To cross over narrow steel truss bridges spanning muddy rivers that cut through the countryside… Old concrete that people once moved along to get somewhere, now moves me.
If you ever see an old stretch of concrete and you have a minute, pull off and slow down… Roll down your window, turn off the AC and take a deep breath. Listen to the sound of peace and quiet and let the road take you back to when things were less complicated.
My Good Ol’ Truck
by jonmoney on Sep.03, 2010, under Uncategorized
Back when I worked for Carlton-Bates, I befriended a Customer named “Rod”. He was this tall, lanky guy with more brains than hair on his head. He was your typical engineer-type… Not much in the people-skills department. In fact, if you didn’t know him very well, he came across as crass and arrogant but that wasn’t his intent; it was just the way he communicated. Ol’ Rod was a brainiac. He could take a bunch of automation parts and make ‘em stand up and do a dance. He was a big-time Delphi programmer and wrote his own SCADA system (“SCADA” stands for (S)upervisory (C)ontrol (A)nd (D)ata (A)cquisition.) It was such the success that he marketed it and sold it to several water and wastewater treatment plants. He could program a PLC (“PLC” stands for (P)rogrammable (L)ogic (C)ontroller) like ringing a bell. I remember getting him involved in several projects over the years. He did an excellent job every time and wasn’t slow about it, either. In fact, he’d have the program written and ready to load into the equipment before it arrived at my office for delivery to him.
Rod was pretty special… One time I was following him to a job and he stopped at an intersection, threw his van in “park” and ran back to my van and gave me a cigarette. He said “I knew you were out; thought I’d give you one right quick…” That was the same day the Federal Building was bombed and 168 innocent people lost their lives. We were 25 miles away and it felt and sounded like it was on the next block.
One day in March of 1996, I had to go by his house and drop some plans off for a project. In his driveway sat an old ’68 Chevy Camaro. It had over 200K miles on it and he bragged that he had never changed the clutch in it. It was your typical base car with a 6-cylinder and a 3-speed for motivation. I asked him if he had ever thought of selling it and he asked “What would you give me for it?” Don’t you hate it when you’re faced with such a question in a situation like this? Of course, being the modest guy I was, I said “YOU tell me what you want for it.” He said “Five hundred dollars.” You could imagine the bruises and scrapes on my chin as it fell and bounced about 4 times on the concrete sidewalk. I said “SOLD! I’ll be back this weekend with a trailer and the money.”
That weekend I showed up with $500.00, my ’95 extended cab short bed Chevy pickup with my now-late-ex-wife and a trailer, not necessarily in that order. Rod met me at the door with a rather perplexed look on his face… “My wife won’t let me sell it. She wants me to restore it for our daughter…” How do you argue with that? I said “Well, what else do you have for sale?” He said “I have a ’56 Chevy pickup out at my Daddy’s…” (Rod was a brain and arrogantly crass, yet referred to his dad as “Daddy”…)
So we went out to his Dad’s with money, late ex wife and trailer in tow and there it was… An old Chevy stepside pickup with the hood off, no engine, all the glass intact and in excellent shape, and with exception to where some weeds rubbed up against it when the breeze blew, the ol’ truck was in pretty good shape. So, I bought it. Rod told me a story behind the truck. He said “This was my truck when I was in high school. It was the first vehicle I ever owned… I’m selling it to you with the condition that you don’t ‘Jerry rig’ it…” Remember this; it’ll come in handy here in a little bit…
All the way home, my now-late-ex-wife would look out the back glass of the pickup at the Detroit iron in tow, then look at me and glare… “I can’t believe you wasted your money on THAT…” Oh, well, it was next to what I really wanted to buy and it was to be my last hot rod so… Sue me, divorce me, whatever… This is MY project and I’m gonna do it…
Upon careful inspection, I had determined that the orange extension cord that was hooked to the trailer light wiring harness needed to go, as did the arm rests made out of what appeared to be barn wood. Upon removing the arm rests, I spotted what appeared to be windshield wiper motors that were somehow rigged to the window crank mechanisms on both doors. “Those were a couple of wiper motors out of a couple of 1961 Chevy Impalas. I read an article on how to make electric window motors out of ‘em…” He exclaimed. “Nice…” I thought… “86 the motors, we’re going with crank windows…” I removed the yellow shag carpeting and found lamp cords running along the floor board to somewhere underneath the seats. “Oh, that was for the power seat. It came out of a ’47 Cadillac…” I asked, “Rod, where did you get the transmission crossmember and engine mounts?” He said “I made ‘em out of half inch tank iron.” Apparently that four-bolt Chevy small block was quite the animal in its day… I retained the engine mounting hardware and crossmember. He used the 2-3 shift linkage from the 3-speed column shifter to shift the automatic transmission, which was still hanging in the tunnel via a piece of nylon strap. One thing I still have yet to repair is the gargantuan hole in the firewall where he had concocted, built and plumbed his own home-grown heater and AC unit. He used a squirrel cage motor attached to the air vent on the passengers side kick panel. The squirrel cage fan motor hung underneath the fender above and just behind the front tire where all kinds of mud, water, rocks and other road debris had collected in the bearings of the fan motor… Needless to say, it was shot…
For the next two years, the truck sat in the driveway while I procured the parts that would bring it to life. At one point I was going to put some Chevy Corsica bucket seats in it but they didn’t mount in a fashion that fit my liking so I bought a ’89 Chevy Silverado 60-40 bench seat and it fit right in. A neighbor sold me a 4-bolt Chevy 350 out of his ’71 pickup that was long overdue for an overhaul. Alan Barnes did the honors of overhauling the engine. He got a hernia, had it operated on, and recovered from the operation while the engine was getting rebuilt. I helped him on it. He got a set of ’85 truck heads and rebuilt them with new stainless valves and put a 3-angle valve job on them. He found and bought a box of parts that included two camshafts, a carburetor, intake manifold, and distributor for $50.00 from a fellow fire fighter. I took the carb and distributor and rebuilt both. After the same amount of time it takes to conceive, carry and deliver a baby, Alan delivered the newly rebuilt engine. What took nine months to rebuild took all of nine minutes to install in the eagerly waiting, freshly painted engine bay.
During all this excitement, Rod got a divorce and had remarried to his high school sweetheart.
The next day, the rebuilt distributor went in and rebuilt carb went on. As I cranked the engine over, I saw gas spitting on the windshield. I always did a good job rebuilding Rochester Quadrajets, but this one wasn’t one for the books. I tossed it in the garbage and installed a brand new Edelbrock carb on it and it fired right up with open headers.
Not wanting to drive it with no exhaust, I bent up some coat hanger wires in the shape of the pipes and had them bent and collectors welded on. Then I bolted up mufflers and proceeded to break it in. There wasn’t a radiator but with the help of Lonnie at Tulsa Radiator, we came up with a bolt-in 3-core unit made for a ’69 Camaro. A 7-blade fan from a ’76 Chevy Van and heavy duty fan clutch rounded out the install complete with a fan shroud out of a ’63 Buick Skylark. A rebuilt tranny was next; I bought it from Action Transmissions and bolted it in. I used a driveshaft out of a ’71 Chevy short wheelbase van. While the truck was running, the 7-blade fan and fan clutch made such a racket, you thought a jet was taking off… It sucked so much air thru the radiator, it was unreal.
I needed new wheels and tires, so I went and saw “Digger” at Hesselbein Tires. $800.01 later, I had new 6-lug Centerline wheels and new tires. I rebuilt the wheel brake cylinders and master cylinder, bent and installed new brake lines, filled and bled the brake system and we were ready to go. Obviously, Rod was always informed of any progress made on the truck. He was excited, and wanted to see it.
During my regular showing off, I revved the engine to about 5500 in “Low” and it started missing. I found a rocker arm had come loose. I replaced a push rod, tightened the rocker and two weeks later, did the same thing again. THAT’S when I noticed that one of the rocker studs had pulled out and the part of the head it was pressed into was cracked in three places. Off to Gran Prix Racing to pick up a set of Dart II Sportsman heads… Oh, what a difference $1200.00 makes… later I changed the rearend gears out and that brought the engine speed down from 3800 RPMs at 70 MPH to roughly 2800 at the same speed.
Four years later I repainted it. The chubby tires and wide wheels gave the Chebby a “chubby” appearance, so it was nicknamed “The Chub.” The name stuck like glue. The weekend after repainting it, I learned Rod had passed away quite unexpectedly. He had been having problems with his blood sugar and had passed out a few times in his shop. Diabetes claimed his life during the night and he had apparently got up to get something to eat, passed out and the rest is history. His wife was away at the time.
I drove the Chub to his funeral. After the funeral was over and he was laid to rest, I gave his wife a ride back to her house. She cried the whole way. “Yeah, I’m gonna miss him, too…” She said “You don’t understand, we courted in this truck… This is the best gift anyone could ever give me.” Now lemme ask you this: Could YOU ever sell or part with a truck that had this kind of history? I sure can’t.
Ol’ “Chubs” and I have been through 97 different kinds of “hell” over the years… We’ve seen good times and bad. One thing is for sure, the truck is special and I’ll have it from now on.
Books…
by jonmoney on Sep.03, 2010, under Uncategorized
It was a hot Summer day sometime in July of ’72… I went swimming at Whiteside Park in midtown Tulsa with my older brother, Steve, as I always did that year. I was at the ripe old age of eight and brimming with curiosity and a desire to want to learn about anything and everything that caught my eye. I didn’t feel like I had many friends in school but over the years and through Facebook, I would learn that my peers really WERE my friends; I was just my own worst enemy…
At the pool, my brother would flirt with the girls and try to act like “Mr. Stud”…Me? I would splash around and enjoy the cold clear water. I taught myself to swim that year, first by going underwater and then opening my eyes and moving my arms and legs around… Swimming on my back proved to be a bit of a challenge but over time I perfected that, too…
Then it happened… SHE caught my eye… She was tall, brunette, tanned and looking at me, smiling. SHE was the lifeguard. We became friends, although I was too shy to say much of anything for fear of saying something stupid. It turned out her name was “Jane” and she attended college at OSU. This was her Summer job, watching over little kids like me, while we all squealed and splashed in the huge 2-foot deep wading pool. I remember I would get so sunburned and even got sick once from my overexposure to the sun. However, once I recovered, it didn’t stop me from going to the big blue oasis just down the road from my home on South Richmond.
Summer ended and Jane left for school; but not before I got her address and phone number. We stayed in touch while she was away. I was so bored and wanted to pass the time between homework and chores; so I started writing. My first “book” was entitled “When I Was At The Pool”. It chronicled my days spent at the big blue pool, learning to swim, Jane, and all my dreams stemming from those subjects. The “book” was several sheets of typing paper folded down the middle and stapled together down the middle. It was written in pencil and illustrated in crayon. I wasn’t the world’s best artist so my pictures were few and far between. After the first book was finished, I wrote a second. It was Christmas of 1972 when I started writing “When Will They Come Back?” a book about my days at the pool and the lifeguards I befriended while there. (We seem to be developing a pattern here…)
Over the years, I wrote several more “books” comprised of typing paper or looseleaf notebook paper. All manuscripts were of the same construction: Folded down the middle and stapled in three places to form a “book”. Some manuscripts were more like comic books and others were a very bad attempt at writing music… See, when I played in the back yard, I would sing and make my own songs… I longed to be able to write down and compose the music in my head; a style that was a cross between opera and church choir music… The composition in my head was flawless, beautiful and ever flowing; but when I went to put it on paper, the music would fade away.
During my years growing up, I became interested in electronics and started building my own projects out of spare parts… I was writing my own schematic diagrams at age eleven and was poised to take over the technology frontier by storm. Then the bad times came: I endured a divorce between my parents, at times lived in poverty, and suffered bullying from my peers… But my outlet to all of this was my books… I would write about everything, it seemed; and some of those books screamed fear, hatred, love, swimming, or just mindless drivel that only a preteen could conjure up… In 1975, I had written over 50 books and had befriended a deacon at the church whose brother was high up at Oklahoma University. At age eleven, I became an honorary member of the OU Literary Guild.
By 1984, I had written of many failed relationships, including one I was in at the time when the house I was living in had caught fire and destroyed all but 10 of the books… Still impoverished, I continued to write until 1987 when the road caught my eye. At the time,I had thought no one would ever read anything with a somewhat “spotty” plot, no climax and no moral to the story… Writing about roads was no exception, but I continued to write about them because they had a story to tell: Miles and miles of concrete mixed by people and machines, its path cleared by the same people, now lay dormant to be forgotten and overtaken by weeds and brush… The road tells a story. I just look, listen, and write about what it reveals to me. Many revelations are more than just the slab; they include the spirit of the land and that unforgettable smell of Oklahoma breezes that accompany the winding narrow path of Portland concrete and faded stripes…
My writing continues today but it is limited to a form you see here: Sort of “bloggy”, if you will… Maybe I’ll sit down and write something worthy of publishing someday… It is on my list of things to do before I part with this life. For now, I hope you enjoy my notes and can glean something from them.
Bangin’ Gears and Truckin’ Along
by jonmoney on Sep.03, 2010, under Roads
It was during the volatile, stormy springtime back in the ’90s. I got the call around 12:20AM. Several tornadoes had torn through Northeast Oklahoma and left many without housing, belongings, or electricity. The latter item I was called to help rebuild. I hopped in my eagerly awaiting Chevy Van, my trusted companion, my faithful steed. My Chevy Van and I came to know each other through a trade of sorts. I’ll save the transaction for another note… The good ol’ Chevy always got excited at a mere tip of the throttle; working itself into a frenzy as it shifted through the gears. It wasn’t a smooth ride one would expect from a van; it shifted late and hard; sometimes giving the tires an opportunity to “bark” when it shifted into the next gear. Its 350 V-8 was strong and reliable; definitely one of the better “good guys” General Motors had machined and assembled. I worked for an electrical supplier where I drove “The Big Green Weenie”… A ’92 Freightliner trimmed in shades of green and gold, with equal amounts of brawn to match its all-business good looks… Chrome wheels, long wheelbase, fiberglass ground effects abound; the brute had a hunkered down look that said “Move or I’ll move ya!” Arriving at the warehouse, there was already a decent handful of folks rushing around in a frenzy. The phones were ringing with orders coming in from electric cooperatives everywhere needing cross-arms, wire, insulators, lag bolts and the like. The big green truck sat dormant, ready to work, ready to pounce on the concrete slabs that would carry me to the desperate folks in need.
I rushed into the office and opened the key cabinet and grabbed the keys. Out to the yard I walked, at a quickened pace. I opened the gate and climbed up the steps of the Green Goliath and unlocked the door. Into the seat I climbed, amidst the familiar smell of leather and tobacco leaves. The air ride seat gently sank as I nestled into the cab; its strong steel cabin surrounded me with a feeling of comfort, business and power. I took the small key, inserted it into the ignition switch and twisted it clockwise. The dashboard came to life with several warning lights and buzzers all going through a test mode of warnings. One more click clockwise and the starter engaged briefly. The big beast woke up with a grumble and a poof of black smoke. I turned on the parking lights and then the headlights. My air pressure was low from sitting overnight, but it was building as the big 425 HP Caterpillar engine idled at 600 RPMs while rattling everything in the cab. I hopped out and checked the lights. It was a long walk to the back of the 48′ flatbed trailer. The trailer lights glowed on the back of the trailer as it sat quietly attached to the truck. Meanwhile the engine was 60 feet away idling away charging the air tanks and waiting for its job to start.
A quick inspection of the front of the truck revealed all the lights were working properly, nothing was leaking, no hissing noises from any air lines… We were clear for take-off…Almost… Still waiting on the air pressure… There were two air tanks on the truck as is the case on most: A “service air” tank used for stopping and a “emergency air” tank used for “just in case” times… I grabbed the handrail on the side of the cab and pulled myself up as I climbed the steps on the side of the frame… Open the door again and climb in… One air pressure gauge read 110 PSI and the other 100… Time to release the parking brakes and trailer brakes… I pushed in on the red and yellow knobs on the dash. The knobs allowed air pressure to flow from the tanks to the brakes. A brake system on a truck works like so: The lines stay charged keeping the brakes unlocked. Any sudden loss of air pressure and the brakes come on, bringing the big beast to a stop.
I grabbed the shifter, a long steel stalk rising from the middle of the floor and pulled it sideways toward me. There were two switches on the shift knob; they are used to “split” the gears… I made sure that the switches were in their correct positions, pushed in on the clutch and pulled the shifter down into 3rd gear; sufficient for launching a truck with an empty trailer. I felt the cogs in the transmission grind a tooth or two as they engaged. Then I eased out on the clutch. As I felt the clutch begin to engage, I started giving the Cat engine a little throttle. Then, like nothing I can describe, the cab and truck body pulled up on one side as I throttled up. We’re moving… 5 miles per hour, 1600 RPMs, air pressure building back up to setpoint, full fuel tank, 80 pounds of oil pressure… I hear the turbo spin up briefly as the engine grunts up to speed and then the turbo spins down again… 65 feet of rig just cleared the gate I opened moments ago.
As quickly as I could back in to the loading dock, there was a flurry of excitement around the trailer. One fork truck loaded several bundles of cross arms while another was driving onto the trailer with first, wooden spools of wire, then pallets of hardware for rebuilding power lines. There was an aroma of diesel, diesel smoke, and propane exhaust as the loading continues. I walked in, grabbed my clipboard and log book, and by the time I walked back out again the trailer was fully loaded and tied off… I inspected the tie downs and climbed into the cab of the truck and nestled in for a 50-mile trip at 1:30AM. Much heavier than before, I pushed in the parking brakes, grabbed the shifter, pushed in the clutch and dropped it into granny low. I eased out on the clutch and as I felt it engage, throttled up and once again the truck torqued hard to one side as 425 ponies came to life. 1600 RPMs, I shifted into 2nd gear, no clutch, the speedometer barely moved off “zero”. Second gear, 1600 RPMs, shift again… 3rd gear, now just leaving the parking lot… The turbo is singing a song now as the Cat motor pulls the load. Now in fourth, the turbo really spins up and I hit a gut blistering 15 miles per hour. 5th gear, 25 miles per, turbo spinning hard; we’re starting to move a little easier now… I flip the switch on the side of the shifter, then move it back into what used to be second gear, now is sixth. I feel the cool damp air rushing in the cab now and hear the whistle of the turbo echoing off the sides of the buildings as I drive by. Even though there is only 500 RPMs difference between one gear and the next, the speed gathers quicker in the higher gears. 7th gear,, 45 MPH… 8th gear, 55 MPH. 9th gear, 65 MPH… Fast enough for 80,000 pounds of cross arms, wire and hardware… The other switch not yet flipped allows for more gear shifting and higher speeds…
Out on the highway, Tulsa’s street lights and highway lights lit up the asphalt ribbon before me. With each passing light in the rear view mirror, the shadows of the straps moved across the boxes and cross arms at half the speed in the opposite direction… Lightning flashed behind me as the tornadic storms moved away from the area… The rain cooled air felt refreshing and smelled sweet; but it was horrible, the price people paid hours earlier for this sweet and cool smell… We snaked through downtown Tulsa’s maze of ribbons… US64, SH51, US75, then I-244… Then back onto US64 again, parting with Downtown Tulsa at a sure and steady pace… Leaving Sand Springs, the road grew dark with only an occasional faint glimmer of light from a distant light pole… Each passing mile brought me closer to the co-op where there was a team of men waiting with fork lifts, pallet jacks, and the like. With each mile, the hills got longer and steeper. The turbo responded with a long, high pitched whistle that seemed to keep climbing in pitch and intensity. I watched the temperature gauge but it never climbed past 200 degrees. The engine lumbered along at 1600 RPMs, happy as a lark, or so it seemed… But this was a mission of re-supply during a time of emergency… No happy larks, here…
As the miles ticked by, the damage became more evident. I was familiar with the area and knew my exit was near… Whoops! Hit the brakes NOW!!! I almost missed my exit because there was no sign, no dividing fence… Apparently this is where the twister had crossed over the highway destroying everything in its path and leaving nothing in its wake… It is pitch black, no lights, no cars… Very eerie feeling… I arrived at the co-op some eight or nine miles off the four lane. It was lit up with power from electric generators; some big and some small; the noise of diesel gen sets was everywhere. Armed with gloves and a steel bar to release the ratcheting mechanisms that held the straps on my load, I hopped out, unstrapped and a flurry of men rushed over with forklifts to get me unloaded. As quick as I arrived, I was unloaded and the sun was coming up. It was then that I realized the devastation. To this day almost 20 years later I will not forget the pieces of homes strewn about, overturned vehicles, and most heart-wrenching, childrens’ clothing hanging from the trees next to the highway. I could only hope and pray that no one lost their life in this storm.
I stayed busy all weekend and into the next week running loads of hardware in the big Freightliner… The little 5-ton International sat alone in the yard as if it were saying “Hey, what about me?” Relax, yard truck, the road truck has this one covered…
You Just Can’t Fix Stupid!
by jonmoney on May.03, 2010, under Uncategorized
My Aunt shared this with me; thought I would share it here… Thanks, Aunt Sylvia!!!
I was driving when I saw the flash of a traffic camera. I figured that my picture had been taken for exceeding the limit even though I knew that I was not speeding. Just to be sure, I went around the block and passed the same spot, driving even more slowly, but again the camera flashed. Now I began to think that this was quite funny, so I drove even slower as I passed the area once more, but the traffic camera again flashed. I tried a fourth and fifth time with the same results and was now laughing as the camera flashed while I rolled past at a snail’s pace. Two weeks later, I got five tickets in the mail for driving without a seat belt. You know, you just can’t fix stupid.
