Traveling Companion

Not even I should go a year between posts, so I figured I'd check in, and with no topic in mind, just put down what's on said mind.

My depression is visiting me this week, but he's different than he has been in the past.  It seems like he's matured and mellowed along with me.  When he first sunk his teeth into me in earnest, some eighteen years ago, it was a savage, hard-edged thing.  It knocked me flat.  As I was able, with the help of doctors at least somewhat versed in brain chemistry, to control him, the edge came off, he donned softer clothing, but whenever he drew closer, he was still hard underneath the skin, and took me down for the count at least once.  The medical help?  The ignorant think it's some kind of chemical escape mechanism; as one uninformed, tactless nursing undergraduate called it, a "happy pill."  Those who really know, know better.  It's no such thing. I take my meds, and I still have clinical depression... but I'm alive.  That's the difference.  In the throes of depression, one is spiraling down a black hole with no end, and no desire to stop descending.  The medicine simply nails up a sturdy floor to stand on to stop the descent.  That floor may be lower than the surrounding ground, and it's made of rough-hewn planks, not carpeted in flowers and unicorns, but it is a floor, a limit to further downward movement.  And that's enough, and thank God for it.

Anyway, I've grown and learned, and I have people who depend on me.  My children get my mind out of myself, and they're worth it.  I had my chances to be more than a mediocrity, but now is the time to be a springboard to their dreams, and it's a joyful thing to do so.  Now, thanks mostly to the much-maligned doctor-prescribed SSRI in residence in my bloodstream, rather than being a savage primate riding piggyback, screeching in my ear, depression is more of a companion walking a few paces behind silently in a hooded robe.  (If I were a man of consequence, perhaps he'd be the slave standing behind me in the chariot as it passed beneath Roman arches in the triumphal parade, whispering "Remember thou art mortal.")  I'd love to be altogether free of depression's company, but that's probably not in the cards, and I can tolerate it.

This week, he's pulled up abreast of me.  Not on my back, saying dark things to me from behind gritted teeth, but keeping pace.  But where before his mutterings were a danger to me, this week, they're causing me to withdraw from people, all people except for family and the closest friends.  It's not falling down a hole, but left unchecked, withdrawal into one's self isn't much better.  But I think this is an episode that won't last; he'll drop back again and take his designated place behind me in our pathetic two-man parade.

"T" is for Things I Learned from my Parents

Things Dad told: Don't do a halfway job. Look people in the eye and use a firm handshake. Do an honest day's work. Be respectful to adults, even if you don't feel like it. Treat your mother with respect. Return the car keys to me, not to an undisclosed location.  Use the right tool for the job. When I'm under the car and ask for a tool, put it in my hand.  Valvoline is better than Pennzoil.  A midnight curfew means you're home at midnight.

Things Dad showed:  Men's hair should be combed, as should their sons.' Hit the nail straight. Do not lie, cheat or steal. Have a good work ethic. Be dependable. Be the best at what you do and make yourself indispensable to your employer. Do what you say you'll do.  Punctuality is respect for others. If your nation calls, answer. Good grooming is a given. Take care of your mother-in-law. Be true to yourself. Pulling weeds develops sons' character so start using Roundup only after your live-in gardeners have moved out.

Things Mom told: Go Dodgers! Your little brother only copies you because he loves you. Nobody didn't love your grandfather. Your grandmother was a good athlete, an excellent cook and giving to a fault. You don't need to reveal every single detail of our lives to strangers. No, you may not wear your new cowboy hat in El Torito. Be a help, not a hindrance, to your teachers.  God has a plan and purpose for your life.

Things Mom showed: Treasure your elders, love your family.  Be sensitive to other people's feelings. Never be intentionally hurtful to other people. Be dependable. Small things that link us to our grandparents are worth preserving. History is fascinating, learning is fun, reading is priceless.  Your work is good enough for the Louvre, but let's put it on the fridge. It's okay to be quiet, but there are times you must speak up. Be true to yourself. Children are precious. Your potential is limitless and it's my mission to nurture it.  

Things Mom and Dad told: All we ask of you is that you do your best. 

Things Mom and Dad showed: Skin color doesn't matter, character does. Work hard for your family.  Don't be afraid to make a move to benefit your family's future. Make sure your children spend as much precious time as possible with their grandparents. Life is about experiences, not money.  Love the Lord your God and train up your children in the way they should go.  We love you and are here for you for as long as we live.

"I" is for Irritable

We continue this excursion away from the theme of "Stuff: Engineering, Materials and Things" with "irritable," a seemingly harmless little word which brought my very world crumbling down around me some thirty-two years ago.

In sixth grade, I was a wreck, at least in my own eyes. I was uncool, unathletic, awkward and self-conscious.  Basically, like me now, but shorter.  I was always the last one picked in any sporting contest.  I had a bit of a pot belly.  I once laughed while drinking milk and it came out my nose.  In front of a pretty girl.

I was not popular.

I could draw pretty well and I was a fiendishly good reader, and no, neither of those did a thing for my popularity, any more than did the fact that I played the clarinet in band.  Yeah, I was That Kid.

Man, I had forgotten just how bad it really was until just now.  Excuse me for a moment while I go collect myself.  Talk amongst yourselves.

Right.  Anyway, I was also good at spelling.  Again, not something that upped my cool factor in any way, but winning the 1981 Charles H. Castle Elementary School sixth grade spelling contest did mean one thing - I was finally the best at something.  And that, folks, most assuredly is better than not being the best at something.

I remained outwardly humble, of course; noblesse oblige, remembering the little people, not wanting to take undue advantage of my newfound notoriety.  I do admit though, I was proud.

Which, I have on good authority, is the very thing that goeth before the fall, and for me the fall came swiftly and terribly.  A few weeks later at the District contest I missed my very first word.  I spelled "irritable" with one "r."

Yeah, I know.

My humiliation knew no bounds.  A third grader should have nailed that one.  I couldn't even look at my principal, Mr. Chapman, who had accompanied me.  I had failed myself and I had failed Mr. Walker, the best teacher a kid could have.  I had failed Charles H. Castle Elementary School.  My ancestors looked down from heaven and shook their heads sadly. Like Icarus, I had soared too close to the sun, and my fall was no less dramatic.

Never again did I scale the dizzying heights of spelling greatness.  Never again did Genius fly so low to brush me with her gossamer wing.  The next year, at O.J. Actis Junior High school, I didn't even get into the contest.  Mrs. Kendrick made up a rule, on the fly, that you had to have gotten 100% on all your spelling tests, and she did it just to keep me out, which she was looking for any excuse to do.  It may have had something to do with me constantly talking in class and being lazy in my classwork, I don't know, whatever.  Everett went instead.  I think he won, and went on to win everything between that and the World Spelling Bee or something, I don't know, whatever.

But shed no tears for me, kind reader.  They may have have cruelly snuffed out a promising spelling career; they may have robbed me of the future greatness that was rightfully mine, but they could not take away the glory of those few shimmering weeks when, for a brief, glorious moment, I was the best.

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"D" is for Draftsman

Or "Draughtsman" for our British and Commonwealth friends, of course.

Yesterday I mentioned things that reach an evolutionary dead-end and get replaced by newer technology. A good example of that, one I’m familiar with, is drafting by hand; that is, the craft of making technical drawings with pen and pencil.

I don’t even really consider myself middle-aged, let alone old, but I’m old enough to have experienced some neat things from way back that aren’t around anymore.  Things like rotary dial phones, S&H Green Stamps and glass milk bottles with foil caps, delivered to my childhood doorstep.

I also worked in an old, honorable trade during its final days – hand drafting.

The engineering company I worked for converted fully to computer-aided drafting (CAD) when I was twenty-two (on IBM 286 PCs, heh heh). Before that, I made engineering drawings by hand, either on a heavy translucent cotton paper called vellum (not the real vellum made from sheep skin), or sheets of Mylar film.

I know how to use this and you don't.

 Hand drafting took skill. Drawing neat lines of a consistent width and connecting straight lines to curves smoothly so that one couldn’t tell where the line ended and the curve began were marks of a good draftsman.  Too much pressure with the erasing machine could rub the “tooth” off of Mylar or rub a hole clean through vellum.  Drafting pens had to be held a certain way and were delicate assemblages that had to be cleaned regularly.  Planning was required, as drawing elements couldn't be instantly rearranged like they can in CAD.

   

Of course, a good draftsman had to have good lettering. Mine wasn’t really up to snuff, and never got there before I transitioned to CAD. If a formal drawing needed text, I usually had to use a pantograph-type device called a “Leroy” set. My dad was a draftsman before moving to planning and design, and his lettering was something to behold. His drawings transcended mere conveyance of information and were a pleasure to look at. He was the one who taught me drafting, but six years of part-time work weren’t nearly enough for me to approach the level of his craft. (Side note: he also made me fill out my college application in engineering lettering for practice. Kind of a pain, but it had the intended effect, and to this day I’m still complimented on my printing, at least compared to other engineers.)

Hand drafting has no objective advantages over CAD, so its days are well and truly gone, and I don’t know of any hairshirt-wearing drafters calling for a return to our T-squares. But I love the memories and the tools of the trade and the trade names - Staedtler Mars pencil lead holders and erasers, Koh-i-Noor Rapidograph jewel-tipped technical pens, Keuffel & Esser vernier drafting machines, Dietzgen compasses, Borco self-healing drafting table covers and Higgins Speedball ink, along with planimeters, French curves, railroad curves, stainless steel multiple dividers, erasing machines, erasing shields, circle templates, lettering guides, engineer and artichoke (architect) scales, drafting tape, horsehair desk brushes, pounce, and fluorescent orange triangles.  Huh - come to think of it, some of those things were pretty long in the tooth when I used them thirty years ago.

So how about you? Did you ever have a vocation that went the way of typewriter repair? What were your favorite tools of the trade? ‘Fess up.

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