Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967

Blinker fluid needs changin'....

Some fifty years ago I saw a bumper sticker that said: "Ban Trap Shooting - Save the Endangered Clay Pigeon!"

Speaking of P-39's... I worked with a fella whose dad (whom I met once) had flown P-39's during the war - he eventually retired from the reserves as a Lt Col. His civilian "profession?" He was a dairyman! He even had a picture of Elsie the Cow painted on his plane. After the war, I was told that he considered buying a then-cheap surplus plane, but decided that it would be more prudent to buy two cows for the same price. He wore a "Caterpillar Clob pin," having successfully bailed out of a '39 in training when the engine "lunched." When he made it to the Pacific, he actually bagged a Zero! He said that he popped out of a cloud "and there he was!" When the Japanese pilot was fished out of the drink he said that he never knew what hit him. A painting was commissioned to commerate the event; I snapped a picture of it hanging on my buddy's office wall.

With Howard hisself at the controls....

My late Uncle Bob was a PBY flight engineer ~ he loved the old bird. "Slow, simple, noisy, leaky, and as reliable as an old dog."

Five Oh Four October 17, 1989. Five o’clock in the afternoon and life was good. Most of my co-workers had vacated. But I was still in the office, and undoubtedly would be for some time. The third game of the Best World Series in History was about to begin and I was going to miss it… but wasn’t worried one bit – I’d set my VCR, and it would just be starting. My hometown Oakland A’s versus the San Francisco Giants! I’d make a point of not listening to the game on the radio, and when I did finally make it home I’d settle back with a nice dinner and watch from the start. It was going to be great! Well, as Bobbie Burns said, “The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy!” Five o’clock. I puttered about, seeing the backs of the last stragglers headed for the elevators, eager to begin the 18 floor descent to ground level and their own dashes toward home or to join the throngs at a local “watering hole.” A small handful remained to tend the finish of the days settlements; me, Mabel Woo, Huey Cassidy, Brenda Bagis, Marie Tarantan… Four minutes later life changed. With the first tremor we took note. Almost automatically, we all looked for our resident NYB’s (pronounced “nibs.”) New York Bankers. We were infested with ‘em. Brought in by hordes to “save us from ourselves” after a major system conversion had gone south a couple years earlier. By and large an unpleasantly intense bunch. Predictably, your typical NYB was capable of increasing the collective blood pressure of a conference room full of natives by his or her mere presence… frequently causing downright unhealthy spikes. The fortunate thing was that this tended to be a condition with a built-in terminal date. Invariably, after an indeterminate period of one to three years, an invisible switch would *click* and a most amazing transformation would occur – the NYB would experience an instant conversion to Reborn Californian, surrounded by a “mist of Mellow.” Take David Steinberg or Bob Lyons, for example. A year and a half we suffered with Steinberg… even if he walked into a conference room unseen and unheard, the hairs on one’s arms and back of the neck would lift and tingle. And then one day, David (now “Dave!”) strolled in with a smile, dressed in shorts, sandals, and an aloha shirt. We all smiled… Dave had been ASSIMILATED! Bob always had one in a defensive state, readily lacing his monologues with degrading statements such as his “definition of the West Coast Work Ethic – ‘DON’T!’” Then one morning, Bob drove up in an old MG Midget, strolled in with a smile… he had become One of Us. Downright endearing. But this current batch was still pre-conversion. Difficult to live with. One of our few pleasures was watching them react to local events, such as demonstrations, riots, and of course, earthquakes. And what a delight they were when the earth quaked! Why, they KNEW what to do… they’d been told before they ever made the migration West. So, at the instant they detected a shiver and determined it was not someone trundling past with a pastry cart, they would immediately brace themselves in a doorway. If it became anything more, we “natives” would find great delight in noting their expensively-clad butts poking out from beneath desks. Great fun! But not today. Not October 17, 1989. Not at five oh four p m on this day. One of my clearest memories of that afternoon was the few NYBs in sight freezing in situ. Not a one of ‘em made a dash for a doorway or desk. But we natives did! Because we KNEW. We knew this was “The Big Eye-Tee.” This one was IT! I ducked into my office doorway and grasped the doorframe on each side. As desks hopped, acoustic ceiling tiles flew like errant, rectangular Frisbees, and desktop items crashed to the floor, I watched Huey, Mable, and Marie scramble for cover. Hearing a plaintive yelp, I looked out and spotted Brenda. Evidently returning from the Lady’s, she had been just entering our department when IT hit. And there she was… she’d grasped the doorknobs on each side of the door, and was hanging on like it was a narrow motorcycle handlebar. Her feet were off the floor; she was squeezing the door with her knees, riding it as it swung to and fro, weakly crying “Mama! Mama!!” Soon, Brenda was drowned out by a cacophony of rumbling and crashing. By now all the ceiling light fixtures had popped from their moorings and were swinging by the power cables. I heard another heartsick sound – the magnetically controlled access doors to the emergency staircase slamming shut. We were trapped. Eventually, it stopped. After a few ending shudders and rolls, we “natives” crawled or stepped from our shelters. The NYB’s continued to stand in place, stock-still… each apparently stunned. But we were still trapped. Obviously, the elevators were off-line, and the magnetically controlled access doors to the emergency staircase were still shut – and could not be opened. And it was dark. Not completely, but electrical power was lost. The only illumination was from the exterior windows and a few scattered emergency lamps. Surprisingly, the phones were still operable – others quickly checked with loved ones; I reached my missus at home and made a tentative plan for her to meet me at the ferry terminal in Vallejo. As I recall, somehow those doors were eventually freed, allowing us to make the absurdly long hike to ground level. While en route I took a slight detour two floors down to check on my dear friend Dona Johnson. As expected, she was still there. Not as expected, the normally calm and unflappable woman was in shock and barely functional. “Dona! Let’s go – we need to get out of here!” With a vacant expression, she would only say “I think we should wait and see what happens… don’t you?” After she’d repeated this twice, I grabbed a phone and found that my boss (who was an otherwise creepy fella) was still in his office. I knew that he had taken BART to work and would not have a way home, so I quickly came up with a plan: Dona was in no condition to drive home to Richmond – and had she been, we had not yet heard of the partial collapse of the Bay Bridge. Jeff would use her car to get home, but would first drive us to the Ferry Terminal. I would put Dona on a boat to Richmond, and I would board one bound for Vallejo. I gently but insistently helped Dona to the ground floor, working our way through a crowd of dazed and lost-soul looking bankers. Just before we rendezvoused with Jeff, Eric Mendelson spotted me and dashed over. “Rocko! The Bay Bridge is down! Look… you can stay at my place in the Marina district for the night – or longer, if need be…” I thanked Eric, and told him what we were about. Then I looked to the northeast. The sky in that direction was covered by a wall of smoke. “Eric…” He followed my gaze, and groaned. Indeed, it would be many days until he would be able to reach home – and then only to gather belongings and evacuate. I wished him well, and Jeff and Dona and I made our way quickly to the garage. I had Dona give Jeff her keys, and we found our way onto the city streets. Jeff was only able to get us to within three blocks of the Ferry Terminal – the roadways were filled with mobs of people; indeed, the scene immediately brought to mind the countless Godzilla movies of my youth, with half of Tokyo desperately trying to escape the monster. I also noticed that in places the sidewalks were littered with rubble – mostly chunks of masonry; brick cornices and window ledges. It’s all still a blur, but after leaving Jeff, I steered Dona to the terminal. Amazingly, there were two boats there – I managed to get her a ticket and aboard the Richmond-bound ship. When she saw the collapsed section of the bridge, her mind cleared and she realized what she needed to do. I don’t recall how she made it home from the terminal in Richmond, but we had that figured out before she embarked. Seeing her safely aboard, I made my way through the crowd to the Vallejo dock. Oh Christ, NOW what? I thought as I saw the boat standing off from the dock. Her captain was evidently unsure about the wisdom of trying to tie up, pointing to the bent spire of the terminal building. Finally, as a result of either pleads and cajoling or shouted threats of his fate later if he did NOT dock, he came in. Needless to say, the boat was more crowded than I’d ever seen. Despite mental images of those Phillipine ferry tragedies we all read about (boats capsizing when overloaded), we boarded and eventually got underway. If there was one fortunate twist to this it is the timing – the ferry had been delayed almost an hour, giving me the opportunity to get aboard. And of course, the boat ride was both memorable and forgettable. I do recall the on-board bar doing a bang-up business, pretty much depleting their stock by the time we reached our destination. And of course, there were NO “earthquake discounts.” But we made it. When we disembarked, Lisa was waiting for me, wide-eyed and astonished. We transported another ferry passenger home then drove to our own. Later that night, after ascertaining that the Carquinez Bridge was open, she drove me to Concord to fetch my li’l Ford Ranger, parked at a bank garage near the BART station. Then back home, for a well-deserved glass of “adult beverage.” The following morning would begin the next part of the story – to be shared later. And by the way – my recorded tape of the ball game turned out to be a remarkable documentary… Ferry Terminal Spire Eric's neighborhood Bay Bridge Collapesed Cypress Structure Freeway = Oakland

Reading the Winchester Model 12 thread reminded me of this video by Mark Novak, on a Model 97 project. Kinda long, but pretty darned interesting - a very clear explanation of the workings of the John Moses Browning designed shotgun. It's a complex booger, not surprising at all, considering from whose imagination it was hatched! And of course, clearly the inspiration for Thomas Crosley Johnson and his sleek Model 12 design.

From the movie, Clarence "Crazy" Lee and his Model 12: I've been a fan of the Model 12 since the late 60's, but only have one of my own ~ but it's interesting: Year of Manufacture 1948 Model 25 type Magazine Tube Clamp For some reason, Uncle Sam favored the less-handy Model 25 type magazine tube clamp over the standard quick-disassembly Model 12 arrangement. Standard Model 12 Magazine Tube Clamp I was with the late Hank the day in 1971 when he bought two Model 12's in San Francisco; the first from the San Francisco Gun exchange - paid, IIRC, $150 for it. The second from F. Bob Chow's shop on Mission St - that one was, I believe, $125. The difference? the Chow gun was marked as a solid-frame Model 25 - but it was in reality another Government Model 12, just like the one above. Takes a screwdriver to break it down instead of just pushing the toggle. Back then, the price difference bought a couple tanks of gas and a couple cases of beer.

Until about a year ago (had to replace the router) mine was "ICE Survellience" (Our local demographics are MUCH more slanted than Tucson ~ 77% vs 42%....)

Back about 1975 or so, my ol' liver Brittany, Woody, and I were spending a weekend pheasant hunting up near Colusa at the Richmond Hunting Club. And it was COLD! Saturday night I intended to sleep in the passenger seat of my '73 Super Beetle with a Coleman catalytic heater in the footwell (and windows open), and Woody in the back seat. Not comfortable, but we'd done it before - we were young and rugged, don'tcha know! Came in from the field to our "camp site" on the leased farm, and started to set up my stove to cook dinner when a voice hailed me from a nearby camper. An elderly gentleman waved me over, and introduced himself; I think his name may have been Pete. Also a member of the club, he too was solo with his dog, and they invited me and Woody to join them for supper - which we did. So, as we're sitting about enjoying a hot meal and coffee (and maybe a bit of brandy) and swapping hunting and dog tales, when I noticed his shotgun lying across a chair. It was interesting, and bit odd looking. "Pete, what in the world kind of a shotgun ya got there? May I look at it?" He grinned, and said "Why, shore! Go on ahead and I'll tell ya about it!" I picked it up and was immediately intrigued - VERY light, with an aluminum receiver, but very little weight forward: it seemed that the barrel was fiberglass! Actually, as I later learned, something like 500 miles of glass fiber and resin wrapped about a thin-walled steel liner. "Son, that there is one off the early Winchester Model 59's," ol' Pete said. Recoil operated, with a 'floating chamber.' And then he went on to tell me how it had been given to him by an old friend of his, a fella named Marsh Williams, who had worked with Wichester and helped design the gun. A memory that stuck with me. Winchester Model 59 muzzle end of barrel William's "floating chamber" outlined in blue Back in the day - A Boy And His Dog

My late Aunt Sharon used to tell a story from her early teenage years about a disaster brought about by dear ol' Grandpa. Now, Grandpa loved fishing. Not all fishing, mind you - CATfishing. Nothing else. And when I was a kid and available, he loved to take me along. I'd fish for bass, Grandpa for catfish. Once in a while, he'd hook a non-discriminating bass and get grumpy - he wanted catfish. Better eating, and b'sides... he had ME to clean 'em. For what it's worth, that's where I learned to hate cleaning catfish. Which is why I never fished for 'em. And still don't. But I digress again! The thing about catfish is you need a good, stinky bait. Grandpa was convinced that the smellier, the better. And he was always searching for the perfect conconcotion - and finally hit on what he projected to be the perfect recipe. Chicken liver and limburger cheese! A quick trip to the market, and home with a couple pounds of each. He proceeded to put them through the grinder, mix thoroughly, then fill a couple of Mason jars, cap, and place on a shelf in the pantry. As much as we all loved dear old Grandpa, no one could accuse him of being overly insightful. And it never even crossed his mind that everything else in the pantry "canned" in Mason jars had been cooked. And the jars sterilized. Nope... it just seemed like a good idea to put up his newly-invented ultimate killer catfish bait to age and mellow. And all was well for about a week. And then, one warm, summer night, well into the wee hours, the family was abruptly awakened by what sounded like a pistol shot, followed forthwith by a second BOOM! The family tumbled from their beds in a panic - and began gasping as they were overcome by the ghastly fumes of over-ripened catfish bait. It seemed that as the stuff aged, it fermented, and built up a tremendous pressure until the first jar burst most convincingly - likely triggering the failure of the second, adjacent jar. All windows and doors were opened; sadly, my poor Aunt Sharon and Aunt Bea were tasked with the clean-up duty. Which, as they told me many times over the years, was plumb awful. Grandpa wondered how it would have worked for the catfish - but he was forbidden from ever again attempting to formulate any home-made fish baits.

Back when he was about twelve or thirteen, Sassparilla Kid decided that he wanted a 16 gauge Winchester Model 12. "Hey, Dad! Can we drive to town and see if we can find one?" Well, it was meant to be! Our first stop, the late Herb Bauer Sporting Goods, had a pretty decent one on the used rack for a surprisingly good price. Actually, quite a nice little gun, nineteen forty-eight manufacture, full choke tube. So a bunch of years later the Kid found another barrel assembly on Ebay that very closely matched the gun - but with a Poly-Choke. He turned the barrel over to a 'smith to have the choke removed, thinking he'd then have a "cylinder choke" tube. Maybe explore having it fit with screw-in chokes But when he got the thing back, the 'smith had Cerakoted it! "Wha'd ya do that for?" the Kid asked.... "Why - I just figgered you'd like it! Makes it look new! No charge!" Needless to say, it no longer matches the rest of the gun. And since he'd only handed the guy the barrel, it doesn't even match its own magazine tube. That said - anyone know how to strip Cerakote? And no, he's never gone back to that particular 'smith.

Dem lyin' sacks o' suds....

Thass just plumb krewl, son... just krewl! Mean, too!

As fun as the video is - and it IS! - I'm just fascinated by all the cool machines in the background. Absolutely amazing!

Reminds me of the "pinhole cameras" we made from shoe boxes when we were kids. Well... some of us more "seasoned" folk remember 'em. And "crystal set" radios! My Uncle Bob taught me to make 'em with a cigar box, copper wire coil made from wrapping the wire around a toilet paper roll, and a lead-sulfide "crystal" formed from adding sulfer to lead melted in a can and cast in one of my aunt's purloined thimbles, and a "cat's whisker" of copper wire and a sewing needle. More wire for an antenna and an ancient surplus headset or tiny piezolectric ear plug.

Tim ~ Tim Allen, "Tim the Tool Man Taylor" Undoubtedly he'd use a turbocharged Q-Tip. If it was Mike Baxter he wouldn't be painting his house ~ he'd go fishing.