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New Member
Minitwins
Join Date: Oct 2004
Location: Washington
Posts: 14
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The wind whistled as
it rippled across the
corrugated tin roof.
Light glistened from stainless steel
revolving in the chuck. The tooling
emitted a hissing sound as it
peeled coiled ribbons of shiny
steel from the stock.
Pinned to the wall above the lathe was a
paper on which measurements had been
recorded, measurements which would
liberate mounting stobs from the rotating
inch and a quarter round stock.
A pair of CRG bar end mirrors lay
nestled in a terrycloth towel atop the
work bench. In the center of the shop
the Thurxton rested on its side stand,
awaiting its refinements.
Summer was drawing to an end, a hint
of autumn was present in the cool evening
air. A gentle rain began to fall, it's rhythm
complemented the estranged orchestra of
whistling wind and hissing steel. A few drops
of cutting oil squelched a squeal from the
tooling, my thoughts drifted as a contented
hissing sound retuned to the work.
The sparkling steel gave birth to memories of
spoked wheels revolving in the morning sun as
our heavily laden Softtail displayed its bountiful torque,
pulling grades through the breaks of the
Snake River. Occasionally we were detained by a
lumbering motorhome teetering on its suspension,
laboring with its task of climbing hills
and wallowing through curves. The Harleys
exhaust reverberated off the walls of rolling
tin as each four and a quarter stroke bore
down on the mammoth crankshaft. Scenery
shot past as the V2 engine liberated us from
these hideous obstacles. Wild flowers bloomed
on the mountaintops, displaying an array
of deep purple, delicate violet, and brilliant
yellows. Oversized valves housed in
compression heads relaxed their
canter as the splendor of the meadows
and the fragrant mountain air embraced
us. Rays from the noon day sun were absorbed
by black leather, the radiant warmth
felt soothing after the cool morning.
Stainless steel was taking its toll on
the tooling. Cutting oil would no longer
silence the shrill squealing. After several minutes of
honing, the cutting edge was restored, and the tooling
returned to the lathe. Once again a contented lathe
hissed as the crossfeed began a tedious cut.
South of Sacramento Interstate 5 has little
to offer a wide eyed wanderer. I suppose that's
why I ratcheted the thumb screw into the
throttle and dialed in 78 mph. White shirts flapped
in the wind, blue jeans absorbed sweat, and
each drink of water was tainted by sunscreen.
Six gallon tanks were refueled, and again the hours
rolled by as the lexon windshield coupled to the
wideglide front end tore a hostile gap through the desert air.
Flanked by Bakersfield to the east, the Grapevine due
south, we would reach Santa Clarita by sundown.
Santa Clarita had little more to offer than a nights
rest in an over priced motel, and a couple of
burgers from the local franchise. The finest
part of lodging in Santa Clarita is the early
morning departure, which we did in style. The
camed motor echoed an awkward idle outside
the motel lobby. Bobi tossed our key in the
deposit, climbed aboard and we merged with I-5
as the heads built heat. Modified pipes echoed off
concrete retaining walls and overpasses as
we engaged Los Angeles. Early Saturday found
the city sleeping, the coastal morning smog
loomed heavy in the air. The city was stubborn
and passed slowly, demanding to be remembered
if not for its charm, then for it's vastness and
complexity.
The sun made its first appearance as we motored
past San Clemente. We had found the rhythm of
the road, the morning held its promise of a new
day. I kept an eye to the west anticipating a
glimpse of the peaceful ocean.
San Onofre brought the ocean view, while
stirring visions of the past. It was here that
an old journeyman Ironworker instructed a
young Merrill to tie steel, walk beams, climb
columns, and stuff bolts. He was strict about
the dress code. No rolled cuffs or flares allowed
on the legs of my jeans. No heels allowed on
boots. Laces were not allowed to be tied with
the conventional bow, rather, long leather laces
with two wraps above the top eyelet, secured
by a square knot, the bitter ends woven back
into the upper wraps. "You never fall for there is
no where to land", he warned. A six foot lanyard
was only as good as the knot you tied. In the
event you fell the knot would have to be quickly
released when help arrived, and so I spent my
lunch breaks tying the bowline, as the old
journeyman looked on.
It seemed a stringent regiment for a restless
young man engaged in construction of the
San Onofre Nuclear plants. From atop the steel
structures one had a breathtaking view of the
foaming ocean. Pay was good, as was the
camaraderie. The job had all the makings of a
giant playground, complete with monitor,
my old journeyman.
An understanding of my mentors warnings came
at a tremors price. We returned to the steel after
lunch, resuming our work under a beautiful sunlit
California sky. Steel can be harsh, death swift.
The afternoon had just begun, by one
o' clock, Darrell was loaded into an
ambulance. A short time latter we received
word, he was pronounced dead on arrival.
With erie silence over three hundred men
of varying crafts evacuated the job. "This
is what we do to show our loss and our
respect," explained my old journeyman.
My legs trembled as we walked, my mind
agonized over what my eyes had beheld.
I was numb, my strength sapped.
"Come on Merrill," his deep baritone
voice beckoned, from it I drew strength,
without it, I would never have made the gate.
At Oceanside we left the coastline, merging
with SR 78. A quick breakfast at Vista's
golden arches, fuel for the softail, water jugs
filled, soon we would trade the mild costal climate
for the arid desert of Julian. Bobi gave me a hug,
I reached back cuffing her leg in the palm of my
hand. These were the roads of our youth, explored
on an XLCH Iron Head Sportster. Since that
time we have toured some gorgeous regions,
lost for days in the splendor of Canada's Rockies,
Washington's Cascades and Montana's Bitterroots.
But for now we had forsaken the spender of
the great Northwest, to visit the past, and respond
to a call that had haunted me for years. It was Bobi
who finally said, "You need to go, before the
opportunity is forever lost."
And so I continued to listen as she navigated our
course, onto side roads, through intersections,
past groves of oak trees. Her confidence assured
me that our surroundings were familiar, even though
time had alienated me from the road we traveled.
"Turn around you missed it," she hollered.
I found a wide spot on the winding road,
rode the rear brake and scraped the floor
board, as we swung the softtial around.
"Now slow down," she cautioned, "there, there's
the drive." I steered towards a gap in a
clump of bushes shaded by towering trees.
Hanging ajar on a weathered cedar
post, was a rusty old hand crafted gate.
It was the gate that I recognized, for it was
the work of my mentor, the old journeyman.
The narrow drive was well traveled, clouds
of dust kicked up around the wheels as
we negotiated the rutted road leading
to a modest house with a large covered
porch. The industrial engine gave way to
silence. Bobi dismounted, I rested the
softtail on it's side stand. A welcoming
committee came out to greet us, barking
and wagging their tails. The screen door
swung open, there in the shade of the porch
stood a barrel chested white haired figure
with dark skin and steely blue eyes.
"Come on in," resounded a deep voice,
and so we were received by the old
journeyman.
A fan oscillated on its base, providing a refreshing
breeze for our small gathering. Western artwork
decorated the living room walls, including several
pictures of John Wayne. My old journeyman sat
next to the love of his life, her delicate white
hair flirted with the passing breeze of the fan.
Many stories were told, among them, and
possibly my favorite, was the wild fire that
had threatened their home. A mandatory
evacuation had been ordered by the local
authorities, patrols were sent out to ensure
that the mandate was honored. That evening
cloaked by darkness, my journeyman returned
to defend his home. The fire swept up the
canyon from the south, there was a narrow
clearing between its fuel load and the house.
If the clearing could be maintained the structure
which he had built, and in which he had
raised his family would be spared. He
lamented the loss of the old oak trees that
fell victim to the fire, but the light of day
revealed him to fire crews, tired, sweaty and
dirty, leaning on a shovel in the shade
of his front porch.
The shadows were long as we stepped out on
the porch. Bobi positioned us on the steps,
capturing the enchantment of the day with multiple
shutter clicks. In the shade of the steps
I spied several small plants in pots of clay
nestled next to a large watering can.
"Flowers?" I asked. "Trees, Merrill,
Oak trees," came the reply. My old journeyman
pointed beyond the battle line that he had drawn
up years ago. Dead snags had been sawn down,
the wood stacked awaiting removal. What he
could not save, he would replace with what he
sheltered and cared for. I looked at his brawny
arms and aged hands, he would never see their lofty
bows nor rest in their shade. It was then that I realized
the magic of this man of steel. He is a man of beginnings.
Of all people I should have known, for I was his
apprentice in a world of concrete and steel.
What he could not save he would replace.
Pods of dust appeared and vanished as exhaust from
our staggered duals hammered the dry earth. Bobi
climbed on behind. One last wave and one last look,
then the roads that brought us together drew us apart.
Patrick McManus, wrote a hidden truth,
"everyone needs an old man." Truer words
were never spoken, I had found mine and now
it seemed we were being torn asunder.
I reached back and cuffed Bobi's leg in the palm of
my hand, she reciprocated with a hug. We rolled
the miles beneath that Harley until nite fell.
It was late in the evening, the rain was falling
harder as I finished facing the mounting
stob. I dressed the cutting tip of the parting tool, then
clamped it into the holder. Settings are critical when
parting. Too high, the tool will not cut,
too low will prohibit the tooling from cutting the heart of
the center. Coils of glistening steel rolled form the narrow
tip, cutting oil bathed the work as my fingers dialed in
pressure driving the crossfeed deeper into the cut.
Halfway through the stock the tooling began to chatter,
I made an adjustment, then continued. The process
was almost completed when suddenly the tooling jammed
in the cut, skewing the stock in the chuck and
gouging the finished surface of the inner flange.
The remainder of the cut had to be completed with a hacksaw.
The stob was then reinstalled in the chuck, trued, then
the awkward break was dressed down with a machinists
file and polished with emery cloth.
My work was done. A flip of the switch brought the
lathe to rest. Grasping the stobs in my hand, I turned
off the lights, closed the shop door, and headed for the house.
Once inside I placed the stobs on the kitchen counter.
There, in the stillness of the nite, they appeared as works of
art to their creator.
Holding my work up to the light I saw what the
casual observer may never notice. The inner flange bore a
shallow blemish too deep to file out. Another reminder,
It's not easy, this thing we call parting.
Merrill.
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