Wild Tools Can’t Be Broken

For a period of time my younger brother Marke worked with me.  Sometimes Marke would stumble into some serious situations.  In those years, before contacts were available to the general public, he wore very thick glasses.

One time while we were wiring a basement, I was drilling holes in the rafters overhead, using a ½ inch drill with an 18 inch wood bit.  I drilled the last hole, pulled the bit back, and turned it to the side to examine my work.

Unbeknownst to me, Marke was standing about 18 inches away from me.  That wild drill bit was still coasting and caught his glasses next to one eye and flipped them across the basement.

When I realized how close I had come to drilling out his eyeball I nearly fainted.  The bit hadn’t touched him.  He didn’t feel a thing.  The glasses were not broken.  It was a quick early lesson on Personal Protective Equipment and care while operating driven equipment.

On a different job, Marke and I had the task of wiring a house together when I received a call to go to another job.  I left him there and went to a saloon where there was some problem in need of resolution.

The saloon had an open sump in the basement.  A “plumber” needed an outlet for a sump pump he was installing.  (His name was also Adrian, but he spelled it Adrain, which I thought was appropriate for a plumber.)  The open sump had given a very “earthy” smell to the location, especially without a lid.

I quickly had an outlet ready for him and we plugged in the cord for the sump pump.  It didn’t work.  Without hesitation, and in quick succession, the plumber grabbed a screw driver – from my open tool box, plunged his hands into the open sump – up to his elbows, and adjusted something (unseen) on the sump pump.

The pump began to work.

He then grabbed a nearby gunny sack (apparently anything lying around was open game for him) and wiped off his hands and arms … and my screwdriver … and tossed the screwdriver back into my tool box.  I don’t remember what became of the gunny sack.

I then went back to the first job where Marke had been working on his own.  (There was no regulation then about leaving a Trainee without a Trainer.)  When I got there I told him what the plumber had done.  It was all humorous until he needed a screwdriver.

Marke approached my tool box and started to reach for a screwdriver.  He stood there with his hand poised and called out; “Which screwdriver did that guy use?”

Apparently it’s all fun and games until someone contaminates a screwdriver.

Wiring the Wrong House

When the REA was bringing power to the farm homes, a lot of people began doing electrical work, resulting in unusual happenings.

In one instance two houses were being built about a block apart. One contractor had the bid on one house. Another contractor had the bid on the other one. The crew from the first contractor finished their work and left. When the crew from the second contractor arrived at their job, they reported back that the house was already wired.

The first crew had wired the wrong house. Not to worry though, contractors in those days were not so demanding. They got together and decided to switch jobs and do the work in the name of the other contractor. I have seen some rough competition between contractors, but in those days, it was all new and everyone got along better.

One time a contractor was working on a fine old house. One fellow was in the basement with a drill, drilling through the floor into what they thought was a wall.  (By the way – this was not a cordless drill. It may not have even been a powered drill.)  When he thought he was through the floor and into the wall cavity, he began pushing the drill up and down and calling, “Can you see it? Can you see it?”

The guy up above was watching for the bit to come through and saying, “No, I can’t see it. No, I can’t see it.” Then, off to the side, in the middle of the floor, he caught sight of an old fashioned flat iron (one used for ironing clothes – usually heated on a wood stove) jumping up and down. Moving the flat iron exposed the moving bit from the fellow down below. They had missed the wall by several feet.

How do you patch a hole in an old fashioned hard wood floor?

On another occasion an electrician was drilling up through the floor, again thinking he was coming into a wall. He also missed the wall. He did come up through the floor of the dining room. This guy managed to drill into the leg of an old oak table.

I guess that one could be covered up by just leaving the table where it was.

Adrian’s Blog

Do Not Hit A Police Car

It was wintertime and snowing. The streets were icy. In Glasgow, the railroad tracks are elevated above one of the North/South streets. They are elevated not because the railroad tracks go up, but because the street is constructed to go down and under the tracks. The decline is short and somewhat steep with both cross streets, on each side of the underpass, very close to the emerging hill.

I was hurrying back to the shop and climbing up the hill from under the railroad bridge. Since the hill was steep and the street lacking full traction, this involved more than a usual use of speed. A farmer on the cross street ahead of me did not stop at his stop sign and instead headed for a collision with my vehicle. Trying to take evasive action, I swerved as far to the right as I could to miss him and his oncoming vehicle. I had only partial success.

I hadn’t quite made it through the intersection when his left side head light and my gas filler spout met, sharply introduced themselves, and continued on their respective ways. The headlight was broken, and the filler spout cap came off. The impact slid the rear of my company vehicle to the right and the front of my vehicle headed at an angle to the left.

At this point, it is important to know that ahead of me, on the left, observing the whole proceedings was a police officer waiting in his car. Due to extraordinary skill on my part, I was able to miss the police vehicle and come to a stop on the right side of the street. I stepped out of the cab of the vehicle to see fire spouting out of the gas filler pipe.

Thinking quickly, I grabbed my work cap off of my head and stuffed it into the filler spout, snuffing out the fire. I walked back to assure that the people in the other vehicle were O.K. The police officer was there already, speaking with the farmer. He decided that the crux of the problem was not one vehicle running a stop sign, but that I had been driving too fast. He said I nearly hit his police car. Then he added, “You never hit a police car.”

I was fined $5.00. O.K. $5.00 doesn’t sound like a lot, but it was in the early 1950s. I grudgingly paid for it. When I got home, my wife asked me why I was late. I told her what had happened. She was used to my tall tales and didn’t believe me at first, at least until I had to pay the fine.