Posts tagged ‘history’
WALT TRIZNA: PILOT TRAINING, PART I
I thought I would use the next series of posts to relate my experience while a member of the United States Air Force (1969-1973). I found my experience in the military to be rewarding. We will begin with my entering pilot training. For those who find these posts interesting you might want to read a past post about my time in college posted on 10/17/2025. This post leads into my time in the air force.
PILOT TRAINING, PART I
Not many days after graduation from Oklahoma State University I was instructed to report for pilot training at Craig AFB outside Selma, Alabama.
The class was made up of twenty to twenty-five, and the number steadily decreased as time went on. Most were air force second lieutenants with one Marine first lieutenant and three Iranian officers.
This was 1969 and this country was training Iranian pilots. There was one thing different with their future than with the Americans. They entered pilot training as officers with a career commitment. If they washed-out they still had a career commitment but as enlisted men.
The leader of the class was Captain Rotella. He had been a navigator and now wanted to be a pilot. I heard that after he graduated from pilot training he was assigned to C130 training. He was on an orientation ride on a C130 when an engine fell off the plane. The plane crashed and all aboard were killed.
The first plane we flew in pilot training was the T41 which was a Cessna 172. A four-seat plane slightly larger than the two-seat Cessna 150 on which I learned to fly. Interestingly, we went to a civilian airport where the planes were kept and were taught by civilian instructors. This makes a lot of sense because you wouldn’t want students flying prop planes while there were jets, also being flown by students, zooming around.
Since most of us already knew how to fly we were soloing in no time.
There is one incident I recall while flying solo in the T41 that was rather unusual. I was flying in the traffic pattern on the downwind leg when I received a radio call to exit the traffic pattern. Turns out there was an Iranian student also in the traffic pattern who was radioed to leave the pattern a couple of time and did not respond. They told me where he was, and I looked behind me to my left and a little below and there he was. We were flying in formation in the traffic pattern. With, of course, no knowledge of how to fly in formation. Things would have gotten very interesting when it came time to bank and enter the base leg. I exited the traffic pattern immediately.
Once we completed our T41 training it was on to the T37. This was a small twin engine straight-winged jet and flight training was now at the base. I found that flying a jet was much different than flying a propeller plane. More on that latter.
WALT TRIZNA: ANOTHER NEWARK MEMORY
SCRAPPING HISTORY
Located on the eastern boarder of Newark is Newark Bay, a body of water leading out to the Atlantic Ocean. I have always loved the smell of the ocean, the proximity of primal life. However, by the time the ocean’s water mixed with the additions contributed by the factories, all that was left was a hint of what was once the ocean’s promise.
Located at the water’s edge is Port Newark, an area that we had always referred to as “The Dumps”. The area surrounding the dock was the home of tank farms, sewage treatment plants, junkyards and a few factories. It did not take a great stretch of the imagination to determine how “The Dumps” got its name. On hot summer nights, the family would pile into the old Chevy and take a ride “down the dumps”. It was a chance to escape the heat, get a change of scenery for what it was worth and hour or two away from the house.
We would park along one of the perimeter roads and look at the freighters and container ships, some from countries we could only dream of visiting – distant lands holding even more distant dreams. On one of the roads where we usually parked, if you turned 180 degrees you could see the runways of Newark Airport. This was before the age of jet airliners – props and turboprops ruled the skies. If you watched enough airplane fly overhead, I always looked up at the sound of their engines, you would sometimes see a four-engine plane flying with one propeller lazily turning, a sure sign of engine trouble. Sometimes, when we were really extravagant, we would stop for a pizza before taking our ride.
There was this elderly Italian man – he must have been at least fifty – who decided to open a pizzeria. So, what did he do? He rented a garage, bought a pizza oven, a couple of small tables, and he was in business. The garage was a freestanding cinderblock structure containing three one-car garages. He rented one of the end garages, cut a door through the garage door and this served as the entrance. Located on a narrow street, not more than an alley, it was a far cry from today’s chain-store pizza establishments. Each pizza had a bubbly hard crust and stood as an individual creation – nothing massed-produced here.
Later, when the quality of his product became known, he rented the adjoining garage, knocked down part of the common wall and expanded. Could this happen today, with all the zoning laws and chain-store competition, I don’t think so. But back in the fifties he thrived and produced great pizzas.
So, on hot summer nights, perhaps armed with a pizza, we would go ‘Down the Dumps’, to see the ships and watch the airplanes land. We could escape our tiny house and dream of a world that we might never see as we gazed at the ships and planes coming from and bound for far-off lands and distant cities.
On weekdays after supper was done, and on weekends, the roads of the port were mostly deserted. With its many roads and parking lots, this area was an ideal place to learn to drive. It was along one of these deserted roads that I almost put my father through the windshield. While driving on one of these roads he instructed me to stop, not yet acquainted with the feel of the brakes, I performed this maneuver rather aggressively. My early driving lessons occurred long before seatbelts were standard equipment, hence my aggressiveness resulted in my father flying unrestricted around the car. I finally learned to drive some years later on the back roads of Alabama, after I had already learned to fly an airplane, but that’s another story.
At the northern end of Newark Bay there were a series of bridges leading to Jersey City and on to New York. It was from the first of these bridges that you could look down on a complex devoted to scrapping ships for their iron and other metals of value. It was during the 70’s that I remember this area looking like a floating World War II naval museum. There would be row upon a row of Liberty Ships awaiting the scrappers’ torch. There would be a destroyer and the occasional heavy cruiser. Ships bathed in history waiting for oblivion. I know they could not all be saved, but it saddened me to see history reduced to a dollar value. It had been some thirty years since the war had ended; time enough for the whole-scale destruction of military equipment that routinely occurs after the conclusion of a war. Yet there before my eyes floated a living history soon to be no more, it would be gone forever.
I witnessed the destruction of one ship, which touched me deeply. This ship was perhaps the most famous American ship of World War II and for years the Japanese sought its destruction. If ever a ship was worth preserving, to serve as a floating monument to the struggles of the United States Navy during World War II, this was the ship.
During my youth, I devoured books about airplanes; I read everything I could about aviation during World War I and World War II. I rarely read books about ships, but my love for aviation led me to read one book that I have longed to read again. To this day, when I get circulars in the mail advertising military books I always look for that title that impressed me in my youth. The title of the book was THE BIG E, the story of the U.S.S. Enterprise, and that was the ship I saw doomed to the scrappers torch.
Having known its history, I could not believe that I was witnessing its destruction. I would think back to the drama, the life and death struggles that occurred on that ship, but soon it would be no more. More than once the Enterprise was reported sunk by the Japanese navy, but having been severely damaged in battle this great ship lived on to fight another day. I know there were many ships during World War II, whose stories echoed with bravery and glory, but I knew the story of the Enterprise and this to me gave it a closeness I could not feel for the other ships torn apart. There were many ships scrapped at this yard, but the only one I saw mentioned by name in the newspaper was Enterprise. I was sorry to witness the loss to history of this great ship, but I was glad I had the opportunity to see such an important piece of our naval and aviation heritage.
WALT TRIZNA: THE DAY KENNEDY DIED
THE DAY KENNEDY DIED
November is the month of thanksgiving, when the weather no longer bounces between summer and winter, when the chill of fall sets in with a vengeance preparing us for the hard cold of winter. It is also the month Kennedy died.
During November 1963 I was a junior at East Side High School. I already had a deep interest in science and forfeited my study hall to work in the school biology lab. I designed an experiment to study Mendelian heredity. The experiment required two black and two white mice, which I purchased, and began mating the mice in all the various combinations possible, trying to predict the color of the littermates. I soon ran out of space in the cellar where I was keeping my mouse colony and asked permission to move my many mice to school. During the experiment, I took meticulous notes, recording much more than I really needed to. One quirk of the mice, which totally threw off my experimental results, was the fact that they sometimes eat their young. When nervous or upset, they would chew off the chord and wouldn’t know when to stop, leaving only the head and a small piece of protruding backbone. I pressed on, until I began seeing litters of mice with brown siblings, something I had not anticipated. This brought an end to my experiment and an introduction to the unpredictability of science.
It was while I was working in the school lab one November Friday afternoon that someone came in and said that the president had been shot. I recall reacting to the news with horror and disbelief. The emotions of that moment will always stay with me, the sense of experiencing a moment that defied all logic, the vitality of our president in jeopardy. I had the sense that the world had changed; this quiet November afternoon would become a milestone in history. All I knew was that the president had been shot; there was still hope of survival as I headed home from school that day. But as I walked the mile and a half home from school, I saw something I shall never forget, something that dimmed my hope. On my way I saw clusters of people standing on corners and most were crying. The residents of Newark are not known for their emotional displays, so this sight was disturbing. It was the first signal I had that the worst had occurred, that the country, the world had changed forever.
When I reached home, my father was already there, not unusual for he began work early in the morning and was home before me most of the time. I would find him sitting in the kitchen with his beer and paper, but today he was in the parlor watching the TV and he was crying too, something I recalled seeing only once before. The last time I saw my father cry was when my mother lost a baby girl shortly after birth. Ironically, my sister died almost the same time the Kennedy’s lost their child and also for the same reason, underdeveloped lungs. As my father sat weeping before the TV, he told me that the president had died.
The days that followed seemed unreal. Long before the age of cable and satellite dishes, there were just three major networks and a few independent New York stations broadcasting to Newark. All normal broadcasting ceased; TV carried nothing but news and insight into the assassination. On the radio, all normal programming ceased. The radio played nothing but somber music and news of the assassination. Everyone watched the news all weekend, watching history unfold before our eyes. Shortly after Kennedy died, Oswald was captured. The nation viewed live, the instrument of their sorrow. We watched Oswald’s murder at the hands of Jack Ruby, adding confusion on top of the misery. Everyone’s thoughts were in turmoil as these historic events concluded with JFK Jr. saluting his father’s casket.
The day Kennedy died, I learned something of the unpredictability of life.
UNHOLY GROUND, A HORROR SHORT STORY, CHAPTER II
UNHOLY GROUND, CHAPTER II
Zeke, his wife Martha, and two sons – Jake age eight and Thomas age twelve – cleared the land. Martha, five years younger than Zeke, had a rugged beauty. Her sons were the image of their father. As they worked the homestead they did, in fact, hear strange sounds. In the depths of the woods there were sounds of unknown origin magnified by the quiet. Sounds that would set the hair on the back of your neck standing, but of course the noise had to be natural, and the source someday discovered.
But Zeke had also seen strange apparitions in the woods. He chose not to tell his family of the ghostly figures he caught glimpses of at night amongst the trees. Once, just before retiring, he left the tent the Youngs were now calling home and set out [DJR3] to ensure that all was secured for the night. In the distance he saw one of the ghostly figures wandering among the trees. Suddenly, the figure jumped into the air and ascended toward the canopy of the forest. As he made his way back to the tent, Zeke found he was bathed in a cold sweat. John Taylor’s warning echoed in his brain.
While constructing his barn, another ominous sign brought to the surface Zeke’s realization that all was not right with this land.
Zeke marked out the placement of the barn. Before the barn was built, he would dig the root cellar. Most mornings found Zeke digging, but one day he changed his routine. It was after supper when he told his wife, “Martha, the root cellar is almost done. I’m going to finish it tonight and then tomorrow I’ll start getting help to build the barn.”
The forest was strangely quiet as Zeke approached the area where the barn would stand. He climbed into the hole that was to be the root cellar and began to dig. As the shadows of the trees lengthened and the sun dipped below the hills, Zeke became unusually anxious. With darkness came a heavy fog shrouding the forest with a ghostly haze. His fears grew until he could no longer work. He gathered up his tools and began walking back to the tent when he happened to glance back to the root cellar pit. An eerie red glow filtered through the trees from the hole and something moved within the misty crimson light.
Men from the area helped Zeke raise his barn. The Young family now lived in it while a house was constructed. With the barn in place the family could now work to establish a farm in this hostile environment. Food would be grown and their future more secure. The barn was a two-story structure with a loft to store hay and three stalls on each side of the main level. The root cellar was under the rear of the barn. It provided storage and a hiding place in case of an Indian attack. But John Taylor was right; Indians steered clear of Zeke’s land. Jake and Thomas made their bed in the rear of the barn while Zeke and Martha slept near the stalls up front.
It was mid-summer when Zeke made a major purchase in establishing his farm. He called out as he approached his property, “Martha, boys, come see the new member of our family. Zeke led a roan mare toward the barn. The boys were excited at the prospect of a horse to ride, until Zeke said, “This mare will make the farm more productive and release the boys to do more chores. Hopefully, she will also fill some of these empty stalls with her foals.”
As Zeke approached the entrance to the barn the horse reared, a wild look in her eyes replaced the calm demeanor she had exhibited up until then. He tried for all his worth but could not get the horse to enter the structure. In frustration he tied the frightened animal to a tree and let her graze.
That night Martha told Zeke, “At times I feel a strange presence in the barn, like I’m being watched.”
“Nonsense,” said Zeke, “now get to sleep.” The confidence in his voice belied the growing fear in his heart.
* * *
Months later, John Taylor saw Zeke working in his fields preparing for fall planting. He decided to stop and see how his neighbor was doing. “How’s it going, Zeke?”
The sight of Taylor caused Zeke to recall the man’s warning which he had to admit was constantly on his mind. Zeke did not want to reveal the strange occurrences on his land. He pulled his horse to a stop and laid down his plow. “Going well enough, John. The only problem is this damn horse. She won’t go into the barn. I’ve tried everything but she stays outside, even in the rain. I figure when the weather turns cold, she’ll smarten up.”
Taylor asked, “Notice anything strange on your property?”
“Can’t say I have,” answered Zeke, already thinking that he had said too much. “Sure, there’s the occasional strange sound but when you’re deep in the woods and all’s quiet, lots of normal sounds seem strange.” Zeke kept his sinister observations to himself. He feared the ridicule and scorn his fears might provoke.
Taylor nodded in agreement. “You’re right there, Zeke. Spent some time camping in the deep woods myself. Heard some weird things.
“That sure is a fine-looking barn you got, Zeke. Going to start the house soon?”
“The farm’s keeping me pretty busy right now. Reckon I’ll start the house after fall harvest.”
The two men said their good-byes.
John Taylor never saw Zeke Young again.
ONE MORE TRY!
And Then He Rested was accepted for publication by Bewildering Stories in December 2007. The story has definite religious overtones, and I thought this might be a problem. It wasn’t.
AND THEN HE RESTED
David Roser, a twenty-two-year-old graduate student, was summoned to Dr. Smithfield’s office one bleak winter afternoon. David was enrolled at M.I.T. in the Astronomy Department. He chose this field for it provided the opportunity to dwell on concrete observations, but also gave him a chance to dream, to ponder the vastness of space and the possibilities of what might exist out there.
He was also in awe of Dr. Springfield.
Springfield had won a Nobel Prize in physics for his study of the cosmos. To work under the guidance of Dr. Springfield went well beyond an honor. It allowed him to tread the sacred ground of the universe.
To be summoned to Springfield’s office was a rare pleasure David savored for the man truly had the characteristics of the absent-minded genius. When thinking, he constantly smoked his pipe, and a wave of aromatic smoke followed him. All the buildings on campus were smoke-free, but no one had the nerve to tell Dr. Springfield to extinguish his pipe. To add to the dilemma, he was hard of hearing and anyone daring to reprimand him would have brought attention to someone shouting at a Nobel Prize winning laureate.
David knocked loudly on Dr. Smithfield’s office door.
“Come in,” came a preoccupied voice far louder than normal.
David opened the door to see Dr. Springfield seated at his cluttered desk; his head wreathed in a cloud of smoke as he puffed furiously at his pipe.
“David, thank you so much for coming. Have a seat.”
Smithfield motioned to the only chair in the office. It was piled high with books, which David carefully removed and stacked on the floor. As he waited for the professor to complete his work, David drank in the atmosphere of the room. Most of the wall space was taken up with bookshelves piled haphazardly with books and stacks of paper. On the little wall space available hung framed photos taken by famous astronomers. There were pictures taken using the Hubble telescope of distant galaxies and images of the planets taken from some of the most famous observatories on Earth. They were all taken by world-famous astronomers and given to Dr. Springfield. All the photos had been taken by former pupils.
Smithfield’s desk was huge, taking up a third of the room. The surface was also overflowing with books, papers and star charts. So although the desk was massive, the work area was minimal.
After a few minutes had passed, David loudly cleared his throat, not sure if Springfield remembered that he was there. Because of the professor’s hearing all communication had to be done quite aggressively. His deafness also accounted for his booming voice.
“David, there’s been an important discovery. I’m sure you have heard about the cloud of matter found revolving around a distant star in the Cancer system. The cloud is approximately the same distance the Earth is from our sun, and the star around which it travels is very similar to our own.”
“Yes, professor. The news is full of the discovery.”
Smithfield continued, “What makes this find truly exciting is that it is a window to the formation of our own planet. It will take billions of years, but someday this mass of debris may form another Earth. What is also so exciting is that, because of the distance of this system, we will be observing a planet form at approximately at the very time our own came into existence, give or take a few million years.
“The reason I wanted to see you, David, was that I want you to be involved in taking some of the initial measurements to determine the characteristics of this mass. Yours will be some of the first data recorded. For unknown generations, scientists will follow this planet’s development. It will be an important view to our past.”
David said, “I feel honored that you want me to do this work, but will it lead to a project for my degree?”
“I’m afraid not. We’ll only have about two weeks to record the initial data, then that area of the sky won’t be visible for observation for another hundred years. But who knows, with the advancement of space-based telescopes, we may be able to gather more data that observations, during similar conditions and advances in technology, allow.”
* * *
David made his observations over the next week, and they were truly amazing. He was sure his measurements were incorrect, so he did not inform Dr. Springfield of his findings. He did, however, consult with other astronomers after five days. David found he was one among many who did not believe their results.
On the seventh day after David began his observations, the hallways of M.I.T. were in an uproar. The astronomy building had lost its mantle of reserve and discipline.
Springfield did not hear the shouts echoing through the corridors. Beyond his office it was pandemonium.
A bewildered David Rosen knocked on Springfield’s door.
“Come in,” boomed the professor’s voice.
David was upset, mystified and euphoric at the same moment. He was on the brink of tears as he walked into Springfield’s office.
“David, what is the matter? You look like something is terribly wrong, son.”
“Professor, I’ve finished the project.”
Smithfield said, “I thought we could observe the mass for at least two weeks. Did you make the necessary measurements before you lost it?”
With a laugh that was almost mad, David said, “No professor, the project is finished. The debris is now a planet.”
Smithfield looked puzzled, “How could that be?” he asked. “There must be some mistake.”
“No, professor, there is no mistake. I’ve checked with other observatories. There is now a planet there. It took six days!”
THE END
ELMO’S SOJOURN, CHAPTER 11
ELMO’S SOJOURN
CHAPTER 11
ELMO’S OFFER IS ACCEPTED
The argument went back and forth between Elmo and Valmid, but Valmid finally succumbed to Elmo’s persistence. “I accept your help my friend. We shall leave when the devices are ready.”
In a few days the six new Freon throwers were ready and tested. Valmid called the five other Rothians to his home. The seven warriors were ready to depart. Elmo noticed that each member of the team carried a pouch in addition to his Freon throwers on their backs. Elmo was also given a pouch.
“We are taking as many time-space machines as we can carry. We have no idea how many women we will be freeing and returning to Roth. I’m afraid there is little hope of rescuing any of the women abducted from Earth, for the abductions ceased there almost sixty years ago, when the Freon level reached intolerable levels for the Gylex monsters.
“Our plan is to journey to Gylex, hopefully arriving at a deserted area. Then we will try to follow the thoughts of the captive women.” All five of the Rothians and Elmo nodded and prepared to leave. Elmo joined Valmid in the center of his machine; the other five occupied two machines facing back-to-back in preparation for a hostile greeting.
In a flash the most dismal landscape imaginable surrounded them, along with four Gylexian monsters. Three were quickly dispatched, surprise being on the side of the Rothians. The fourth began flying away, thanks to the weaker gravity of the planet; Elmo was able to leap high enough to douse the creature and it abruptly fell to the ground.
After the initial excitement, the travelers had a chance to inspect their surroundings. Elmo thought, “If there is a hell, it must look something like this.” The Rothians were unfamiliar with the concept of Elmo’s hell, but they all shuddered at the scene before them. Everything was colored shades of gray and black. The landscape was dotted with miniature volcanoes no more than a few hundred feet high, most in a constant state of eruption that spewed heavy columns of smoke and ash into the air and shed an eerie glow from the magma seeping down their sides. The atmosphere was thick and oppressive. The party had timed their arrival for daytime, but a faint twilight was all that greeted them. The only vegetation visible were huge trees, not unlike those found on Roth. Their trunks disappeared into the unbroken mantle of black clouds that filled the sky; their leaves seeking the life-giving light denied the planet’s surface.
The rescue party could see larger mountains in the distance; their sides honeycombed with openings. Occasionally a winged Gylexian would fly in or out of apertures; these must be their cities.
The six Rothians stood still and quietly concentrated, seeking the thoughts of the women they had come to rescue. It did not take long for them to sense Rothian thoughts and then locate their origin on a distant part of the planet. They set up their time-space machines, again standing back-to-back and ready for an attack. They were sure there must be guards at their destination, and to eliminate them by taking advantage of the element of surprise.
In a flash the seven were standing before a Gylexian hill, somewhat smaller than the hill they first had seen. Perhaps this was the prison where the women were being held. At the same time, they also found themselves standing before five guards armed with weapons resembling crossbows. Before the Rothians could react, one of their parties was shot in the neck and collapsed. Freon spray quickly took care of the guards, but not before they sounded an alarm that brought more guards flying out of the prison, also to fall to the ground as the air filled with Freon. Three of the party, along with Elmo, remained outside to guard against further attacks. Valmid and the remaining member of his group entered the prison to free the women. The sight inside sickened them. Corpses of ten to 15 Rothian women littered the floor of the forbidding structure. As they proceeded farther into the dark, dank hallways they came upon the cells they were seeking. Each cell held two or three women in various stages of pregnancy. As Valmid had anticipated, there were no women from Earth, only women from Roth. Valmid searched wildly from cell to cell looking for his daughter, calling her name, “Rolack, Rolack.” He stopped at the entrance of a cell holding two women, then choked back tears and cried, “Rolack!”
A woman inside stood and cried, “Father!”
Valmid had found his daughter. In short order, the keys to the cells were located and the women released. They made their way out of the prison, the women breathing free air for the first time since their capture. One of the women collapsed by the body of the fallen Rothian, crying for the husband she had not seen for years and who had died trying to rescue her. Valmid ordered everyone to unfurl the time-space machines and, in twos and threes, quickly occupy them. Two Rothians carried the body of their fallen companion to the last machine and gently laid him down. Then Valmid distributed the preset control boxes, and the group disappeared in a series of flashes, bound for Roth.
Once on Roth, the women cried, laughed and even collapsed when united with their families. Those who returned pregnant wanted most to immediately cleanse their bodies of the demon cargo they carried. Valmid, Elmo and Rolack entered their home to find Cal crying out at the sight of her daughter. The three family members hugged and cried while Elmo stood to the side and felt an emptiness he could no longer deny.
A ST. PATRICK’S DAY MEMORY
Here is a memory I rekindle this time every year.
DOWN NECK ST. PATRICK’S DAY PARADE
A NEWARK EVENT
During my youth I lived in a section of Newark, New Jersey referred to as the ‘DownNeck’ Section of Newark. The area was also known as the Ironbound Section due to the many factories in the area. The title ‘DownNeck’ was acquired, which I once read, due to the shape of the Passaic River running past the area. And on the Sunday afternoon, nearest to St. Patrick’s Day, the residents of this area and my street, Christie Street, were treated to what had to have been one of the shortest St. Patrick’s Day parades in existence.
The local Catholic Church sponsored the parade, whose steeple I could see from my parlor window. Across the street from my house was the parking lot for the Balentine Brewery’s trucks. Weekdays were filled with the rumble of Balentine Brewery trucks set on the mission to quench the thirst of a parched city. Sunday was a day of rest for the trucks, making the parade possible.
Magically, sometime before the parade, a green line appeared down the center of our street, harbinger of the gala event. I never witnessed this line’s creation, but every year it materialized. At approximately 1:30 in the afternoon the residents began to gather on the sidewalk. Since the brewery and Catholic Church’s school took up one side of the street, the number of residents was few. Of course, there were always the annoying boys riding their bikes down the center of the blocked off street before the parade began. I was proud to be one of their number.
The parade began around the far corner from my house, on Market Street. With a band, not a school band, but one made up of adult men most of which had almost mastered the instrument they were assigned. Before the band came a few ruddy-faced Irish men, decked out in their top hats, waving to the minuscule crowd. At the front of this procession were the parish priests. The parade was half a block long and took thirty seconds to pass. The procession turned the corner onto Ferry Street, melting into the Down neck neighborhood, ready to continue the tradition next year.
ELMO’S INVENTION, CHAPTER 9
ELMO’S INVENTION
CHAPTER 9
ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE
It was the morning of the sixth day after The New York Times people left town. The article about Elmo and his invention was published in The Los Alamos Herald and was the impetus for the visit from the Times. Much to Mildred’s joy and astonishment there were no immediate repercussions from the article in The New York Times. The residents of Los Alamos had already had their feathers ruffled by the topic and there were no further reactions. Elmo and Mildred began to relax, confident that all the problems involved with the invention were behind them. That morning Mildred asked Elmo, “Could you run out and get the paper? I’ll make you a nice breakfast before you go to work.” Mildred had mellowed and Elmo’s life was back to normal, but that was about to change in seconds.
Elmo opened the front door, took a few steps and then slowly backed up and closed the door. Their usually quiet street was overflowing with cars, buses and a great mass of people milling around appearing to anticipate something. Elmo had no idea what was going on but had a very bad feeling. Mildred was not going to like this. He peered through the window, and it was then he caught sight of a placard where his name appeared being carried towards his house.
Elmo had little choice. He had to let Mildred know that something was going on. If he didn’t, it would be like trying to hide a herd of elephants taking up residence on their front yard. He gently called, “Oh Mil, there’s something I think you should see. I’m sure it won’t amount to much.”
She entered the front room and asked, “What won’t amount to much?”
As she approached the front window Elmo pushed back the curtains. Mildred stood as if paralyzed, and then shouted, “I knew it! I told you talking to The Times was a big mistake. But no, you were going to save the world.” She stormed out of the room leaving Elmo alone with his thoughts of how this would all work out.
Soon more placards appeared identifying the various organizations present. There was The Friends and Relatives of Prisoners. They were joined by The Society of Prison Guards and another group representing ex-cons. A large group of construction workers were present, their group wearing hard hats, were involved in the building of prisons. Along with their signs, they paraded with a scarecrow suspended from a pole with of picture of Elmo’s face attached to the head.
Keeping to themselves, Elmo spied another small group which stood out like a sore thumb. Outfitted in expensive suits and equally expensive shoes, they held professionally manufactured signs proclaiming them as The Society of Defense Lawyers. Their main beef was the possible elimination of endless appeals which kept them supplied with their expensive attire.
Elmo found it strange, but not disappointing, that this great milling crowd of protesters was not protesting. He also noticed that a buffer zone was carefully observed between the house and the crowd. The answer to his observation of inactivity soon became clear when the news trucks began to arrive. What was the purpose of a protest if there was no one there to record it? Elmo thought it was something like that tree falling in the forest and no one heard it. He noticed something else most disturbing. There was a secondary crowd forming in the distance away from the main body of protesters. He could not recognize individual faces, but he knew who they were. They were the residents of Los Alamos coming to witness the spectacle. This would anger Mildred even more.
Once the cameras were in place and the reporters had their makeup on and were holding microphones, the crowd began to come alive holding up signs and voicing their respective opinions.
But all was not quite finished. The icing on the protest cake was the arrival, with as many lights flashing as possible and sirens wailing, of the Los Alamos police. Four police cars came to a skidding halt on Elmo’s front yard creating deep tire tracks. The chief of the Los Alamos police, John McFurdy first went over to the press and diligently spelled his name for them. Then he went to Elmo’s front door and knocked. Elmo asked the chief in and offered him a cup of coffee. Sitting at the kitchen table, McFurdy said, “All the groups out there obtained permits to protest. There is nothing we can do but ensure that no damage happens to your property.”
Elmo recalled the deep groves he had observed in his front yard.
Chief McFurdy continued, “State police have formed a perimeter around you house to ensure that no one without a permit enters the protest zone.”
Elmo knew that the perimeter was not that great. His neighbors had already broken it. The term ‘protest zone’ made the hairs on the back of Elmo’s neck stand on end.
After McFurdy left, Elmo noticed that six officers had stationed themselves between Elmo’s house and the press. There was a hushed silence. The first camera lights came on and it was as if someone threw a switch: All hell broke loose.
The once silent crowd instantly created a roar. Each group shouted their rehearsed chants. Soon after the beginning of the protest, Elmo’s effigy burst into flames. The various groups began to hurl eggs and tomatoes at Elmo’s house and the police. The lawyer’s contingent hurled non-libelous insults and carefully recorded what they said. A few rocks were thrown, later determined to come from the area populated by the ex-cons, but no real damage was done to the house or bystanders including the police.
The protest went on for two days while the press conducted interviews. One woman came forward and held up a copy of The New York Times pointing to the before and after pictures of Elmo’s demonstration shouting, “My son is in prison. I don’t want him turned to ash.” Behind her stood a grizzled ex-con, his shaved head glistening in the sun. “Nobody is putting me in no fucking death chamber,” indicating his life of crime was not yet over.
After the media had their film and interviews they began to pack up and leave. With the media gone the protesters lost their enthusiasm and quietly slipped away leaving a mess of litter and protest signs. There were some portable toilets available, but not nearly enough to handle the large crowd, so the area around Elmo’s home was not only a mess but also a health hazard.
* * *
Once the protesters had left, Kingsley Dasher slowly made his way to Elmo’s residence not knowing what he would find. He climbed the front steps and knocked on the door. The Elmo that greeted him was one he didn’t know. The man appeared beaten, the image of a lost soul. Before he could stop himself, Kingsley asked, “How are you doing, Elmo?”
Elmo stood with slumped shoulders, and dark-rimmed eyes answered with a raspy voice, “I’ve been better.”
“May I come in?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t mind a little company right now.” Elmo led his friend into the living room and offered him a seat.
Kingsley said, “You had to endure quite a ruckus, Elmo. I feel guilty that I was the one who pointed out the obvious use of your invention. I suspected something might happen once the existence of your invention was made known, but I never imagined the level of hostility. The reality is our society is a fickle society. It professes one set of values, but it is mere lip service. The values that are actually in practice are completely different from those voiced.
“Money is the value our society holds dearest.
“Your invention would have saved millions of dollars, perhaps billions in doing away with the prison system and at the same time providing swift justice for the guilty. But at the same time, it would have deprived hundreds maybe thousands of people of their livelihood. Construction workers and prison guards would suffer and let us not forget the lawyers with their endless appeals. Society has problems with such sudden changes no matter how beneficial they are.”
Kingsley then took a moment to look around and wondered where Mildred was. “How is Mildred handling all this?”
“Not very well. The day the protests began she left for her sister’s home in Santa Fe. I call but she refuses to talk to me.”
“I’m sure she’ll come around once all this is over. It will just take some time. This whole experience was quite a blow for both of you. To say it was a life-disrupting event would be putting it mildly.”
The two men sat in silence for a while and then the phone rang. Elmo jumped up hoping it was Mildred, but he was to be extremely disappointed and further upset.
“Hello,” he said.
Kingsley watched Elmo’s face and immediately knew the news was not good. Elmo had little to say during the short call. After hanging up, he told Kingsley, “That was a representative of the American Civil Liberties Union calling to notify me that they are issuing a class-action lawsuit on behalf of prisoners, families of prisoners and ex-convicts. Apparently there are organizations of defense lawyers also preparing lawsuits. This whole thing is just getting worse and worse.
I was hoping to patent the device and make some money. Now it appears it may cost me everything I have. This is definitely not going to bring Mildred home.”
Kingsley knew that Elmo needed to be alone. He rose and said, “I would suggest you issue a statement saying that upon further consideration, you’ve decided to discontinue any further attempts in patenting or selling your machine.
“Your science was sound, Elmo. Society just wasn’t prepared for such a sudden advance.”
Kingsley left Elmo sitting on the couch, a man in love with science and defied by society.
ELMO’S INVENTION, CHAPTER 7
ELMO’S INVENTION
CHAPTER 7
THE TIME MACHINE REVEALED
Mildred watched as the members of the Tinkerer’s Club ascended the stairs from the cellar and prepared to depart. Harold Kinter, William Dupree and James Forsyth bid her goodbye. Much to her surprise, Kingsley Dasher took her hand and said, “Elmo has a marvelous intellect, and his invention could someday garner you a great deal of money. Only time will tell.” With that he walked out the door and was gone.
Elmo was the last to depart the cellar and Mildred could immediately tell that things had not gone as well as he had anticipated. She was puzzled by Elmo’s downtrodden appearance and Kingsley’s departing comment. Wanting to question her husband, she asked, “Elmo, why don’t I pour us some coffee and we have some dessert?”
Elmo, distracted by his thoughts, after a moment, replied, “That’s fine with me, my dear. I have a great deal on my mind, and perhaps talking would help. Things did not go as I had hoped during the meeting, and I need to gather my thoughts. I am confused about the future of my invention. Nothing is going as I had planned.”
Mildred set the kitchen table with two steaming mugs and plates of Elmo’s favorite dessert, spice cake. She watched Elmo sip his coffee and then push the dessert away. Now she knew something was definitely wrong. Elmo never refused spice cake. “What happened in the cellar?” Mildred asked.
Elmo hesitated, and then began, “I demonstrated my time machine using the kitten and the results were as I expected. To everyone’s surprise, Kingsley made a comment after the experiment. As he began to speak, I expected him to give insight into why the machine was not working, but to my surprise he said that it was working. Only it was working in a manner not that I appreciated. He said that I had invented the perfect prison and that my machine had the potential to change society.”
Mildred sat deep in thought remembering what Kingsley had said before departing. Suddenly her face lit up, “He’s right. I never would have made the connection. The man’s a genius. I’m so proud of you, Elmo. Your invention will change our society.”
This did not serve to heal Elmo’s fragile ego, instead, Mildred’s comment only served to increase its fragility.
Elmo had invested a great deal of effort in planning and then building his machine. Now, not only did it not work, but someone else had discovered its use.
Mildred could see that her husband was deeply upset. She extended her hand across the table and said, “Come to bed, my dear. Perhaps there is something I can do to improve your mood.” Mildred was successful, but it wasn’t long before matters took a drastic turn. Once again it was something that Kingsley had hinted might happen, but even he could not predict the extent of the turmoil Elmo’s machine would cause.
* * *
To this day Elmo doesn’t know how it happened or who was the one to break the secrecy surrounding the meeting of the Tinkerer’s Club. For a moment he thought maybe Mildred, but no, she would never break his confidence. He was sure it wasn’t Kingsley. Kingsley had trouble communicating with the members of the club. Elmo could not picture him going to the press or even breaking the club’s confidence with a friend. Elmo doubted he had few friends outside the club. That left James Forsyth, William Dupree and Harold Kinter as the culprit. He questioned them all and everyone denied that they talked about the machine. Elmo knew one of them was lying. His money was on either James Forsyth or William Dupree.
James was a people person and loved being the center of attention. He also enjoyed talking about his work and Elmo could just picture him letting slip the nature of the Tinkerer’s meeting. James’ tongue was often ahead of his brain when he really got going in a conversation.
William was also a suspect. Being short, and as most short people, he feared being ignored, feared being lost in a crowd – literally. So how better to avoid being lost than becoming its center. Elmo could picture him trying to impress people. Telling them of a great new device that would do away with prisons and save society billions of dollars. And after explaining all this, whispering, “Now promise that you won’t tell a soul.”
The more he thought about who the culprit might be, the more Elmo became sure that William was the guilty party, but William, as well as the rest of the members present that night, emphatically denied speaking about the machine to anyone.
The manner in which Elmo discovered that the secrecy of the Tinkerer’s Club meeting had been broken was a phone call he received from a local newspaper. Published only once a week, The Los Alamos Herald was primarily concerned with community events, births, weddings and funerals. Most of what was news in the town of Los Alamos was Top Secret so there really wasn’t much to report. When word of Elmo’s invention began to spread through the tight-knit community, the paper was all over it.
One evening, while Elmo and Mildred were enjoying their supper, the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” said Elmo as he rose to answer. This was long before the age of telemarketers, and for that matter, answering machines. When the phone rang you knew it was something important. Elmo answered, “Hello.”
A voice on the other end said, “Hello, this is Nate Bush calling from The Los Alamos Herald. I’d like to speak to Dr. Elmo Baker.”
Mildred watched Elmo and saw his expression range between puzzlement and fear.
Elmo said, “Elmo here. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been told you’ve invented a rather unique machine, a machine that may do away with prisons. Could you comment on this device?”
Elmo did not know how he should answer. He thought the events of the meeting would remain confidential. He now felt anger and frustration and did not know where to direct it. He had to respond. He couldn’t lie for he would soon be filing a patent for his machine. “I have built a device that can age the occupant to a predetermined age.”
“How long does this process take?”
Elmo responded, “Oh, just a matter of minutes.”
“How exactly does it work?”
Elmo was not about to admit that he really didn’t know that it was intended to be a time machine and that something went wrong, so he answered, “I’d rather wait until I patent the device before I divulge its workings. Also, I’d appreciate it if you would postpone writing any article until I receive the patent.”
Nate was disappointed at this request but felt he had to respect Elmo’s wishes. He responded, “I’ll write-up the article and wait until I hear that your patent has been granted.”
Elmo, somewhat relieved, said, “I would appreciate that a great deal. I’ll give you a call when the patent is approved.”
After hanging up the phone, Elmo said to Mildred, “Someone broke their word. That was The Los Alamos Herald, and they want to know about my invention. I can’t believe all this is happening about something I truly do not understand.”
* * *
Later that day George Holkum walked over to Nate’s desk. The paper was losing money and George, the managing editor, needed to turn that around.
He asked Nate, “How did that prison thing interview go? Are we dealing with a nutcase or what?”
Nate began to perspire. He knew that the paper was in trouble and needed sales. He also knew he had a fantastic story, but he had given his word. Nate said, “I think it’s the real thing. The man is a scientist, and he wants to keep things quiet until he gets a patent.”
George said, “Publish the story. Maybe it will increase our circulation. We’re not in a position to not publish something important. We have a responsibility to the stockholders.”
Nate responded, “But boss, I gave my word.”
“Your word won’t sell papers. Publish your story!”
ELMO’S INVENTION, CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 1
ELMO’S WORKSHOP
“Mildred,” Elmo Baker shouted, “Come down here. I have something important to show you.” Standing at the base of the cellar stairs, Elmo was in his usual excited state when a project was completed. Of medium build, with a broad face and a mass of curly black hair, Elmo’s passion was science, physics in particular. Mildred, with great trepidation, began walking down the stairs to the cellar. At the base of the stairs stood Elmo, beaming, not a good sign, and Mildred could tell by the twinkle in his eye as she approached her husband, that a demonstration or explanation of an invention was about to take place. And that twinkle would slowly if the experiment failed, which was often the case.
The year was 1966, and Mildred loved Elmo so, but shortly after their marriage three years ago, it became clear how intense Elmo’s love for science was and that love would follow them all of their lives. Mildred loved Elmo’s sense of curiosity but not the prospect of cleaning up the destruction, the mess of a failed experiment.
“Come here, Mil, I’ve got something to show you.” Elmo held out his hand to Mildred and said, “You have got to see this. I’m ready to make the first test.”
Mildred was not looking forward to what Elmo might present to her. Her husband was one of the first ‘dumpster divers’. Los Alamos was the government facility known for its research of the atom, and it was where Elmo worked. And he knew that when an experiment failed, some of the materials that went into the effort were tossed, deemed trash. Lab bosses also discarded equipment they considered ‘obsolete’ to be replaced by the latest version. But Elmo thought of this trash as treasure. This was much to Elmo’s benefit and was the source that supplied his cellar laboratory. At the end of his workday at his Los Alamos lab, Elmo would back his car up to the dumpster area and go to work. On many days, he would come home with the backseat of his Chevy filled with scientific odds and ends. To Elmo, Los Alamos’ trash was the building blocks of his inventions.
Elmo led Mildred to the corner of the cellar where he had his workbench and lab of the cellar. The remainder of the room was occupied by the usual accumulation of life which now had no use but never thrown away. Below a bare overhead bulb was his invention. Which looked to Mildred like and iron lung, one she had seen delivered. Elmo could see the confusion on his wife’s face, and proudly said, “Doll, I have invented a time machine.”
* * *
Mildred kept her love for Elmo strong, although that could be difficult at times.
Elmo was two years older than Mildred. He was handsome, but that was not what had attracted Mildred to him. It was his passion for a new curiosity he discovered, usually scientific. He found the world of science fascinating, with the wonder of a child enthralled by a rattle. At times he could sit for hours just thinking and occasionally smiling. However, the toys that mystified him were sometimes slightly more dangerous than a toy.
Mildred could not recall how many times Elmo called from the cellar, “Call the fire department!” Shortly thereafter, dense smoke would issue from the open cellar door and begin to fill the kitchen. This was long before 911 existed. Mildred knew the phone number of the local fire department by heart.
She recalled the time Elmo constructed two small chambers attached by wires to an intricate control device with a host of dials and flashing lights. The device was meant to transfer objects through space. He wanted to test the machine before building the full-scale model.
Unfortunately for Mildred, she had been busy in the cellar doing some unpacking. She wanted to display in her hutch the beautiful delicate six china teacups and saucers her mother had left her. She knew exactly where they were packed and couldn’t wait to see them again.
The search did not take long, and while admiring one of the cups, she heard Elmo mutter, “I need something small.” He happened to glance at Mildred and exclaimed, “Perfect.”
Before she realized what her husband was up to, he grabbed a cup and put it in one of the chambers.
“Elmo, what are you doing? That was my mother’s cup!” shouted Mildred. “It’s precious to me.”
Elmo was only half listening as he began turning dials and focusing his attention on the chamber containing the cup. “Don’t worry, Mildred. Your cup is perfectly safe. I’m just going to send it to the chamber at the other end of my workbench.”
Much to Mildred’s surprise, her vision of the cup appeared to waver, and then disappears.
Much to Elmo’s surprise, it did not reappear in the other chamber.
“Don’t worry, Mildred. Let’s just give it some time.”
An hour later Mildred went storming up the stairs with five cups and six saucers, angry and sad at her loss.
Elmo continued to stare at the second chamber scratching his head and repeating over and over again, “I wonder where it went.” He was happy that his wife wasn’t there when suddenly he began laughing hysterically, thinking of the cup suddenly appearing someplace quite by surprise and mystifying some unsuspecting person. He was sure the cup went somewhere as matter. For if it had been converted to energy, all that would be left of his house and most of the surrounding area would be cinders.
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