I was fifty seven years old and newly retired. Lori and I celebrated my completion as an educator to inmates in two state prisons for almost twenty-nine years by taking a trip to Alaska. I drove our Buick from Waupun to Bellingham, Washington, with my Wisconsin-made Trek 620 touring bicycle strapped to a bike carrier, attached to the car's trunk. In Bellingham, Lori, I, and our car boarded the Alaska ferry and sailed to a number of ports, including Alaska's land locked capital city of Juneau, and finally to our destination of Haines. With our car returned to us, we drove to Anchorage and met daughter Shelley and son-in-law Bret, who flew there from Wisconsin, our Christmas present to them.
The four of us did some sightseeing for a couple of weeks. After visiting Denali National Park and going through it on a bus with a tour guide, we drove down to Seward in order for Bret and me to do some deep sea fishing. A strong wind produced white caps everywhere. Would you believe this old salt who spent four years in the U. S. Navy got sea sick? Embarrassing to say the least.
Then, the day arrived for us to say our goodbyes. I removed the Trek from the back of the Buick, attached the front and rear panniers to the side of the wheels and filled them with clothes, pots and pans, fishing gear, water purifying tablets, books, camera, plenty of rice, oatmeal, peanut butter, and one loaf of my homemade bread. I strapped the tent and sleeping bag and air mattress on the top of the rear carrier. Finally, I waved goodbye to my family. Although I felt pretty darned good about my trip, I also felt concern for what could happen. I did not want to become a grizzly bear's snack. My family headed back to Haines in the Buick in order to meet the ferry for the return trip to Bellingham.
That was over eighteen years ago. It was on that thousands of miles and one hundred day trip that I changed my mind about taking my next planned bike foray that was going to take me from Shanghai, China, to Lisbon, Portugal. Its length and poor roads would be difficult enough, but the main reason for declining to take that trip was my being alone without family or friends for months on end. Added to that was my lack of being able to either understand or speak the various languages of the countries through which I'd be travelling. From experience, I knew I'd be in a bit of trouble.
Prior to the Alaska trip, Lori and I biked most of Europe until she got too sick to continue. We started at the Schiphol airport outside of Amsterdam, Holland. Although many Europeans speak English, whenever we got lost, I ended up seeking out people who couldn't speak a lick of American English. After about two weeks on that European venture, Lori became deathly ill as we biked through Belgium, France, and then Germany. Since I had minored in German in undergraduate school, I thought I could converse with the natives. Wrong. I could hardly understand them. The problem: I had learned High German in my college classes by reading German literature. I had not learned the everyday expressions as I should have. It was more my fault than my teacher's.
Most people readily use untranslatable expressions in their everyday language. For example, after a hard day's work, we might say, "Man, am I beat." Foreigners who had not studied our expressions would not understand that statement at all.
I soon learned I had to locate a doctor quickly because only a doctor could admit a patient to a hospital in that country. In the small town of Bad Ems, I finally located a man who practiced his treatment of people's ills with herbs. I didn't believe herbs were going to help Lori, but the herbalist was able to get Lori admitted into the town's singular hospital, or Krankenhaus. Once Lori was admitted, I found a real M.D. to take care of her. Lori was going to die if it wasn't discovered what was shutting down her body, one organ at a time, but that's yet another story for another blog.
Thus, I felt language difficulties in the Orient would be insurmountable, and since I normally bike alone, except when Lori traveled with me, I was concerned about being robbed, or worse, in the various countries through which I'd be traveling. So, as far as I was concerned, long distance biking was out.
So, what was I going to do during the next phase of my life? I certainly didn't want to ceaselessly watch the boob tube or plunk my butt on a bar stool at a gin mill, listening to country music and drinking my life away. A rocking chair was definitely out. So, having plenty of time to think while I was on my solo ride, I asked myself, "What is it I really enjoyed?"
Long distance cycling was still number one, but that was not a consideration. I enjoyed photography. I even made money at it for a number of years. Writing creatively was a possibility. Then, I remembered: Cars. Cars had been a very large part of my life during my youth and into my twenties. In my thirties, I took my kids to the Union Grove drag strip in order to watch the famous Big Daddy Garlits run one of his many iterations of Swamp Rat down the quarter mile.
Fact is, I'd been a car nut as long as I could remember. On my eleventh birthday in 1950, I bought my first copy of "Hot Rod" magazine at a Wisconsin Rapids store called "Your Record Shop." Since that time, I've been a subscriber for many, many years. Added to Hot Rod, I also subscribe to a half dozen other periodicals devoted to car repair, Mustangs, street rods, drag strip racers, inline six vehicles, and classic pickup trucks of the 1950's.
I always wanted to build my own hot rod ever since Gene Forstner, a boy a bit older than I, transformed a 1930's Ford roadster into a hot rod. Gene was the son of a local musician and abstract expressionist who used everyday objects attached to his oil paintings, including gluing clothes pins to a black background, painting a few black, some red, a number of them yellow, and the rest white, entitling the piece, "Integration." It was meant to make a statement. Gene devoted his own creative skills at building beautiful custom cars and driving the snot out of them. When he was sixteen and I was fourteen, a picture of Gene and his roadster, accompanied by a human interest story about him and his parents, made the front page of the Daily Tribune. Gene was, indeed, talented. I was not. At least, that's what I had concluded at age fourteen after I ordered a cheap "buzz" welder, advertised on the inside back cover of "Hot Rod." It was an arc or "stick" welder and could be had for $29.95. I used some of my savings to buy one. Soon, it arrived along with three welding rods, or sticks, and a pamphlet with directions.
After I hurriedly read the pamphlet, I found a piece of steel in our garage, plugged my welder into an electrical outlet, and I struck the rod against the steel, instantly discovering why it was called "stick" welding. That rod sparked when it met the piece of steel and at once stuck to the steel, fused. No matter how hard I tried to remove it, bending it this way, and then that way, it would not budge or break. Alas, the stick was stuck. I figured I did something wrong. So, I read the pamphlet again. And for good measure, I read it once more. Okay, I figured, three times reading that booklet made me a pro. I attached the second rod to the welder's holder. I struck the rod perfectly to the steel, according to the written directions. It sparked. And instantly stuck. I could remove that rod no more than the first one. Finally, as in a dirty joke, I picked up the third and last rod and spoke to it. "You have to weld, or else." Unfortunately, the rod opted for "or else." Now I knew why it was called stick welding.
When I returned home from completing my Alaska trip, I enrolled in a one-year Moraine Park Technical College welding course in Fond du Lac. Since I had passed my fifty-fifth birthday, I didn't have to pay any tuition. Being a senior citizen in Wisconsin does have its benefits. I paid a total of eight dollars plus I had to buy two books. The other students, young men and women, paid over nine hundred dollars just for class tuition. Our instructor had worked in a number of industries as a welder. Displaying his expertise, he perfectly welded together two empty aluminum Coca Cola cans. Besides being a premier welder, he was also an excellent teacher. The class first had to learn how to weld with an oxy-acetylene torch. We learned the basics, how to spark the flame "alive" and then how to make the flame hottest in order to fuse one piece of steel to another. "Do you see the puddle?" the instructor asked the class. Everyone but me answered with a big fat "Yes."
"Uh-uh," I answered.
Quickly, the instructor approached me. "Since you're an old fart," he said with a grin, "you might have to use a lighter lens." He reached into a bin and pulled out a lighter pair of welding goggles. "Here, these might work for you." After putting them on, I could finally see the liquid puddle of steel form under my torch's blue flame. 'I can see it," I said. "I can see the puddle." The instructor patted me on the back. At that moment, I gained a tad of confidence. Perhaps I could learn how to weld. After class members and I were able to fuse a large number of pieces of steel with the oxygen-acetylene torch, we moved on to Arc, or stick welding. With my teacher's excellent instructions and after forty three long years, I was finally able to stick weld without the rod sticking to the steel. In fact, the teacher one day gave my finished weld high praise in front of the class. "Not bad for an old fart," he said.
During the following months, MIG and finally TIG welding followed. After the year of classes was finished, my instructor shook my hand and told me, "Well, George, you should be able to build your hot rod now."
"Thanks to you," I said. I then told him about my teenage experience with the buzz welder. I've not often heard a man laugh as loud and long as he. He wished me good luck. I was now ready to begin the next phase of my retirement.
The four of us did some sightseeing for a couple of weeks. After visiting Denali National Park and going through it on a bus with a tour guide, we drove down to Seward in order for Bret and me to do some deep sea fishing. A strong wind produced white caps everywhere. Would you believe this old salt who spent four years in the U. S. Navy got sea sick? Embarrassing to say the least.
Then, the day arrived for us to say our goodbyes. I removed the Trek from the back of the Buick, attached the front and rear panniers to the side of the wheels and filled them with clothes, pots and pans, fishing gear, water purifying tablets, books, camera, plenty of rice, oatmeal, peanut butter, and one loaf of my homemade bread. I strapped the tent and sleeping bag and air mattress on the top of the rear carrier. Finally, I waved goodbye to my family. Although I felt pretty darned good about my trip, I also felt concern for what could happen. I did not want to become a grizzly bear's snack. My family headed back to Haines in the Buick in order to meet the ferry for the return trip to Bellingham.
That was over eighteen years ago. It was on that thousands of miles and one hundred day trip that I changed my mind about taking my next planned bike foray that was going to take me from Shanghai, China, to Lisbon, Portugal. Its length and poor roads would be difficult enough, but the main reason for declining to take that trip was my being alone without family or friends for months on end. Added to that was my lack of being able to either understand or speak the various languages of the countries through which I'd be travelling. From experience, I knew I'd be in a bit of trouble.
Prior to the Alaska trip, Lori and I biked most of Europe until she got too sick to continue. We started at the Schiphol airport outside of Amsterdam, Holland. Although many Europeans speak English, whenever we got lost, I ended up seeking out people who couldn't speak a lick of American English. After about two weeks on that European venture, Lori became deathly ill as we biked through Belgium, France, and then Germany. Since I had minored in German in undergraduate school, I thought I could converse with the natives. Wrong. I could hardly understand them. The problem: I had learned High German in my college classes by reading German literature. I had not learned the everyday expressions as I should have. It was more my fault than my teacher's.
Most people readily use untranslatable expressions in their everyday language. For example, after a hard day's work, we might say, "Man, am I beat." Foreigners who had not studied our expressions would not understand that statement at all.
I soon learned I had to locate a doctor quickly because only a doctor could admit a patient to a hospital in that country. In the small town of Bad Ems, I finally located a man who practiced his treatment of people's ills with herbs. I didn't believe herbs were going to help Lori, but the herbalist was able to get Lori admitted into the town's singular hospital, or Krankenhaus. Once Lori was admitted, I found a real M.D. to take care of her. Lori was going to die if it wasn't discovered what was shutting down her body, one organ at a time, but that's yet another story for another blog.
Thus, I felt language difficulties in the Orient would be insurmountable, and since I normally bike alone, except when Lori traveled with me, I was concerned about being robbed, or worse, in the various countries through which I'd be traveling. So, as far as I was concerned, long distance biking was out.
So, what was I going to do during the next phase of my life? I certainly didn't want to ceaselessly watch the boob tube or plunk my butt on a bar stool at a gin mill, listening to country music and drinking my life away. A rocking chair was definitely out. So, having plenty of time to think while I was on my solo ride, I asked myself, "What is it I really enjoyed?"
Long distance cycling was still number one, but that was not a consideration. I enjoyed photography. I even made money at it for a number of years. Writing creatively was a possibility. Then, I remembered: Cars. Cars had been a very large part of my life during my youth and into my twenties. In my thirties, I took my kids to the Union Grove drag strip in order to watch the famous Big Daddy Garlits run one of his many iterations of Swamp Rat down the quarter mile.
Fact is, I'd been a car nut as long as I could remember. On my eleventh birthday in 1950, I bought my first copy of "Hot Rod" magazine at a Wisconsin Rapids store called "Your Record Shop." Since that time, I've been a subscriber for many, many years. Added to Hot Rod, I also subscribe to a half dozen other periodicals devoted to car repair, Mustangs, street rods, drag strip racers, inline six vehicles, and classic pickup trucks of the 1950's.
I always wanted to build my own hot rod ever since Gene Forstner, a boy a bit older than I, transformed a 1930's Ford roadster into a hot rod. Gene was the son of a local musician and abstract expressionist who used everyday objects attached to his oil paintings, including gluing clothes pins to a black background, painting a few black, some red, a number of them yellow, and the rest white, entitling the piece, "Integration." It was meant to make a statement. Gene devoted his own creative skills at building beautiful custom cars and driving the snot out of them. When he was sixteen and I was fourteen, a picture of Gene and his roadster, accompanied by a human interest story about him and his parents, made the front page of the Daily Tribune. Gene was, indeed, talented. I was not. At least, that's what I had concluded at age fourteen after I ordered a cheap "buzz" welder, advertised on the inside back cover of "Hot Rod." It was an arc or "stick" welder and could be had for $29.95. I used some of my savings to buy one. Soon, it arrived along with three welding rods, or sticks, and a pamphlet with directions.
After I hurriedly read the pamphlet, I found a piece of steel in our garage, plugged my welder into an electrical outlet, and I struck the rod against the steel, instantly discovering why it was called "stick" welding. That rod sparked when it met the piece of steel and at once stuck to the steel, fused. No matter how hard I tried to remove it, bending it this way, and then that way, it would not budge or break. Alas, the stick was stuck. I figured I did something wrong. So, I read the pamphlet again. And for good measure, I read it once more. Okay, I figured, three times reading that booklet made me a pro. I attached the second rod to the welder's holder. I struck the rod perfectly to the steel, according to the written directions. It sparked. And instantly stuck. I could remove that rod no more than the first one. Finally, as in a dirty joke, I picked up the third and last rod and spoke to it. "You have to weld, or else." Unfortunately, the rod opted for "or else." Now I knew why it was called stick welding.
When I returned home from completing my Alaska trip, I enrolled in a one-year Moraine Park Technical College welding course in Fond du Lac. Since I had passed my fifty-fifth birthday, I didn't have to pay any tuition. Being a senior citizen in Wisconsin does have its benefits. I paid a total of eight dollars plus I had to buy two books. The other students, young men and women, paid over nine hundred dollars just for class tuition. Our instructor had worked in a number of industries as a welder. Displaying his expertise, he perfectly welded together two empty aluminum Coca Cola cans. Besides being a premier welder, he was also an excellent teacher. The class first had to learn how to weld with an oxy-acetylene torch. We learned the basics, how to spark the flame "alive" and then how to make the flame hottest in order to fuse one piece of steel to another. "Do you see the puddle?" the instructor asked the class. Everyone but me answered with a big fat "Yes."
"Uh-uh," I answered.
Quickly, the instructor approached me. "Since you're an old fart," he said with a grin, "you might have to use a lighter lens." He reached into a bin and pulled out a lighter pair of welding goggles. "Here, these might work for you." After putting them on, I could finally see the liquid puddle of steel form under my torch's blue flame. 'I can see it," I said. "I can see the puddle." The instructor patted me on the back. At that moment, I gained a tad of confidence. Perhaps I could learn how to weld. After class members and I were able to fuse a large number of pieces of steel with the oxygen-acetylene torch, we moved on to Arc, or stick welding. With my teacher's excellent instructions and after forty three long years, I was finally able to stick weld without the rod sticking to the steel. In fact, the teacher one day gave my finished weld high praise in front of the class. "Not bad for an old fart," he said.
During the following months, MIG and finally TIG welding followed. After the year of classes was finished, my instructor shook my hand and told me, "Well, George, you should be able to build your hot rod now."
"Thanks to you," I said. I then told him about my teenage experience with the buzz welder. I've not often heard a man laugh as loud and long as he. He wished me good luck. I was now ready to begin the next phase of my retirement.
RSS Feed