Growing up on a farm in Northern Idaho brought with it a number of unusual opportunities.
We were primarily a small dairy operation, but did any number of other things to bring a little extra to the bank account or the table.
We fished as a part of our diet. We shot and ate wild game. I know the taste of venison, moose, elk bear.
And porcupine.
And therein lies a tale.
One winter we had a regular visitor to the barn in the form of a porcupine. We had salt blocks out for the cows, and porky was desperate for the salt, so he was brave enough to venture into the barn for his salt.
We really didn't mind, there was plenty to go around. We didn't even mind it when he gnawed a little on the handles of the shovel or pitchfork.
We had one cow named Spook. She was a little strange. When we were doing milking she would sidle up to the window of the milking parlor and stare in. She would turn her head sideways and open her eye as wide as it would go. hen you were in depth of winter and it was dark outside, you would glance up, and here was this enormous eye peering in the window. The effect was, well, spooky.
Well, Spook was also a very curious cow. She was always sticking her nose into things to see what they were.
You can guess what happened.
When she stuck her nose in the vicinity of old My. Porcupine, he presented her with a nose full of quills.
We were sitting around playing a game of cutthroat Canasta, when this bellowing erupted from the barn. We rushed down to the barn and found Spook bellowing, with a nose full of quills.
We dragged her into the milking parlor and put her head in one of the stanchions and locked it down tight.
Porcupines quills have reverse barbs on them. They go in but you can't just pull them back out.
There are two ways to get then out. If they are positioned where it is possible, you can push them on through something like say, a cows lip. Otherwise you can carefully insert a blade of small size along the shaft and cut them out.
Needless to say, Spook was not enthusiastic about either of these procedures. Two of us attempted to hold her head steady while a third attempted to extract the quills.
After what seemed an eternity and was maybe an hour we had cleaned up her muzzle as Best could be expected.
After thoroughly cussing and discussing the stupidity of the bovine species, we returned to our Canasta tourney.
When it happened the second time, it was curtains for Mr. Porcupine.
Uncle Fred staked himself out in the barn waiting to ambush the porky. He ambled om in the barn, and Uncle Fred shot him. He ambled on. Shot again, he ambled on. He was shot until the .22 cal rifle was empty. Concerned about woundnig an animal and having it wander aground hurt, Uncle Fred clubbed it over the head. That did the job on Mr. Porcupine. Unfortunately it also did the job on the gun stock.
Some where there is a pump Winchester .22 cal rifle with a stock hand carved from a piece of birch harvested from the woodpile.
Since we had a dead porcupine, we decided he looked to be eating size.
We cleaned, skinned and quartered him. I still have some quills in my fly tying supplies.
We took a nice haunch and baked it in the oven like you would a pork roast.
It was the worst tasting meat I have ever eaten.
Since it was winter, browse was scarce, so old Mr. Porky had been feeding on the inner bark of pine trees, one of the few edibles available.
The meat tasted kinda like pork roast marinated in pine-sol.
Friday, March 20, 2015
Thursday, October 04, 2012
The mystery Jag
The block drain petcock on my buddy J.B.s 1948 Ford had developed a crack and needed to be replaced. Needless to say, this part was not available through the Auto Parts store, so we called around to see if there was one available in a junkyard.
We ended up at Corde's Towing at 6th and Spokane St. in South Seattle. Removing the part took only a couple of minutes.
I love junkyards, always have to wander around and see what there is. Close by where we were, there was this Jag Mark X. It seemed to be in perfect shape. I checked it out. No damage to the body, no broken glass, the gears shifted nice and crisp, the tires were all like new and holding air. everything inside was pristine. It looked like a brand new car. I would not have been surprised to see it in an upper end car lot.
As we left I had to ask "How much for the JAG?"
"Don't have the title, can't sell it."
"How about if you sell it as parts"
Can't let it leave here in one piece"
How about it you sell me the body and sell my friend here the chassis, and it all just happens to leave at the same time?"
"Can't do that either."
Well, how about if you sell me the body, and I take it off of the chassis and take it home, and my buddy here comes in and buys the chassis and we take them out separately.?"
"No can do."
"How about...."
"Go away kid. At this point I wouldn't sell you a lug nut off the car"
So we left, and went home and fixed the Ford.
The Jag stuck in my mind, though, and every once in a while I would stop by the Wrecking Yard and ask if it was for sale. Eventually I gave up.
About 15 years later I went to work for a place called Northwest Container services, which was a storage and repair yard for ocean going cargo containers. It happened to be located where Corde's Towing used to be. Old Man Corde happened to be our landlord.
He happened to come in one day to talk to the boss, and I asked him "Hey, what was the story on that Jag?"
He scrutinized me and said "I thought I recognized you. You're that kid that kept trying to but it, aren't you?"
"Yeah, that would be me. I was in love with that car."
"So here's the story. At that time we had the towing contract with the city of Seattle. The car showed up abandoned downtown, and we towed it. Figured we would be getting a frantic call from some guy wanting to rescue his baby. Nothing."
"Eventually they ran the numbers on it to trace ownership. Funny thing. It wasn't registered anywhere. The plates were stolen. Ran the vin, and it never showed as entering the US. In fact it never showed as leaving England. We never could find a legal owner for it."
"We were granted salvage rights to the car as payment for storage, but under the stipulation that the car could not be sold as a car, in fact could not be sold in any way that would allow it to be reassembled as a car."
"What ever happened to it?"
"We parted it out over several years, and the hulk went to the crusher."
Brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it.Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Sleepless in Latteland
The story goes like this: I was a PFC in the Army, and had just joined the Psychiatric Facility on Okinawa as a Social Work Psychology Specialist.
It was one of our duties to do pre-trial Psychological examinations to determine sanity for any major case.
Enter Earl Pleasant.
Earl had served six tours of duty in Vietnam, and wanted to go back for a seventh, but the Marine Corps decided he took a little too much pleasure in his duties. As far as Earl was concerned, it was the ideal situation. He was not only allowed to kill people, but he was rewarded for it.
He kept applying for a seventh tour of 'Nam, and his Commanding Officer kept turning him down. Finally in a fit of frustration, he barged into the C.O.'s office with a loaded M16 and demanded to be allowed to return to 'Nam.
When his C.O. refused he, emptied a clip in him.
He was brought into the Psych Clinic in chains and fetters, guarded by three armed Marines.
Our head Psychologist was to do the exam and interview. He demanded that the chains and leg irons be removed.
At first the guards refused, but when he pointed to the twin silver bars on his collar and ordered them to remove the chains, they reluctantly did so.
I was on the front desk, and the interview took place in a conference room immediately to my right. I was answering phones and minding my own business, when I thought I hear some thumping off to my right.
Then I heard a very faint cry for help.
I jumped up and ran into the conference room. Earl had the good Captain bent over backwards over the desk, his hands around his neck, squeezing for all he was worth. The Captain's face was purple and he looked unconscious. At least he was not fighting back or responding.
Since Earl had his back to me and was bent over forwards, I rushed up behind him and very quickly put him in a full nelson.
After that things became rather confused, as he was trying to throw Me off of his back, and I was hanging on for my life. Literally. He was a trained killer, and his hobby was killing. If he got loose I might very well become his next victim. So I hung on and tightened my hold until I thought I might break his neck.
After an eternity which probably lasted no more than 30 seconds, he gave up and said he was OK and I could let him loose. No way was I letting go until someone with weapons took over control of him.
Eventually one of the guards peeked around the corner and asked "Is everything OK in here?" I don't remember my exact reply, but it was enthusiastic and obscene.
I had to testify at his trial. During the entire time of my testimony he sat there with THAT EXACT SAME CRAZY GRIN as the shooter in Arizona on his face.
He never said a word but kept his eyes on me the whole time.
His expression said "Somehow, someday, I am going to find you and remove you from the face of the Earth"I honestly say it spooked me, Even in court with armed guards, I was spooked.
It is a moment that has never completely left me. It is stuck there in the back of my head with some other nasty stuff. Mostly I don't think about it, but every once in a while something will cause it to resurface.
And when I saw the picture of the shooter in Arizona, it all came rushing back to the forefront of my consciousness.
And I haven't been sleeping well.
The story goes like this: I was a PFC in the Army, and had just joined the Psychiatric Facility on Okinawa as a Social Work Psychology Specialist.
It was one of our duties to do pre-trial Psychological examinations to determine sanity for any major case.
Enter Earl Pleasant.
Earl had served six tours of duty in Vietnam, and wanted to go back for a seventh, but the Marine Corps decided he took a little too much pleasure in his duties. As far as Earl was concerned, it was the ideal situation. He was not only allowed to kill people, but he was rewarded for it.
He kept applying for a seventh tour of 'Nam, and his Commanding Officer kept turning him down. Finally in a fit of frustration, he barged into the C.O.'s office with a loaded M16 and demanded to be allowed to return to 'Nam.
When his C.O. refused he, emptied a clip in him.
He was brought into the Psych Clinic in chains and fetters, guarded by three armed Marines.
Our head Psychologist was to do the exam and interview. He demanded that the chains and leg irons be removed.
At first the guards refused, but when he pointed to the twin silver bars on his collar and ordered them to remove the chains, they reluctantly did so.
I was on the front desk, and the interview took place in a conference room immediately to my right. I was answering phones and minding my own business, when I thought I hear some thumping off to my right.
Then I heard a very faint cry for help.
I jumped up and ran into the conference room. Earl had the good Captain bent over backwards over the desk, his hands around his neck, squeezing for all he was worth. The Captain's face was purple and he looked unconscious. At least he was not fighting back or responding.
Since Earl had his back to me and was bent over forwards, I rushed up behind him and very quickly put him in a full nelson.
After that things became rather confused, as he was trying to throw Me off of his back, and I was hanging on for my life. Literally. He was a trained killer, and his hobby was killing. If he got loose I might very well become his next victim. So I hung on and tightened my hold until I thought I might break his neck.
After an eternity which probably lasted no more than 30 seconds, he gave up and said he was OK and I could let him loose. No way was I letting go until someone with weapons took over control of him.
Eventually one of the guards peeked around the corner and asked "Is everything OK in here?" I don't remember my exact reply, but it was enthusiastic and obscene.
I had to testify at his trial. During the entire time of my testimony he sat there with THAT EXACT SAME CRAZY GRIN as the shooter in Arizona on his face.
He never said a word but kept his eyes on me the whole time.
His expression said "Somehow, someday, I am going to find you and remove you from the face of the Earth"I honestly say it spooked me, Even in court with armed guards, I was spooked.
It is a moment that has never completely left me. It is stuck there in the back of my head with some other nasty stuff. Mostly I don't think about it, but every once in a while something will cause it to resurface.
And when I saw the picture of the shooter in Arizona, it all came rushing back to the forefront of my consciousness.
And I haven't been sleeping well.
Friday, August 08, 2008
A CAMPING TALE
JB and I went backpacking up in the Olympics.
Hike four miles up the road past Staircase at Lake Cushman to the trailhead. Another six or so miles to the Flapjack Lakes, which are right at the tree line.
Although it was July, there was still a lot of snow around the lakes. There was a shelter at the lake, active word being WAS. A sizeable tree had fallen on it the previous winter, and it was pretty much destroyed.
However, a good piece of the roof was still intact, and it had a hole in it just big enough for us to crawl through. It made for a tight but serviceable place to sleep. Saved us the trouble of setting up a tent.
One of the reasons for coming was to do a little fly fishing. Therre is nothing quite like floating a dry fly on a crystal clear high country lake and watching the trout come up from about 20 feet deep in a silver flash to take the fly on the surface.
The first couple of times I am always so hyped up that I jerk the fly right out of his mouth. It isn't until I settle down a little that I can wait long enough to let the fish get it all the way in his mouth.
Right next to the crushed shelter was a snowbank, which we used as a freezer. When we had cleaned the fish, we would use a stick to make a hole in the snowbank and shove a fish in head first, cover the hole over, and then mark it with a pine cone so we wouldn't lose the spot.
When it came time to eat, we would just go get a couple of fish out of the "refrigerator", roll them in corn meal with a little salt and pepper and saute' them in butter. When backpacking I always instisted on bringing along butter. Almost everything tastes better when saute'd in butter with a little salt.
After dinner and a while sitting around the fire, we turned in for the night. Even in July it was pretty damn cold when you were up that high.
Just as I was laying on my back about to fall asleep, something ran across my face. Something small and furry with VERY cold feet. It startled the hell out of me, so I sat up very abruptly and hit my forehead VERY squarely on a pine log holding up the roof of out impromptu shelter. I saw stars, rebounded while watching the stars inside my head pulse on and off, and crashed back down on my back, semi-conscious.
Something small and furry with VERY cold feet ran back over my face in the other direction.
Startled, I sat up very abruptly and once again hit my head.
Since it was so cold, I had climbed in my sleeping bag fully dressed. The only things I had removed were my boots and belt knife.
I grabbed at my belt knife, and started stabbing the ground to my left, but of course there was nothing there.
When I lay back down, I kept my knife in my hand. A while later the perp ran across my face again. I started stabbing off to my right. Unfortunately JB was over there. I didn't stab him or anything, but he woke up with me stabbing the ground close to me.
"Albert! WHat the HELL are you doing?"
Panting and slathering, I explained to him about being attacked in the dark by vicous furry ANIMALS. I don't think he believed me until I lit a match and showed him the big knot on my forehead.
Our packs were in between us in the shelter, so we went through them to see what the ravening beast was after. We found a pack of Pilot Crackers had been gnawed open.
We took the Pilot Crackers out of the shelter and set them on a nearby stump, and went back to sleep, although I had a hard time falling back to sleep, with my head throbbing from hitting the log twice, and being all keyed up waiting for another vicous attach by rabid animals.
I got up the next morning, and there, sitting on the stump, grinning his hideous grin and mocking me, was a chipmunk.
Friday, February 22, 2008
The Airplane Flight From Hell
I was a consciencious objector from the late stupidity in Vietnam.
I was a part of a class action lawsuit that went all the way to the Supreme Court of the United States.
At the time there were a very limited number of reasons you could apply for CO status. They were all based on religious affiliation. If you were a Quaker or a Seventh Day Adventist it was OK. Philosophical objections were not allowed.
The case went to the Supreme Court, and they found that people could object to war without cloaking in it religion.
We had all been on hold by the draft board until the case was settled. The Court made it's decision, and the following week we were all drafted. I have a couple of interresting story's about all of that, but I went to basic training and AIT (Anvanced Individual Training) at Fort Sam Houston in Texas.
When I was about ready ot graduate from AIT, the called me out of class. My grandmother had passed on, and they were letting me leave early so I could go home for the funeral.
I had a ticket, but I had to go back to the barracks and pack and grab a cab to the airport.
As I pulled up to the airport, I saw my flight taking off. Shit, shit shit.
I went in to the terminal and started exploring my opportunities. How could I trade in my ticket and still get home in time for the funeral. I went to every ticket terminal.
Finally I found a redeye flight out of San Ontonio which would connect with another flight in L.A.. and take me to Portland where I would connect up for Seattle.
Way Cool.
Podunct Airlines. I didn't care.
We took off, and headed for the coast. When we got in the air and were cruising along I looked out the window. I was located just behind the wing. I looked out and saw a lot of smoke coming out of the inboard engine.
I stopped a stewardess and pointed out the window and said I didn't think it should have flames coming out of that particular area of the engine. The Stew looked and turned a couple of shades of pale. She ran off towards the cockpit.
Shortly after that the Captain came on the announcer system and said "Some of you may have noticed an unusual condition in engine number 2. We will be makeing an unscheduled stop in El Paso to address this problem. There is no reason to be alarmed."
We came out of the clouds into El Paso, and every emergency truck and the foam vehicles and all of the emergency equipment were all deployed along the runway.
I remember thinking "Oh shit, this must be worse that I thought."
We landed without incident, and the pilot came on the public announce system and said "Passengers may now disenbark to the terminal while we fix this minor problem" He was so much in control that we just disembarkes to the termminal.
We saw various vehicles come and tend the plane. Other than being a little pissed that we were sitting when we were supposed to be flying, there wasn't a whole lot of concern.
After about 20 minutes, the terminal announce systen came on to tell us that we were OK to go back on board.
We started to reboard the aricraft, when the pilot came over the announce system and YELLED "EVERYBODY GET OUT OF THE AIRCRAFT NOW!!!!"
We all ran for the terminal.
The refueling panel in the wing had dripped some fuel on the tarmac, and somehow it had caught on fire. Fire right below fuel tanks.
Not a good thing.
After another half an hour or so, the pilot came into the terminal and announced, "If the passengers of flight 5678 will follow me into the lounge, cocktails are on the company."
Although I was underage, I was in uniform, so nobody was going to refuse me service, so I had several coctails at the expense of the airline. And duly fortified, we all got back on the same aircraft and went into the air.
Every time we hit an airpocket or cloud formation. we all went "Oh shit" but we made it to L.A. As I Left the plane and transversed the terminal "Sounds Of Silence" was playing.
I made my connecting flight, and made it home in time for the funeral.
But as the Greatful Dead put it "What a strange long trip it's been."
I was a consciencious objector from the late stupidity in Vietnam.
I was a part of a class action lawsuit that went all the way to the Supreme Court of the United States.
At the time there were a very limited number of reasons you could apply for CO status. They were all based on religious affiliation. If you were a Quaker or a Seventh Day Adventist it was OK. Philosophical objections were not allowed.
The case went to the Supreme Court, and they found that people could object to war without cloaking in it religion.
We had all been on hold by the draft board until the case was settled. The Court made it's decision, and the following week we were all drafted. I have a couple of interresting story's about all of that, but I went to basic training and AIT (Anvanced Individual Training) at Fort Sam Houston in Texas.
When I was about ready ot graduate from AIT, the called me out of class. My grandmother had passed on, and they were letting me leave early so I could go home for the funeral.
I had a ticket, but I had to go back to the barracks and pack and grab a cab to the airport.
As I pulled up to the airport, I saw my flight taking off. Shit, shit shit.
I went in to the terminal and started exploring my opportunities. How could I trade in my ticket and still get home in time for the funeral. I went to every ticket terminal.
Finally I found a redeye flight out of San Ontonio which would connect with another flight in L.A.. and take me to Portland where I would connect up for Seattle.
Way Cool.
Podunct Airlines. I didn't care.
We took off, and headed for the coast. When we got in the air and were cruising along I looked out the window. I was located just behind the wing. I looked out and saw a lot of smoke coming out of the inboard engine.
I stopped a stewardess and pointed out the window and said I didn't think it should have flames coming out of that particular area of the engine. The Stew looked and turned a couple of shades of pale. She ran off towards the cockpit.
Shortly after that the Captain came on the announcer system and said "Some of you may have noticed an unusual condition in engine number 2. We will be makeing an unscheduled stop in El Paso to address this problem. There is no reason to be alarmed."
We came out of the clouds into El Paso, and every emergency truck and the foam vehicles and all of the emergency equipment were all deployed along the runway.
I remember thinking "Oh shit, this must be worse that I thought."
We landed without incident, and the pilot came on the public announce system and said "Passengers may now disenbark to the terminal while we fix this minor problem" He was so much in control that we just disembarkes to the termminal.
We saw various vehicles come and tend the plane. Other than being a little pissed that we were sitting when we were supposed to be flying, there wasn't a whole lot of concern.
After about 20 minutes, the terminal announce systen came on to tell us that we were OK to go back on board.
We started to reboard the aricraft, when the pilot came over the announce system and YELLED "EVERYBODY GET OUT OF THE AIRCRAFT NOW!!!!"
We all ran for the terminal.
The refueling panel in the wing had dripped some fuel on the tarmac, and somehow it had caught on fire. Fire right below fuel tanks.
Not a good thing.
After another half an hour or so, the pilot came into the terminal and announced, "If the passengers of flight 5678 will follow me into the lounge, cocktails are on the company."
Although I was underage, I was in uniform, so nobody was going to refuse me service, so I had several coctails at the expense of the airline. And duly fortified, we all got back on the same aircraft and went into the air.
Every time we hit an airpocket or cloud formation. we all went "Oh shit" but we made it to L.A. As I Left the plane and transversed the terminal "Sounds Of Silence" was playing.
I made my connecting flight, and made it home in time for the funeral.
But as the Greatful Dead put it "What a strange long trip it's been."
Thursday, June 15, 2006
My Life as a Chicken Hypnotizer.
When R. was small, I decided that she could use a little experience in the feeding and care of farm animals, but since we live in a more-or-less urban area, although it is unincorporated, there are some restrictions on what you can do, not to mention the restrictions on space (I only have 1/4 acre).
I was tearing an old dilapidated deck off of the house, so I used the pieces to build a chicken coop in the back yard. Then we went down to the feed and seed store, and bought a couple of Banty chicks that became Rusty and Dusty, our two laying hens.
R was fascinated that without benefit of a male chicken for inspiration, they would produce eggs on a regular basis. Not only that, they weren't white or brown like normal store bought eggs, they were a grey-green and smaller. She used to like to take hard boiled Banty eggs to school because most people had never seen anything but regular eggs.
One day she had a couple of friends over, and she was showing them the chickens, and I asked them "Do you know it is possible to hypnotize a chicken"
"NO WAY! Could show us?"
So I did.
Later R. asked me "Dad, where did you learn to hypnotize chickens?"
As I have mentioned ad nauseum, we had a farm, and raised all kinds of things. We always had two batches of chickens, One batch of laying hens, one batch of fryers. One of the kids jobs was to go out to the hen house in the morning and gather the eggs and feed the chickens. It was always a little like a treasure hunt, because you never knew what you were going to find. Taking the eggs away from the hens could be an adventure too, as some of them took objection to us removing their eggs. After all it wasn't easy producing them.
The fryers life was short and pretty good. They were fed and watered and didn't have to produce anything to earn their keep, just put on weight. The down side was that before things froze up in the fall, would come slaughter day.
Everyone hates slaughter day. It is nasty, smelly work, but it puts food in the freezer for all winter.
The little kids were chicken catchers. Grandfather was the headsman. Uncle Fred and Dad were the gutting crew, and everyone else were Chicken Pluckers. It was our own little assembly line.
My job was Chicken Hypnotizer.
After the little kids caught a chicken, they would bring it to me. I would stick it's head underneath it's wing and then pump it (the whole bird) up and down for about 30 seconds. Then you could set it down on the ground and it would stay where you set it. Eventually it would sort of shudder, pull it's head out and look around like "Where the hell am I?", but on slaughter day, they generally never came around. If they started to, I would just grab them before they got any ideas about running off, and rehypnotize them.
It always caused me to wonder "How did someone figure this out? It would seem logical that it would be someone who wanted to transport chickens quietly and easily. Like maybe a Chicken Thief? How did my grandfather, who was from the hills of Kentucky and taught me the fine art of chicken hypnotizing happen to be in possession of this particular bit of information?"
It wasn't until many years later that I learned that this is a tecnique used by bird hunters to train their bird dogs. They will hypnotize a chicken and set it down in the brush, then get the dog and lead it around close to where the chicken is, then reward the dog when it finds the bird.
I have always wanted to put this on my resume'. Chicken Hypnotizer. That alone should be good for a first interview, and once you get your foot in the door anything is possible.
I have never found a use for this very rare skill in the modern world. I mean you can't exactly pick up a newspaper, and there on page 13 of the classified ads you find "Wanted: Chicken Hypnotizer. Full time. Full benefits. Must be experienced. Top Wages."
Any one need a perfectly good barely used Chicken Hypnotizer?
When R. was small, I decided that she could use a little experience in the feeding and care of farm animals, but since we live in a more-or-less urban area, although it is unincorporated, there are some restrictions on what you can do, not to mention the restrictions on space (I only have 1/4 acre).
I was tearing an old dilapidated deck off of the house, so I used the pieces to build a chicken coop in the back yard. Then we went down to the feed and seed store, and bought a couple of Banty chicks that became Rusty and Dusty, our two laying hens.
R was fascinated that without benefit of a male chicken for inspiration, they would produce eggs on a regular basis. Not only that, they weren't white or brown like normal store bought eggs, they were a grey-green and smaller. She used to like to take hard boiled Banty eggs to school because most people had never seen anything but regular eggs.
One day she had a couple of friends over, and she was showing them the chickens, and I asked them "Do you know it is possible to hypnotize a chicken"
"NO WAY! Could show us?"
So I did.
Later R. asked me "Dad, where did you learn to hypnotize chickens?"
As I have mentioned ad nauseum, we had a farm, and raised all kinds of things. We always had two batches of chickens, One batch of laying hens, one batch of fryers. One of the kids jobs was to go out to the hen house in the morning and gather the eggs and feed the chickens. It was always a little like a treasure hunt, because you never knew what you were going to find. Taking the eggs away from the hens could be an adventure too, as some of them took objection to us removing their eggs. After all it wasn't easy producing them.
The fryers life was short and pretty good. They were fed and watered and didn't have to produce anything to earn their keep, just put on weight. The down side was that before things froze up in the fall, would come slaughter day.
Everyone hates slaughter day. It is nasty, smelly work, but it puts food in the freezer for all winter.
The little kids were chicken catchers. Grandfather was the headsman. Uncle Fred and Dad were the gutting crew, and everyone else were Chicken Pluckers. It was our own little assembly line.
My job was Chicken Hypnotizer.
After the little kids caught a chicken, they would bring it to me. I would stick it's head underneath it's wing and then pump it (the whole bird) up and down for about 30 seconds. Then you could set it down on the ground and it would stay where you set it. Eventually it would sort of shudder, pull it's head out and look around like "Where the hell am I?", but on slaughter day, they generally never came around. If they started to, I would just grab them before they got any ideas about running off, and rehypnotize them.
It always caused me to wonder "How did someone figure this out? It would seem logical that it would be someone who wanted to transport chickens quietly and easily. Like maybe a Chicken Thief? How did my grandfather, who was from the hills of Kentucky and taught me the fine art of chicken hypnotizing happen to be in possession of this particular bit of information?"
It wasn't until many years later that I learned that this is a tecnique used by bird hunters to train their bird dogs. They will hypnotize a chicken and set it down in the brush, then get the dog and lead it around close to where the chicken is, then reward the dog when it finds the bird.
I have always wanted to put this on my resume'. Chicken Hypnotizer. That alone should be good for a first interview, and once you get your foot in the door anything is possible.
I have never found a use for this very rare skill in the modern world. I mean you can't exactly pick up a newspaper, and there on page 13 of the classified ads you find "Wanted: Chicken Hypnotizer. Full time. Full benefits. Must be experienced. Top Wages."
Any one need a perfectly good barely used Chicken Hypnotizer?
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
The Perkins Perfect Pocket Poultry Punch
When I dropped out of college, I went to work for Automix Keyboards in Bellevue, Wa. They manufactured information feed keyboards for phototypesetters.
They were one of the first in the US to use computer-in-a-chip technology.
I ran a flow solder machine and did general machine repair and maintenance for a printed circuit board assembly area. The firm was very high tech for it's time. They had a Dee System 8 flow solder machine that was so advanced it wasn't even on the market yet. They had bought it as a prototype off the floor of a trade fair. It was a very well designed and efficient machine.
The keyboards were all Reed Switch actuated, and very robust, but pretty expensive. They were combined with the interface machine that allowed a single person to produce a multiple font, multi-color document, like a small newspaper, from a single terminal. Basically you can do the same thing from any computer now, but at the time it was innovative.
Our product was expensive. The same technology that is included in every computer available for desktop publishing cost about $20,ooo.oo at the time.
The consoles we made produced tape, Magnetic tape or paper punch tape similar to Telex tape, which was then fed into the actual phototypesetter.
I was staying late, repairing the pump in a Freon cleaning system that had a bearing go bad, and ran into one of the head Engineers.
I asked him what he was doing there so late. He was literally pacing the floor and muttering to himself. "Waiting for the @#$%^&* punches to come in."
"What punches are those?" I asked."The Perkins Perfect Pocket Poultry Punch" he replied.
"What the heck do they have to do with Phototypesetters?"
"You know how the Keyboards and consoles work?"
"Sure, they use magnetic or paper tape to feed instructions to the Phototypesetters."
"When you are making a paper tape, each letter of the alphabet is represented by a combination of holes in the tape .Little pins feeding through holes in the paper tape to read the combinations. If you make a mistake, you have to correct the tape by manually punching out the line on the tape, creating a null. When we designed the machine, we had to have a unique size and shape of punch to null out the holes in the paper tape. On of the guys had a punch that he had laying around the garage, so we used that. We started up the business with that one punch, and we found someone to produce additional punches. When we went to Patent out system, they found that the punch we were using was already patented. That particular size and shape of punch was patented by the Perkins Perfect Pocket Poultry Punch Co. and we were infringing on their patent."
The only address for the Perkins Co. was a P.O. box in rural Georgia. No phone, no address.
The company sent a representative to Georgia to meet with Mr. Perkins. He lived in a modest shack out in the swamps. The punch was used to make a small hole between the tendon and bone in a chicken's leg so that they could be hung upside down for processing at the chicken processing plant. It had been invented by his dad as a young man, and every chicken processing plant had to have several. Replacement kept him as busy as he wanted to be, and he could work at his own pace.
He made punches according to his own whim and time table.If he wanted to buy a new pair of shoes, he could make up a couple of punches and mail them out to whoever was on the top of the order list, buy whatever he wanted, and stop until he needed something else.
Was he willing to sell the patent?
Absolutely not, he had regular customers who depended on his product.
Would he allow us to manufacture the punches and pay him royalties?
Absolutely not. He didn't trust us to maintain the quality control he infused in each and every Perkins Perfect Pocket Poultry Punch. What if inferior examples found their way on to the market place? What would people think? How could he trust us to faithfully report how many we produced?
So we were stuck with Mr Perkins. He produces the Punches at his leisure, and mails them out when he feels like it.
Here we were, sitting there with 10 completed units on the loading dock, waiting for the punches to come in. We had no way of contacting Mr. Perkins except through his P.O. box, and no way to lean on him to step up his production.
I have always wanted to invent something like the Perkins Perfect Pocket Poultry Punch that would give me the independence to thumb my nose at the world, live off the grid, and have just enough to meet my needs as long as I didn't need too much.
When I dropped out of college, I went to work for Automix Keyboards in Bellevue, Wa. They manufactured information feed keyboards for phototypesetters.
They were one of the first in the US to use computer-in-a-chip technology.
I ran a flow solder machine and did general machine repair and maintenance for a printed circuit board assembly area. The firm was very high tech for it's time. They had a Dee System 8 flow solder machine that was so advanced it wasn't even on the market yet. They had bought it as a prototype off the floor of a trade fair. It was a very well designed and efficient machine.
The keyboards were all Reed Switch actuated, and very robust, but pretty expensive. They were combined with the interface machine that allowed a single person to produce a multiple font, multi-color document, like a small newspaper, from a single terminal. Basically you can do the same thing from any computer now, but at the time it was innovative.
Our product was expensive. The same technology that is included in every computer available for desktop publishing cost about $20,ooo.oo at the time.
The consoles we made produced tape, Magnetic tape or paper punch tape similar to Telex tape, which was then fed into the actual phototypesetter.
I was staying late, repairing the pump in a Freon cleaning system that had a bearing go bad, and ran into one of the head Engineers.
I asked him what he was doing there so late. He was literally pacing the floor and muttering to himself. "Waiting for the @#$%^&* punches to come in."
"What punches are those?" I asked."The Perkins Perfect Pocket Poultry Punch" he replied.
"What the heck do they have to do with Phototypesetters?"
"You know how the Keyboards and consoles work?"
"Sure, they use magnetic or paper tape to feed instructions to the Phototypesetters."
"When you are making a paper tape, each letter of the alphabet is represented by a combination of holes in the tape .Little pins feeding through holes in the paper tape to read the combinations. If you make a mistake, you have to correct the tape by manually punching out the line on the tape, creating a null. When we designed the machine, we had to have a unique size and shape of punch to null out the holes in the paper tape. On of the guys had a punch that he had laying around the garage, so we used that. We started up the business with that one punch, and we found someone to produce additional punches. When we went to Patent out system, they found that the punch we were using was already patented. That particular size and shape of punch was patented by the Perkins Perfect Pocket Poultry Punch Co. and we were infringing on their patent."
The only address for the Perkins Co. was a P.O. box in rural Georgia. No phone, no address.
The company sent a representative to Georgia to meet with Mr. Perkins. He lived in a modest shack out in the swamps. The punch was used to make a small hole between the tendon and bone in a chicken's leg so that they could be hung upside down for processing at the chicken processing plant. It had been invented by his dad as a young man, and every chicken processing plant had to have several. Replacement kept him as busy as he wanted to be, and he could work at his own pace.
He made punches according to his own whim and time table.If he wanted to buy a new pair of shoes, he could make up a couple of punches and mail them out to whoever was on the top of the order list, buy whatever he wanted, and stop until he needed something else.
Was he willing to sell the patent?
Absolutely not, he had regular customers who depended on his product.
Would he allow us to manufacture the punches and pay him royalties?
Absolutely not. He didn't trust us to maintain the quality control he infused in each and every Perkins Perfect Pocket Poultry Punch. What if inferior examples found their way on to the market place? What would people think? How could he trust us to faithfully report how many we produced?
So we were stuck with Mr Perkins. He produces the Punches at his leisure, and mails them out when he feels like it.
Here we were, sitting there with 10 completed units on the loading dock, waiting for the punches to come in. We had no way of contacting Mr. Perkins except through his P.O. box, and no way to lean on him to step up his production.
I have always wanted to invent something like the Perkins Perfect Pocket Poultry Punch that would give me the independence to thumb my nose at the world, live off the grid, and have just enough to meet my needs as long as I didn't need too much.
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