Sometimes giving your child a little confidence is all that is needed........

My Dad owned a small machine shop called B.O.K Mfg. Co. on W. 4th St. in Dayton, Ohio while I was growing up.  Among his employees included his brother and sister and assorted relatives who came and went during the years and several Hungarian immigrants who fled their homeland during the 1956 Hungarian Uprising.

Although Dad had very little education, he learned his trade as a tool and die maker and was able to support not only our family, but as I remember, Dad was always helping out relatives, friends and strangers with some kind of monetary stipend to help them get by. 

Dad standing among some of his Bridgeport mills

I loved going to “the shop” as Mom called it, where she worked as the secretary, bookkeeper and whatever else needed to be done. 

I would wander past the machines and watch intensely as Dad’s few employees would carve out a finished piece from a round bar of stock working very diligently to obtain the precise dimensions.

By age seven, I could operate the drill presses while sitting on a metal stool topped off by a phone book so I could reach the levers. By age eight, I could put a bar of stock into a lathe chuck and slowly turn the metal as the long ribbon of carvings would drop to the catch basin.

By age nine, I was able to operate a Bridgeport mill that was designed to slowly remove metal from different angles as you watched the final product appear.

I would have been happy to follow my Dad into his respected trade, but he wouldn't have it. I was off to college just like my older brothers to apply our minds rather then our physical abilities. I think Dad would have enjoyed me working with him, but he didn't want me losing the fingers that he did,  typical of a machinist, when they were accidentally caught in the cutting tools. He probably thought I couldn't stay focused long enough to avoid an  accident.

So off we went to college....the 3 Kender boys......Dave, after graduating from Miami Univ. and then  to a career as an Air Force officer and Silver Star medal winner during the Vietnam War and then later as a professor at Wright State University where he still teaches today. Ricky went on to Ohio University and later became a very successful businessman in Dayton and now travels back and forth from his homes in  Florida and Dayton as he chooses.

And me, ..well...I headed off to the University of Oklahoma and majored in Journalism  and later leaving that career in the Newspaper trade in search of a few more dollars. I've had several different ventures including owning Blue Sky Pool Service which Pattye and I started 26 years ago.........working for Chuck Norris for 18 years in Dallas and now, now I can finally begin to write again and chronicle my life through my short stories I hope to publish soon.

I have always thrown myself into whatever job or position I have found myself doing over the years. And once again, I owe it to my Dad, who had the confidence in me to sit me up on that stool  and let me create a usable widget for use in this wonderful country. 

Sometimes hot is really cold and cold is really hot

I loved my Dad. I never really told him that in all the years he was alive and that makes me sad, but I think of him a lot these days.

I happened to think of him again today when I was trying to troubleshoot some problems a new pool customer was having with his system. The customer has a beautiful home in the highest priced  area of Dallas, but he ran into a disaster when his pool was built.The original pool builder  went out of business half way through the construction and then two more builders came in to finish the job. Needless to say, everything is a mess.

My Dad  taught me so many things in how to build something from nothing and how to think through a problem and find the answer. Our garage was filled with used parts from  bicycles wheels to airplane propellers. Dad even attempted to build in the garage, an air boat, the kind you see gliding across the swamps in the Everglades.

But sometimes, God love him, he got a little too involved in one of the projects and it needed some adjustment much like I found today doing the troubleshooting.on the pool. Some of the valves and fittings were installed incorrectly and that reminded me of a time long ago.

Our house in Dayton, Ohio had a basement like most of the homes built in the 40s and 50s. And, the plumbing to the first floor could always be accessed through the ceiling in the basement. The plumbing was all installed with iron pipes and over a period of time, these pipes would start to corrode and eventually leak.

Dad and his brother, Andy, and I think along with my older brother Dave, decided to replace all of the iron pipes with copper plumbing. I recall the job going along pretty good and how Dad was feeling  proud of himself when the job was finished.

Except for one thing.

The single bathroom house that Mom and Dad and all 3 boys lived in now had a little glitch. The faucets on the shower/bathtub now had the hot and cold water reversed.The hot water faucet was on the right and the cold was on the left.
It didn't take too many times to remember which was which after either a scalding or a ice cold wakeup to remember..... And the funny thing is, Dad left it that way I guess until the house was sold some many decades later.

I can remember coming home from college for the summers and Mom always reminding me..."Tommy, don't forget about the hot water" as I would climb  into the shower.

Yep, Dad taught me well. He taught me to work through a problem and seek out the answers. He taught me every problem has a solution.....even if it means that sometimes hot means cold and cold means hot....you still have water.

Thinkin' of you, Dad.

Tommy

Is heaven running out of room?

One of the neat things about havin' a manic type personality, is that when the mind starts to slow down from the wild creative roller coaster ride, you find yourself in a very contemplative mood.

 The past week has been extremely exciting for me with a lot of creative ideas coming one right after another like a rapid fire machine gun. And now hopefully the ideas and designs will soon come to fruition.... And then this morning... the philosophical mind-set began which gives my head-brain a chance to slow down and kinda rest for a bit.

So when I woke up early around 12:30 AM, my first thought wasn't about designing a blue-tooth camera or a vibrating/talking bracelet that says "Thinking of you" but it was....."I wonder how many people have passed away since the beginning of time...and even more specific, "Is heaven gettin' full?"

So, with a quick search on Google, I found that some rough estimates, by greater thinkers than myself, calculated the number of persons, at least upright walking people, since about 50,000 B.C is around 110-120 billion, give or take a few thousand or so.

After bouncing that thought off of Pattye, who quickly commented, "Tom, you're wearing me out", I started thinking, where are all of those departed souls  living these days and is heaven gettin' crowded like some of the suburbs around here in Texas.

Since I grew up in the Catholic faith and spent every school morning studying catechism under the watchful eye of a nun, my interpretation, or at least the nun's interpretation of heaven,  that was ingrained in me, was that all of the good people who went to heaven  were walking around with colorful robes on and chatting while they passed through nice manicured gardens. And of course all of the bad people, were down below hangin' out with ole Beelzebub.

Well, let's just say for the sake of argument, that what......maybe 20 percent of the people ever born are truly evil and there is no way they are gonna have a chance to see "The Big Guy" after they pass away, that would mean there would still be somewhere around 100 billion walkin' around in those colored robes. 

And then I'm  thinkin', with all of those people up there, who in the heck gets the crap jobs in heaven like drivin' garbage trucks and cleanin' out porta-pottys. Maybe those jobs are for the not so good people who kinda' get to heaven but still need to pay for their misdeeds

I like it when I get in a contemplative mood. I like to be able to slow down the process and simply share my thoughts. But I really love it when the ole' head-brain gets ready for a new session. A time when my mind feels like it is on fire waiting to explode with innovations and ideas that might just work..they might just be the answer to a lot of the world's woes.

Oh well, just another day in my crazy-brain world.  Come join me some time!

Sometimes magic is well.....just magic

Magic takes many forms...to some, magic is a rainbow...to others, magic is the first kick of  a fetus while still in the womb.....and for others it might be simply a sunset. To me, magic is well.. in fact,  magic.

I think most people like magic. They will stare wide-eyed with mouths agape as the prestidigitator performs the unbelievable. the mysterious,  the most baffling thing they have ever seen. Maybe as simple as making a coin suddenly appear out of a child's ear to a full blown Las Vegas spectacular with disappearing elephants. 

My first encounter with magic as a serious interest occurred in the early '60s as I watched while Mark Wilson and his beautiful wife/assistant Nani perform  mystifying routines on his black and white TV show the "Magic Land of Allkazam".  I wasn't any good but I still loved doing little simple tricks that Mark would teach at the end of the show.

The first really good trick I learned was in one of the following summers in the '60s. A group of us, Eddie, "The Jer", Huey the Duck and some more would hang out at Loos School woods and each summer the school grounds had a camp counselor show up for the day for organized activities. One year, a counselor showed me a trick that I still perform today, some 50 years later, and, well I guess it still impresses people, at least they tell me that or they are liein' pretty good.

In high school at Fairview High, I could roll a coin through each finger and of course I would always do the disappearing act with a cigarette. I would ask a buddy standing outside the local eatery, The Mascot, if he wanted to see a cigarette disappear. He would oblige, give me a cig, and I would say, "See it's gone from your pack"...That was one trick you never showed twice.

As years went by, I would pick up a new trick every now and then, they weren't much, certainly nothing that I would do for anyone unless I had been drinking, but the fascination was always there. The friends around the bar, the strangers who I would entice with a challenge of a free drink if they could figure out the magic.....the routines always stayed with me.

Some of my gaffs, or tricked-up props would come from the back of a comic book...you know, the ad right next to the x-ray glasses and the hovering one-man helicopter kit. I fell for the scams. I'd pay 3 or 4 dollars for a piece of plastic junk, but in fact what I was buying was the secret.

I remember one year at the Montgomery County Fair in Dayton, Ohio. There was a hawker there doing card tricks impressing all of the rubes while he had this little plastic mouse run up and down his arms. It was great. I fell for it. I bought the mouse for 50 cents, a lot of money back then, and when I opened the box, there was the dumb little plastic mouse...nothing else. I looked dumbfounded at the hawker and asked, "How do I make it work"?...he said, "That will be another 50 cents. I told you I love magic.

Well today, I went back in time and spent about an hour in a magic store. I begged the magician working at the counter to please don't torment me anymore as he performed and  as I begged for more...show me more. He did, I bought. He showed me more. I bought more. I felt renewed. I felt the excitement that I had when I saw my first bit of magic half a century ago.

 I like bein' a kid again. I like havin' fun and makin' people smile with the look of "huh" plastered on their face. I love magic ..... 

.

The Healing Wall

ca·thar·tic
adjective1.
providing psychological relief through the open expression of strong emotions; causing catharsis.
"crying is a cathartic release"

When I first heard that a replica of the Vietnam Memorial Wall was coming to Richardson, Texas, where I live, my first thought was of a friend, a happy-go-lucky young man who died in a far away land, fighting a war that we knew little about.

I had written about Donnie Sanders on this blog on a previous Memorial Day paying him tribute, while at the same time remembering my time in the service. And now with the Wall just down the street those empty feelings of despair and confusion started to flood my mind again. In years past, I wrote my stories, paid my written respects,  and after a few isolated memories, the day ended and I started life anew the next day.

Donnie Sanders

But this would be different. The Wall was within walking distance of my home. My last connection with Donnie and all of the 58,000 men and women with whom I had formed a small and somewhat simple bond, our service  bond,  would expose me and force me to finally bear witness to my own humanity.


How would I react? Why did I need to react? Why after all of these years do those haunting memories have to return? Why can't we just tuck it away, stuffed deep in our hearts and minds and forget the period of time ever existed?.... I would soon find out.


The Vietnam Veterans Memorial opened in 1982 in Washington, D.C. and it was built and designed to begin the process of healing. Healing for the thousands of men and women who did not receive a proper homecoming from a war that left this country torn in half.


Since then, five travelling replicas have been built to bring the Wall, bring the cleansing, and bring the healing to the millions of people who would never get the chance to go to Washington, D.C. These walls have been in over 400 cities and each time they are displayed thousands and thousands of people come to touch a name, leave a memento and purge their hearts of the pain they have carried.


I was one of them but I didn't know why.


In 1970, when I enlisted, the War was escalating like it had done for several years prior. And, by the time Donnie became a casualty in Binh Dinh, South Vietnam in 1969, over 25,000 young men and women from our Armed Forces had perished along with thousands of Vietnamese civilians.


My job  during the War was to write stories for the airmen and their families stationed at Langley AFB, Va. It was a cushy job. I went to work in an office, sat at a desk, drank coffee and sifted through pictures and information about the people who had "come home".They wanted to forget what they had seen and deep down, I didn't want to know. I did my job. I kept my head down. I went home at 5 p.m.. But, as I watched the news every night, I couldn't avoid hearing..."Another 86 soldiers have died today in Vietnam".


I didn't cry then. I didn't cry later. I did my job. I didn't want to be in the damn War. "Isn't this enough?" was a question that I asked myself daily and my answer was always the same."Damn right, it's enough .I'm serving, ok!"


I wore a bracelet like so many other people did, with the name of a Major who was being held as a POW in Vietnam. It helped me feel like I was doing my part...but then there it was...that damn guilt....I wanted to shout "I'm doing my damn part, quit haunting me". I don't know what became of the bracelet. I don't even remember if the Major survived. I just wanted to put everything at rest after the POW's were released and the War finally ended.


Another incident occurred after I had been promoted and given a new set of duties. I was the editor of the base newspaper now and I was reviewing stories from other bases. I picked up one from Pope AFB, N.C.and there on the front page of the newspaper was a picture of my brother, Dave, who was being presented the Silver Star, the third highest military decoration for Valor. It was for his role in trying to rescue POWs in North Vietnam.  Again, I read the story, reported the news and tried not to think of the people dying while protecting our freedom.

The years went by.

Every now and then I would get on line and search a little about the War. I found a fellow airman I had served with while at Langley. Bill P. would later become an admired teacher and principal back in his home state. Another success story of someone who served but avoided that ultimate sacrifice.


A great boss, who we always referred to as Cap'n, emphasizing the humorous part of Cap'n , surfaced a few years later and we joked about the "fun" times during the War.Never touching on the horrible tragedies of war. Those thoughts were too deeply hidden.


And then....some 40 years later. Here comes THAT WALL. I didn't need it. My life is fine. I don't need anything to remember. Donnie was dead. So were 58,000 others.


Why did I feel the compelling need to visit it?


I rode my bike to the campus at the University of Texas in Dallas where the Wall had been placed. It was Thursday morning and workers were still making final arrangements  for the ceremonies that would later take place the next day.


And then I saw it. A half-size replica of the Wall in D.C. with all of the names inscribed. I stared. I shuddered. and then I cried. I shook. I cried some more . And I stared.


A man about my age walked up and stood by me. I put my arms out and we hugged. Two grown men. Neither knowing each other. Complete strangers. We hugged and we cried. He said , "Welcome home, brother"


He escorted me over to Donnie's name where I had found the correct panel location and had it written down. I touched the name. I cried again. And I stared. Feelings that had been dormant in my heart rushed out and in that moment. I had that cathartic purge of my soul.


Am I melodramatic as some might think?. Perhaps. Do I embellish my stories as some might think? Perhaps. Am I able to open my heart and bare my soul?  Yes. If it's a flaw in my character, then so be it. It's my life and if I can share it with any of you, well then here it is.


I went back on Friday to take a picture for someone who asked if I could find their fallen friend. I did. It brought solace to their heart.


It then dawned on me, why it's called "The Healing Wall". I had no more tears. I was healed of what an escort described to me the previous day. He said, all of us whether in the military or not. Whether we had friends who had died or not. We want to take their suffering, their families grief and help them carry the burden. We survived. They didn't"


When I posted a comment on my high school's page the other day, saying I was going to visit the Wall. I publicly asked the question. "what am I supposed to be doing with my life, since my name isn't on that Wall and other's names are?"


I found the reason on that overcast day after I shed some unknown pain, some unknown guilt and touched a simple wall that held a name of a forgotten friend.  I am here to tell this story.


We all have symbolism in our lives, whether the hardest soul that shows no emotion or the wailing emotional wreck that cries when seeing a little puppy. We are all human. We experience things differently. Whether we take holy water and cross ourselves when we enter a church.  If we say a prayer before we go to bed at night. If we say grace before our meals. We are seeking answers and expressing our faith. And until you are able to break the stone that has covered and enclosed your wound or pain, you'll live with that burden.


My words can't change how anyone feels. They are simple words from a simple man, who. unknowingly was looking for some answers and found them in the least likely place.


Peace.