Y2K:
Bek’ in ma day… it was pulling garbage out of the weeds n’ getin it runnin’ – before that it was Motorcycle Mania on repeat – before that it was building models in front of PowerBlock.
Fortune favored me, not financial, but descending from a long line of do-it-yourselfers. Being a quintessential proletariat means that buying it is not an option, rather you must build it!
1880’s
Let’s not forget, America was born on the backs of poverty stricken desperates like my Great Grandfather (Joseph?, Jozef?, Joe). Brought over on a boat by his father and ushered straight into the Coal Breaker at 7 years old. On arrival your name was queried, if you were illiterate it was written for you – most likely incorrectly.
My Grandfather, raised in that Pennsylvania Coal town, was lucky to not be the eldest son, and was awarded the opportunity to peruse other passions.
1920’s
My Grandfather (right in the picture), a product of surviving the depression, made the best of his childhood by channeling his imagination and developing his ingenuity. Out of necessity, you either made it out of garbage, or you didn’t have it.
Pictured here, his older brother Joe, must have worked to provide for the family along side his father. No doubt a luxury to have a dual income in those days. But before Joe died (age 30?), he bestowed his musical talent onto my grandfather.
It is easy to forget that the life expectancy of a nearly-impoverished miner was on the short side of 35. This was my Grandfather’s first confrontation with the unfairness of life – his mentor, his rock – taken.
1940’s
The bitterness of life couldn’t drag this country-boy down. Pictured here, smiling while changing a tire on his honeymoon road trip (notice the bald tire 🤣 and borrowed car).
My take away: First, always make the best of it; second, the importance of self-reliance.
1980’s
One of the Sons (my Uncle Joe), a pure-bread biker, started a bike shop premised around a non-denominational biker gang. Just a bunch of guys (and gals) who like to ride and party. Amicable with all “colors” (gangs) and generally free of obligation other than brotherhood. A true Pioneer in my eyes – not so good business man as everything was always “on sale” aka. free.
While the whole family contributed to my mechanical savviness, it was Uncle Joe who had both the facilities and the patients to foster my creativity.
Both that scratch-built mini-bike and that bagged lowrider truck (pictured top) was forged in his shop, both before I was allowed to drive!
2000’s
UNC Charlotte had an exemplary motorsports program, and I was a shoe in. But… there was this other niche program hiding in the depths of the basement.
Something about shaving individual atoms with a diamond tip, eating exotic metals with ground pounding machinery, lasers so bright they would take the eyes clean out of your head just by being in the same room…
This science fiction – only not – was the Precision Engineering program in the Center For Precision Metrology. Not Meteorology, but the science of measurement.
It would be this opportunity that would provide a life my forefathers couldn’t have even dreamed! Travel to distant lands, collogues from every culture, working for the best organizations the world can conjure.
One of my favorite aspects of Precision Engineering is that, no matter how “valuable” you deem yourself, your cost is insignificant relative to the need. Similar to the Manhattan Project in the 1950’s, these budgets are decided based on the overall progress of mankind.
A few examples: what is the opportunity cost of not preparing technologically for climate change, or disengaging from the arms race; how about failing to having a technological plan for when (not if) a neighboring country blows the top off one of their nuclear reactors? Managing these risks are not financially measurable, rather they are more like one of the fundamental responsibilities of government.
2015
A body can only serve so much. They say when you die you’re life flashes before your eyes. Well, when I blead out on the operating table, I was in a drug induced coma… but it did give me a half of a decade of recovery and reflection.
What’s on your tombstone?
What a stupid thing to ponder… but really. Take a walk through a cemetery and the common denominator is: era of existence, number of years lived, maybe a short list of family, and maybe a small picture or sentence that is supposed to sum up your life interests?
What if you were Chumbawamba and you’ve come to the realization that ‘Tubthumping’ was the greatest achievement you’d likely be able to eak out. In other words: if you’ve made your millions – now what?
Some call it mid-life crisis, others identify with a specific page in the personal development book, some just flake out obliviously.
Me? I’ll let you know… But I am honing in on at least this chapter in my life.
In reflection, the reoccurring self-achievement boils down to helping someone over a personal hurdle. Weather that’s: solving that math problem; machining some trinket that [helps to] keep their legs from falling asleep on long moto-rides; the patients and utilities to extract a neuro-degenerative patient on a failed attempt at that one-last mountain climb.
The Owl Claw Project
My Asylum during recovery was the garage.
Finally having roots, also enabled the accumulation of the bigger fab tools that just weren’t feasible when living like a quasi-vagabond. While I’ve always had a small mill and lathe, now I had cabinets dedicated to tooling and an isolated foundation to blow pictures off the walls if I wanted to.
TIG welders, tubing benders, band saws, a real air compressor, an entire wall (actually three) of cabinets and boxes for tools!
Pro Shops = Toured good enough.
Skills = Honed good enough.
Projects = Finished good enough.
Events = Attended good enough.