This invention relates
to the production
of jects and
advantages will appear
from the deheaded bolt
blanks
and similar articles, and
has to do with a
machine for
producing such
articles.
It is the present
practice in producing
headed bolt
blanks
to cut the wire
or stock in
appropriate lengths,
form upon one end of the
blank
thus produced
a substantially cylindrical
head
of the proper thickness
and diameter for
producing a desired
head,
these operations being
performed in a heading
machine,
after which the
blank
is passed through
a trimming
machine
which trims the
substantially cylindrical
head
to the final
size and shape
of the desired
head.
Under the present
practice referred
to, the use of a heading
machine
and a trimming
machine
is necessary.
My invention is directed
to the provision of
means whereby the
heading
and trimming
operations are
in one
machine,
thus eliminating the use of
a separate trimming
machine
with corresponding
reduced cost of production,
an important consideration
in this art.
The method of
operation of my
machine
comprises
upsetting an end
portion of a
blank
and simultaneously partially
forming thereupon
a head of
the desired shape
and size, forming
the remainder of the
upset
portion to
the desired shape
and size
of the
head,
thus completing the
head
with a relatively thin
fin of
flash
metal
extending about the
head
between the inner
and the outer
faces thereof,
upsetting
the end
portion of a second
blank while inserting the
head
of the first
blank
into a trimming
die, and
driving the
head
of the first
blank
through the trimming
die
trimming off
the fin of
flash
metal, thus completing the
head
of the first
blank, while
forming the
head
of the second
blank
to the desired
size and shape.
The machine comprises
means whereby
the successive
steps the operation are
performed in proper
sequence such that during the
upsetting
and partial
forming of the
head
on a second
blank
a first
blank,
upon which a
head
with a fin of
flash
metal
extending thereabout
has previously been
formed,
is inserted
into the trimming
die,
this first
blank
being forced through the trimming
die
during the succeeding step
of completing
the formation of the
head
upon the second
blank,
which is conducive to
high speed operation
with resulting
increased output
of the
machine.
I wrote here last week about my reaction to my father’s impending death. Five days ago, life decided to throw me a curve ball.
Just after 8 Friday morning a man came after me, possibly wanting to kill me. He was armed with several weapons, including a K-Bar military knife. It’s not clear exactly what his intentions were because I wasn’t where he thought I was, and by the time I was aware anything had happened he was already in the custody of the police, who had to take him down with guns and Tasers drawn. I think there’s a decent chance that if he had guessed right I might not be here writing this post.
I had already been thinking about my own mortality because of my father’s dying- but I had no idea when I left for work Friday morning how close I was to leaving my kids without a father. Strangely (or perhaps not), I found I didn’t fear death at all. What I did fear was the devastation my death would bring to my children, whose future depends on me being here. Dealing with the possibility of violence is an occupational hazard for me (and this is not the first time I’ve faced a wanna-be assassin), but it really sunk in in a powerful way that this was for real- that somebody who maybe did too many drugs might one day ruin my kids’ lives by sticking a K-Bar through my chest.
Not without a fight. I am an avowed pacifist. I quietly brushed off all the suggestions to get a concealed-carry permit (which would do me no good at work anyway, since of course I could not carry a weapon in the building). Yet, I suddenly felt that I could not use pacifism and ahimsa to allow me to be a sitting duck the next time. I would not wish my attacker any harm (I actually pity the guy who came after me), but that doesn’t mean I have to let him run me through, even if I were perfectly able to do so without blinking.
Monday I started training in an aikido dojo. The great thing about aikido- the real challenge of it- is that aikido is about using the energy of an attack against you and neutralizing it, without harm to wither the attacker or defender. The last thing I needed was to take on something else! but I have to be able to do something if I am ever faced with this situation again and need to defend myself.
I am no stranger to the mental and emotional discipline of martial arts. I’ve done this type of meditation work for years and am well comfortable with the concept of no-mind (mu-shin in Japanese, wu-wei in Chinese: it’s the feeling you have when you are so comfortable at an activity that you just disappear into it and do it effortlessly and naturally, without thinking)- but I have not done the physical discipline of martial arts before. Heck, I just got back in the gym this summer. (Doing well with it, by the way- down about 10 lbs and feel a heck of a lot stronger). I was pleasantly surprised last night at the orchestra’s first rehearsal that I was able to play with no-mind despite laying off all summer to rest a thumb injury caused by bad technique. It flowed effortlessly and freely, without any conscious thought about technique, position, etc. It just played- a far cry from the night before with me stumbling and staring stupidly around the dojo.
I’ll confess right here- I find it tough. It’s strange for a musician, but I am not a good kinesthetic learner. I have trained myself to be able to learn fine motor skills (such as playing the bass), but I’m a tough learner with gross motor skills because I’ve never really done it. (Sadly, I could never learn to dance. I’d just get too confused, like a kinesthetic dyslexia. Which foot do I move? Left? No, right? Do I move forward or backward? Where does my weight go? etc. It’s why I am a terrible dancer.). It’s the same with aikido. So far it’s slow going for me to pick up a form- sensei and my sparring partner, who is also a black belt, have been very patient with me- but once I got it I got it. I’m sore as hell, using muscles I haven’t in years. I’m exhausted.
And yet I feel stronger- and younger. I felt like an old man last week. This week I’m rolling into somersaults like a kid as I get thrown to the floor. I think I owe that guy some thanks- so long as he accepts it without any weapons, or else he’s going to end up down on the ground!
I use this blog to express myself- usually in some sort of creative attempt- some more successfully than others. However, I don’t typically directly put my stuff out there. This blog is not meant to be a diary or a confessional.
However, this time, I have something I need to say, and I need to say it directly. No BS. No flarf poem. No hiding behind a wannabe pseudoliterary conceit. Just me and the truth.
In Wisconsin in 1940 a 17-year-old kid went for a ride on his motorcycle. He might have had an incredible future in front of him. He might have won the Congressional Medal of Honor for his heroism saving his buddies storming the beach at Normandy. He might have become President of the United States. He might have beaten Detroit pitching for the Chicago Cubs in the 1945 World Series. He might have cured cancer.
He might have been a gentle, kind, loving father and grandfather.
Fate had other plans. That kid crashed his motorcycle. He survived, but without wearing a helmet he suffered a severe frontal head injury. The damage to his left frontal lobe (the part of the brain responsible for higher order cognitive functions including judgment and impulse control), coupled with the alcohol he would soon add to the mix, made for an explosive, violent, unpredictable, uncontrollable combination.
To his son, growing up was a living hell. The kid was physically and emotionally tortured in unimaginable ways. He found little solace and no peace. He found as he got older the only way he could defend himself was to attack- with sarcasm, with insults, with his fists and legs. Feelings were dangerous to that little boy, so he attempted to purge himself of them. Feelings were “dramatic” and were among the worst sins anyone could have. The innocent boy withered under the torture and became a brooding, dark, angry, violent dysthymic narcissist. He could not love and could not accept love. A birthday or Father’s Day prompted a disapproving groan. A crying child deserved horrors I won’t describe here out of concern for those who might be triggered by it.
The little boy who was tortured so badly, who only wanted love and acceptance, became what he hated most.
The kid on the motorcycle was the grandfather I never met (except when I was thrown off his lap as a newborn, as he demanded a beer and to be left alone to watch the Cubs). The little boy was my father.
Several days ago my father was moved to hospice. His 3 pack-a-day habit finally caught up to him, as everyone including himself knew it would.
Several years ago, after he was released from prison, we tried to make a go of re-establishing a relationship, but it was not to be. He never had (or took) the opportunity to do the work to heal from the pain he’d carried all his life. He’d never had (or taken) the opportunity that I had, doing the work to heal from the damage he’d done to me. I had done the hard emotional work I needed to, so I was prepared to give it a try if he’d been capable to meet me halfway. Sadly, he wasn’t. The last time I spoke to him face to face he committed several deal-breakers, the worst being a joke about beating my daughter.
I dealt with the intense anger at his behavior and made peace with never having a father- not what one looks to in a father, anyway. We didn’t speak again for a year, and when he popped back up I simply told him that while I was sorry about it, he simply wasn’t capable of doing what he needed to do to be a father or a grandfather. “Well, if that’s what you choose,” he blithely replied, and that was it.
I do not hope or dream of a deathbed reconciliation. I know there would be no peace to be had showing up at hospice. It would only be the “drama” he hated so much. His death is more peaceful for him (as well as me) as I keep my distance. I am convinced his death will bring him peace that he has never found in life- and for that I am grateful.
I have great compassion and empathy for that little boy he was who had to live with the hell of his father’s brain damage. I mourn that little boy. I mourn the man my grandfather could have been if he didn’t crack up his motorcycle. I mourn the 73 years of intergenerational hell that happened because he did.
In a strange way I can feel the little boy my father once was inside me, inside my DNA, and in that way we are connected (and will continue to be so after his death). I mourn that little boy, the little Anakin Skywalker who would be turned into Darth Vader, but who I cannot turn back.
in the dark-
the secret, in Dad’s chair,
watching the Cardinals game
eagerly looking ahead to
when this is done
by childish adults,
mockingly rejoicing
the sacrifice.
Recently discovered
the secret
absconds to the bowels
of St. Petersburg,
faith so utterly misplaced,
so fully betrayed,
struggling to keep her family
destroyed by the intrusion
of a runaway from St. Louis.
Her lies-
going to get
the unsuspecting children,
grandchildren
of her dead husband
by her betrayal of my trust,
by cruel sadistic acts
of sacred ritual of molesting children
by administrative fugitives
out on $2500 bond
who keeps her warm at night,
in the dark.
Once grand, prouder than your neighbors to the west, the Appalachians, Thousands of millenia have washed you away, year by year, by hurricanes, thunderstorms, showers, just as Lao Tzu said they would not long ago, only forty centuries.
Now you stand a mere nine hundred feet, not even really a “mountain” You may have lost your altitude in your old age, but the children still marvel at your quartz, your spiders, and the millions of species that call your face home. They still complain, however, you’re too tall to climb.
-Mark Snyder, May 23, 2009
Morrow Mountain State Park, about an hour’s drive from my house, is a special place for me. It’s where I go when I need to escape the world, to get some peace, to recharge myself when I am running on empty. My kids and I have canoed on Lake Tillery which she overlooks. We’ve hiked many (but not all) of her trails, including the horse bridle trails. (The equestrian folks hate that). Many a time I have struggled up the steep path up the Morrow Mountain Trail to the summit- a “moderate” hike by official reckoning but enough to make any fit hiker lose it. One of my favorite memories was my kids and I climbing this trail, up and down, when they were much younger- a total of a six mile hike (I badly misjudged the distance) that left us bedraggled but happily exhausted. On the way up my daughter walked into the huge, nearly invisible web of an orb weaver, and when the little harmless critter made her presence known she screamed in apopleptic terror:
As many of you from the US know, the eastern half of the country was hit by lines of violent thunderstorms last Thursday, that may or may not have qualified as a derecho. Whether or not that line was formally a derecho, it clearly was a violent land hurricane with wind speeds estimated over 70 mph. This part of North Carolina was not spared. We were lucky- we were without power for five hours, and the kids and I played Risk by candlelight. Many in Moore County, where I live, won’t have power for days. Some have been told they won’t have power for a month. Fortunately there were very few injuries I’m aware of, but there was at least one fatality- a little boy who was killed when a tree fell on him in Virginia. Hundreds- probably thousands- of trees are down in central North Carolina. One mountain biker I met today who was riding the trails in the Uwharrie National Forest compared the tree damage on the trails to what was done by Hurricane Hugo. “It’ll take years for the trails to get back,” he said dejectedly before he rode on.
As a Father’s Day gift my kids took me out for a day to paint plein air. I’d never done it before, and recently I’ve been under a lot of pressure at work and have been taking time to get back to training at the gym after a scare (that was a false alarm). I wanted to paint the view from the top of Morrow Mountain, looking down on Lake Tillery and the Yadkin River. The very first painting I did as an adult, a few years ago, was exactly this view, and I wanted to take another crack at it. Here’s the first one:
I still consider myself a beginner, and am entirely self-taught, but I wanted to see what I could do with some experience under my belt. I also wanted to simply recharge my battery at a place that has been a refuge.
Unfortunately, that did not work out. I hadn’t seen much storm damage around my house, and hadn’t heard much about that area, but the area surrounding Morrow Mountain was hit hard. Here is a video of the storm hitting the nearby town of Albemarle (warning: adult language):
My kids and I found at least 100 trees down, if not many more. Many power lines and poles were down, many still in the road. It was the kind of damage one would expect from a hurricane. Linemen from as far away as Florida were out in force trying to repair the damage. In one instance we found a metal ladder being used as a temporary pole, bungeed to the power lines running above it. I don’t have a picture of this, but it was a bizarre sight.
When we got to the park, we found it closed. We also found ourselves trapped behind road closures put up after we passed, and had great difficulty finding our way out of the Badin Lake area because roads were either closed or impassable due to tree and power line damage. Eventually we found our way out and decided to get out of the area entirely. We drove 90 minutes to Lumber River State Park (which had also experienced storm damage, but the park was open), where I was able to paint.
I found out tonight that Morrow Mountain State Park was devastated according to the Friends of Morrow Mountain blog. Hundreds of trees are down blocking all roads. Trees have apparently fallen and damaged the park office, at least one cabin in the campground, and possibly other facilities. Forestry personnel were in the process of trying to cut their way through the down trees on the road up to the summit to search for stranded visitors. Several RVs and/or campers were destroyed by fallen trees. There’s no report of anyone being hurt or killed up there, but the summit is a popular spot and is very exposed in the event of a thunderstorm. (I’ve been up there during a severe thunderstorm before. I don’t ever want to do it again, particularly with a monster like this one). Possibly the only saving grace is that the temperature was in the upper 90’s when the storms came, which probably helped keep people away from the park on a Thursday afternoon. The park is closed at least til June 24, but I suspect it will be longer than that- maybe much longer- given the damage.
Driving over Lake Tillery on Hwy 24-27, you could see that the summit of Morrow Mountain appeared to have been scalped. It looks from below that every tree on the summit is gone- though I have no way of knowing if that’s the case.
Once again
we’re huddled around the TV
watching rising smoke
4:09 at 26 miles
as sirens cry
with the mother of
an 8-year-old boy.
Again the details of the tragedy
remain unclear, I’m not at liberty
but the death toll is rising
the SWAT team
has occupied the hospital
there’s a no-fly zone
as fighters fly air cover
over cities
Once again
a president will get
to the bottom of this
and will bring justice to the terrorists
as they round up
the usual suspects
the Saudi student on a visa
careful not to speculate
as we jump to conclusions
on the AM radio dial
A 68-year-old injustice has been partially rectified today.
In 1943 Cecil Reynolds Means, a young West Virginia kid, enlisted in the US Navy and joined the Seabees, assigned to the 133rd Naval Construction Battalion. He rated as a Machinist’s Mate, 3rd Class.
Logo for 133rd NCB, drawn by Walt Disney
In 1944, while his buddies were partying with the pretty girls at Pearl Harbor, he volunteered for one of the most dangerous assignments of the Pacific War- pontoon duty. His job was to shuttle barges back and forth from supply ships to supply the Marines while they fought the Battle of Angaur. The Japanese did everything in their power to sink the pontoons and kill the exposed sailors piloting them. The men were out there on those barges, day and night for three weeks until the island was taken.
Pontoon detachment on Angaur after the battle, 1944. MM3c Cecil R Means is the second man from the left in the back row.
From there, he traveled to the Marianas to rejoin his unit.
On 2/19/45, he was among the first men on the beach at Iwo Jima. Totally exposed on the beach, with mortars raining down on them from Mt. Suribachi, he manned a machine gun emplacement. On D-Day +2 (2/21/45) a mortar hit his position, instantly killing his two assistants and seriously wounding him. The famous flag raising would not take place for another three days, and the Japanese defenders were fighting furiously to hold Suribachi as long as they could.
He was brought to a triage tent, and sent to a hospital ship. From there he was sent to a Navy hospital on Guam, then on to California.
In addition to his wounds, he suffered severe shell shock- what we would now call post-traumatic stress disorder. The Navy shamed him for it and gave him a less-than-honorable discharge.
Broken and ashamed, he could not open the car door when he returned to West Virginia to see his young son, who would not understand for many years why he didn’t open the car door. This had a devastating effect on his family for the rest of his- and his son’s- life.
___
Today I had the privilege of telling my children that their great-grandfather is a decorated war hero. Their great-grandfather was awarded the Purple Heart today- 68 years after he was wounded and 23 years after his death. His son- my father-in-law- died last Thanksgiving. It was our initial inquiries seven years ago into his father’s war history that got the ball rolling and led to this day. It would have meant a great deal to Don to see his dad get the Purple Heart, and how fitting that it came two days after what would have been his 71st birthday. How also fitting that the Navy simply mailed the medal to his widow, without any ceremony or pomp.
I never met the man, but I always considered him a hero. It’s about time the Navy came around.
Cecil Reynolds Means, 1939
Addendum: I just got this last picture of his medals. The certificate says he was wounded on D-Day +7, not D-Day +2, and thus was there for the famous flag raising, as he claimed to have been (but my father-in-law didn’t believe).
After all these years
you’re still hanging around
in the shadows,
stubbornly refusing
to be seen,
even with the new
motion sensor lights
on the front of the house,
just a glint of blond,
a white dress,
a cold Saturday alone.
You drift in when
I’m asleep,
you never let me
see your face
hear your voice
feel your heart
you are nothing
but a Mass card
buried in a drawer
my father threw away
decades ago
with the rest of the
memories.
