Short Stories

UNDER CONSTRUCTION
I’m not sure why, but I’ve started writing short stories occasionally.

1958 – Present
Interesting folks that I have run into – casual conversations, business meetings, real estate clients, fishing friends, and neighbors; earliest first.

2019 — July 20 (July 20, 1969)
50 years ago, today! (No, NOT Sergeant Pepper.) In 1969, just before 11PM we got a sleepy little girl out of bed and took her into the family room. After a brief explanation of heavenly bodies, we all watched Neil Armstrong walk on the moon. Do you remember, Neen?

2018 – . . . but the Doctor said . . .
As a potential diabetic, I’ve been told by several doctors that alcohol (ethyl alcohol) IS sugar. I take issue with this immediately, but have never received any understanding. Do they all get that in medical school?

Alcohol is an entire class of compounds but we are now addressing ethanol C2H5OH, the alcohol that we drink and put into our gasoline. It is a very basic and small molecule familiar to anyone who has had a high school chemistry. On the other hand, sugar is also a class of compounds but let’s examine a simple one, glucose. Its formula is C6H12O6 and it can exist in two different structures, so it does not take a rocket scientist to recognize that is not ethanol.

Now the doctor folks have had a whole lot of education, and let’s give them the benefit of the doubt, and interpret their words to mean that alcohol is turned back into sugar in our body. First, as any wine-aficionado understands, sugar in grapes is turned into ethanol in a chemical process known as fermentation. As we know, the human body is a complicated and amazing chemical factory. It is irrational but conceivable, that a body could turn ethanol back into sugar. But the body has a simpler solution, which is to transfer alcohol into our blood and use it as fuel, just as it does with sugar.

If the ethanol were turned back into sugar, then the policeman who stopped you and asked you to blow up the balloon, would be checking for sugar. Make sense? Of course not. And ethyl alcohol is NOT sugar. End of story. Moral of story: This is the age of fact-checking!

2017 — The Building Inspector
In 2017 we needed a new HVAC unit in Palm Beach. Unfortunately, we were not in town to supervise the installation. When we returned, we noticed that the unit had been installed with its 20-inch by 30-inch (4+ square foot) filter and air intake about one-and-one-half inches from a wall. I did not need to rely on my experience having worked in HVAC Research (John J Nesbitt, Inc) in order to realize how dumb this was. The poor little air molecules would have great difficulty trying to squeeze in to get cooled. It was just common sense, but when I confronted the installer, he said it was just fine. When the building inspector stopped by, I explained the problem and he agreed instantly. So, the HVAC installer returned and moved the intake so that it was about 6 inches from the wall. When I saw the building inspector a couple months later, he thanked me for pointing out my problem and said that he had failed several other installations since that time for the same reason.

2014 – The world-wide-web
I have been my own webmaster for years and have authored my main website, DrRealEstate.net, and many others. Being self-taught, I just learn the HTML code that I need to do whatever suits me. Actually, it is a lot of fun. Other sites include a lifetime collection of my father’s as well as my grandfather's Christmas poems, a family archives photo-site which has old photos starting with the family home in 1895, and a site just for real estate investors. I embellished the website I produced to sell Lady Katie, with some SEO (search engine optimization) so that anyone googling “36 express” (the type of boat) would see the Lady Katie at the top of their first page of results.

2013 – John McCain
Dorothy had made VP at AOL, but when her boss who went to CSC beckoned, Dorothy followed. It turned out that the new job was not Dorothy’s dream job and when a headhunter approached her about a big job in DC, she listened. She interviewed with PHI, the most powerful company in DC (aka Pepco, the electric utility) for months and won the job. But she quickly tired of the long commute to Potomac Falls after a long day of work, so we moved to a condo in Arlington late in 2009. It was the place with the gorgeous view. We soon learned that our neighbor 7-floors directly above, was John McCain. Dorothy saw him occasionally in the elevator on the way to or from work. I knew that I would run into him eventually, and I was ready.

We were in the elevator coming up from the parking garage late one afternoon and John got on at the first floor. It was just the three of us as we headed up. I turned to John and said “Hi, how are you?” “I’m fine,” he replied as I turned away, happy with the response I expected. I then turned back and asked him “Did anyone ever tell you that you look just like John McCain?” He laughed and replied, “Yes, and that makes some folks mad as hell.” “Not to worry, you’re among friends,” I told him. We got off at 10, and he proceeded up to 17.

Months later, Dorothy was viewing a late night show she had recorded because John was a guest. I was not paying attention but I recognized his voice. I heard him tell a story and asked Dorothy to rewind it so I could check what I thought I heard. He was telling the “you look just like John McCain” story but the venue had shifted from the elevator to National Airport.

2011 – A day in the life . . .
On August 23, 2011 the Lady Katie was out of the water and up on blocks at a boatyard in Deale, Maryland. Just before 2 PM I was under the boat finishing work on a replacement transducer for the Sounder/Fish Finder. The boat began to shake violently, and without hesitation I rolled out from underneath its 11 tons. I stood up and noticed that other boats in the boatyard were shaking too, especially the masts of a few sailboats. It was either an earthquake or the North Koreans had nuked DC. Of course it was the former. An interesting experience which I will never repeat.


2010 – Statins and Diabetes
In May of 2010 I was concerned with my blood A1C (a diabetes indicator), which had increased significantly since I started a small dose of Lipitor. (Lipitor is one of several similar drugs called statins, used to control cholesterol.) But a correlation does not imply a causal relationship, so I put the idea in the back of my mind. A few months later I read a Consumer Reports article on a different topic, that offhandedly made reference to a statins/diabetes link. In February 2011, I was declared diabetic. I felt as though I was starting to descend a slippery slope.

Rather than take diabetes pills (metformin), I decided to change my life! Never big on real soda, rice, bread, pasta, and potatoes; cutting out something I rarely ate was not a solution. I gradually decreased my Lipitor dose, increased my level and regularity of exercise, and dropped 5% of my body weight. By July 2011, my A1C was back to non-diabetic levels. In 2012, the FDA got on board, warning of the statins/diabetes risk. Statins can be valuable in controlling cholesterol, but users must be vigilant. My guess is that 15% of statin takers will have an A1C problem. So, if you are taking statins, monitor your A1C; you might not have to surrender to diabetes.

Update: November 2014 - Apparently all statins are not created equal: Recent data suggest that Lipitor is the statin most likely to increase the risk of diabetes, while Pravachol can decrease the risk. Meanwhile, the lawyers on TV started soliciting folks who might have acquired diabetes as a result of Lipitor.

2007 – Fuelish! Bigamist?
In 2007, Charles and I were heading back to the Chesapeake from Hatteras where we’d been fishing with friends for a week on the Lady Katie in the Gulf Stream. The 247 nautical mile trip usually took us about 9 hours. Out of Hatteras Inlet about 7AM we headed 17 miles offshore to a cut through Diamond Shoals, turned north and headed for Cape Henty in Virginia Beach.

We were sporting a pair of new 500-horsepower, common-rail diesel engines and noticed that one engine seemed to be using slightly more fuel than the other. The route takes us right past Oregon Inlet where I asked Charles, “Do you smell something?” “Yes,” he replied. I went to the cockpit and hit the switch that raised the command-deck, exposing the engines. There was a fog inside that I immediately recognized as diesel fuel. It had atomized through a hairline crack in the high pressure (2500 psi?) fuel line of one engine. (Had it been gasoline, this would’ve been an even shorter story.)

We immediately shut that engine down, cleaned up the mess, and proceeded north at a slow speed (1200 RPM) so as not to tax the remaining engine. It was evening when we got to Virginia Beach, turned west and proceeded through the cut in the Bridge Tunnel. As we turned north, up the Bay, the sun had set. It was a long night watching the radar to spot ships and checking their lights to determine their headings. The sun rose just as we approached our home marina, Herrington Harbour. We docked the boat and it was time for a nap.

2005 – Where there's a will . . .
My younger brother, Dougie, went to the hospital in October 2005. For years, he had been fighting non-Hodgkins lymphoma, as a result of agent-orange in Viet Nam. His condition was such that the outcome was uncertain, so his son Mike flew in from Utah to visit. At the same time, I drove up from Virginia to visit. Dougie confirmed where he kept his will, and as his executor, I decided to check it out. I found it just where he said, and was a bit surprised that his third wife, Rose, whom he had divorced several years earlier was the sole beneficiary.

When I asked if that was his intention he said, "certainly not." So, I immediately contacted the attorney who drafted the will and had him change it so that Dougie's 5 children would be equal beneficiaries. I arranged for the revised Will, son Mike, and a notary to meet Dougie in the hospital ICU, and he signed it. He died a few days later, on November 2. I have no idea where his money would have gone otherwise. It was not all that much, but the children appreciated it.

2001 – 911
It was a beautiful Tuesday morning and I was looking forward to giving a talk to agents of the Century-21 office in Mclean. Before I left home, I was aware that a plane had crashed into one of the twin towers. On the way to the 9:15AM meeting, I learned that a second plane had crashed in to the other tower. Within 3 shakes of a nano-second’s tail, I realized this was no coincidence and it was not going to be a good day. But I had a job to do, so I parked the car, went into the office, and after a glowing introduction, started giving my talk. I likely finished around 10:30AM and broker Kip took the floor.

The meeting continued and there might have been some quiet talking or cell phone noise from the rear of the room. Then Sally spoke up, excused herself for interrupting, and told Kip that she needed the floor. He responded that he would be finished a few minutes. But Sally insisted that everyone needed to hear her. She told us that her husband had called to let her know of the events that had transpired, including the collapse of the two towers, and the Pentagon crash. The meeting ended.

I went out to the parking lot to find the car. There were 2 men out there looking up into the sky. “There’s forth plane out there somewhere,” they said, “and we heard it is headed for the Capital.” Likely they were, but Flight 93 ended in western Pennsylvania. Likely everyone remembers exactly where they were when they heard the news.

2001 – Sailfish!
In February 2001 I flew to Cancun, Mexico and met my friend Tom Franchi, then owner of the Fishin’ Frenzy, the boat that became famous many years later in the National Geographic TV series Wicked Tuna Outer Banks. We fished 4 days with Captain Charles Haywood on the Rigged Up which charters out of Oregon Inlet, North Carolina in the summertime. One of the days I caught 11 sailfish. What’s more, I was low-man on the boat because I was last in the rotation, having drawn the short straw. Tom and his friend Rufus each caught a dozen. The boat total was 35 and all were released immediately. It was one of my very best fishing days ever.

1999 to 2013 – The Lady Katie
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Everyone knows the Lady Katie was named after my granddaughter. She (the boat) was brand new in 1999 and still going strong when sold in May 2013. Our enjoyment was often fishing for rockfish (striped bass) on the Chesapeake Bay. We also fished out of New Jersey, almost always Cape May, and off the Outer Banks (OBX) of North Carolina; Ocracoke Inlet, Hatteras Inlet, or Oregon Inlet. The OBX fishing was serious; for tuna, wahoo, sailfish, and marlin. We would run the Lady Katie down and fish offshore all week, often renting a home on the beach for friends and family.

We also cruised the Bay; often to Saint Michaels, Maryland, and Baltimore to visit attractions around the Inner Harbor. There was also a moonlight cruise or 2 every year. We attended the parade of tall ships in Baltimore in 2012. Other destinations were Cape Charles, Virginia, and Point Lookout, Maryland, where the Potomac River meets the Bay. Lady Katie also spent a month at National Harbor to visit various spots in the Washington DC area including the Washington Channel waterfront and Mount Vernon.

The cost totaled over $1,000,000 and the only tax deduction was for interest paid on the mortgage of a “second home.” So many days; so many friends; it was amazing. I would do it again. photos

1999 – Buzzare!
In 1999 I needed to have my gallbladder removed. My revered surgeon (Doctor LeNerd) saved a minute or 2 along the way and did not bother to look at my sonogram. After putting me to sleep he made three small incisions, inserted a laparoscopic apparatus, and realized that you cannot remove an inch-and-a-quarter gallstone through a ½ inch slit. But he readjusted quickly, threw the laparoscope in the sink, made a 5-inch incision, and finished the job. This is not the real story, just the lead-in.

I spent a couple of days in the hospital, and around 2AM the second night, I awoke and noticed a bee on my bed sheet. I gave the sheet a shake and the bee flew off. Thinking that was not quite the normal thing, I picked up the phone and called the night nurse and reported my encounter. But nothing happened. About 5AM I awoke again and the bee was still in my room. I called the same nurse and requested action. Rather than walking 100 feet down the hall to kill the bee, she concluded I was delusional. After a bit, she called my surgeon to report my delusions. He then called Pauline to ask if I had a major alcohol problem, or was delusional in the past. I found out about these calls a couple weeks later.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, a young intern came in around 7AM. He asked if I had any alcohol in the room, and also if I had a history of delusions. After a couple minutes of this, I stopped him short and let him know I’d figured out where he was headed. I told him to forget the delusions and to get the bee. He nodded politely and kept right on. I stopped him again, pointed at the bee on the wall and asked him if he could see it. He turned his head halfway toward the bee, then turned back and continued his diatribe. He finally noticed I was getting irate, turned around and saw the bee. He left the room, got an old newspaper and a stool, smacked the bee and killed it.

This story came back to mind and I thought someone might get a smile out of it. It is true story and has not been fabricated by a delusional nut. The moral of the story: Don’t automatically trust folks in a responsible position to exercise good judgment.

1997 to 2022 – Happy birthdays
In 1997 I started having catered birthday parties for major birthdays. 100 to 200 of my closest friends were invited, many collected from my years in real estate, but also friends from earlier, even childhood. Many parties were on the water. 1994 – The second book ISBN 0-9635337-1-1 and more
The 1992 home-selling book which was serialized in the Washington Times, led to the home-buying book which was serialized in the Fairfax Journal. Courses at Northern Virginia Community College, many TV appearances, and speaking engagements ensued. There were several editions of each book but by about 2010 they were both out of print. Since then they have been available on Amazon Kindle and free on https://drrealestate.net.

1993 – Wes Foster
During my first 14 years in real estate I was associated with Long & Foster’s McLean office. Wes Foster was the sole owner (Long was long gone) of the largest privately-held real estate firm in the country. He lived on Crest Lane in McLean but was rarely seen in our office. Nevertheless, one day he visited on a day that I gave a presentation, and afterwards the manager said that Wes would like to have a word with me in the conference room.

I went to the conference room, entered, closed the door, and sat down. We talked about various things for 10 or 15 minutes. It was the early 1990s and the World Wide Web was in its infancy. I had been plugged into Internet developments by a good friend who was truly on the front of the wave. At one point I said to Wes, “You know, in a couple years all of our listings will be on the Internet.” His reply, “Not a good idea.” That was the end of that subject, but in just a few years all our listings were on the Internet.

I’m sure Wes eventually adjusted to the idea, as he saved millions of dollars in newspaper advertising. He used to fight Jim Weichert for the front page of the Washington Post real estate section. The Post decided to alternate the spot every week. I saw Wes now and then for the next decade at other events, but he never mentioned the Internet, nor did I. I never figured out what the meeting was all about. If Wes had an agenda, it was not obvious.

1993 – The activist!
In 1993 I bought a home close to McLean high school. I soon noticed that on school days, several cars would park in front of my home. After school my yard would be littered with trash. Also, there was the occasional street fight. Anyone living within about ¼ mile of the school was experiencing the same. When I learned about the Fairfax County residential permit parking districts (RPPD) program the solution was clear. I made a list of all the addresses nearby the school; there must have been well over 100. It was the dark ages when one had to communicate by USPS or telephone. I organized block-captains for each neighborhood who got signatures on the appropriate Fairfax County petitions. I presented them to the county, coordinated attendance at the required hearing, and in several weeks they planted signs advising drivers where they could and could not park, when, and for how long. The first day or two the kids thought they were kidding. (Pun intended?) But after some of them got towed, the problem was solved forever.

1992 – The first book ISBN 0-9635337-0-3
After the onslaught of home buyers from the 1989 and 1990 Mobil Oil headquarters move to Fairfax, it was back to the real world of real estate. That meant listing presentations for prospective home sellers. I had learned a lot in 4 years and my home-selling method was clearly different from other agents. I used a loose-leaf book with talking points in large font, and sellers would interview me for hours. When I realized that there must be a better way, I decided to turn the loose-leaf talking points into a real book.

My decision to become an author was in total disregard for the fact that I was a hunt-and-pecker on the keyboard. When I went to high school, typing class was filled with girls aspiring to become secretaries, so I never learned what fingers should press which keys. Planning to be published by December and ready for the spring market, I approached a few publishers with my book idea. They were generally receptive, but the best any of them could do was to produce a book by May. As that was unacceptable, self-publishing was my only option.

Since the book, $ELLNG YOUR HOME in Northern Virginia TODAY, would appeal to only a local market, I stopped in to the local Crown Books store with my idea and asked if they would sell the book. They told me it was not their decision, but were kind enough to put me in touch with their book distributor who also served other major bookstores. The distributor liked my idea and agreed to market the book pending a review of the final product.

I proceeded painfully for months, and produced camera-ready pages for the book. It was the early 1990s and there was nothing called Microsoft Office. Text was written in a program called Multi-Mate and charts were prepared in Lotus 1,2,3. Neither program communicated with the other so it was my job to locate each chart on a page so that it coordinated with the text: Not a lot of fun, but books were delivered to the distributor in early January.

1990 – Hair
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We were all assembled with thousands of others at DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution) Hall in Washington, DC for the Langley High School graduation ceremony. As the senior class president, Davey was giving one of the speeches. It was entitled “Be all that you can be,” a takeoff on the popular U.S. Army commercial from the mid-1980s. The speech went well and at the end, Davey raised his hat in a salute to his fellow class members who were applauding: They gasped, then laughed. When the hat came off, Davey’s long locks of many years had turned into a crew cut. He had cut his hair off just that morning, and it was a shock to all of us. Maybe he was just getting ready for the Army, but that never happened.

1990s – The Dougie-Wougie Syndrome
Dougie-Wougie had a reasonably happy life, despite the fact that he went through three wives and was never self-supporting. After opting out of the Army about a year before earning retirement-benefits, he went through a series of jobs. (Shoe salesman, encyclopedia salesman, taxi driver, courier.) For his final decade or 2 he ran his own courier-service business. But often he could not afford housing so at one point, Mommy and Daddy bought a house where he and his second family could live. (That is a long, sad story.) After that, he came home to live for a bit and later rented an apartment. But after a few years he moved with his 3rd wife, to live with our father for several years.

As a businessman he confused gross sales with profit. When it came time to replace a worn-out vehicle or repair it, Mommy and Daddy had to step in again. After they had both departed this earth, he inherited a reasonable sum of money. He was advised to be careful with the money or it would be gone within three years. He blew it in a little over two years.

When there was no money left for health insurance, he tried to be tough, and self-sufficient and refused advice or assistance from anyone. (No one even knew, despite inquiries.) When cancer came back for the third time he decided to check out. While he never announced his decision, reviewing it in hindsight, it became obvious that it was the plan.

What’s the point? It is a blessing to be self-supporting; not everyone is. If you are not, and you are reading this, there is still time. If your friends and family are giving you good advice, try to recognize it, accept it, and act on it.

1987 – Presidential
In the summer of 1987 Davey worked as an intern for the Gebhardt for President campaign in Washington, DC. In addition to his official duties, there were many breakfasts at the Old Ebbitt Grill. But all the efforts came to naught. Dick Gebhardt never gained traction, dropping out of the Democratic primary race in early 1988.

1987 – Lemmie outta here!
It was 1985 when I decided to end a rewarding career in industry. I had a secure position but wanted greater control over the future. How can one trade in a 22-year engineering and management career for the great unknown? There were ample resources to ensure the family would have food, shelter, and college tuition for Neen and Davey. I also believed I had whatever was needed to meet a new challenge.

With my decision made, I sold my sportfishing boat, the Undecided II, and prepared a spreadsheet to plot my new course. Over a dozen possibilities were analyzed: McDonald's and AAMCO franchises, marinas, a flirtation with inventing, and several real estate related ventures. The diversity of real estate seemed appealing, and it would be a logical step into home building for an engineer with an MBA. So, I took the courses and exam, gave notice to Mobil Oil, and joined Long & Foster Realtors in 1987.

Within days, Mobil announced the transfer of its New York headquarters (where I had worked in the late 1970s) to Virginia. Insider trading? In the first 3 years, I sold more homes than the average agent does in 20 years. But the real estate boom of the late 1980s had come to an end, and the early 1990s was not the time for my home building venture.

1983 – Undecided II
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In 1977, with my Achilles tendon injury almost healed (pun intended), I was ready to buy a boat after not owning one for about 15 years. But before I could effect that, Mobil Oil had other plans and sent me to London for 3 years. Upon returning to Fairfax, Virginia in July 1982 I began a search for an appropriate vessel. In July 1983 I purchased the Undecided II which had been berthed on the Sassafras River in Maryland for the first years of her life. After fishing on the Bay out of Deale, Maryland the rest of the year, our catch totaled 7 bluefish. That was totally unacceptable, so we booked a slip in Cape May, New Jersey and ran the Undecided II out of there where the fishing was much better. Mobil Headquarters in Fairfax observed summer hours, meaning the week ended at noon Friday. I had enough vacation to take off every Monday in the summer, so it was a half-week of work and a half-week in Cape May. After a few years and after deciding to leave Mobil, job-#1 was to sell the boat. I delivered it one spring Monday to the new owner in Mystic, Connecticut and came back on Amtrak. It was one of the happiest sad days of my life.

1983 – July 10 - Happy Birthday
On July 10, 1976, Davey’s fourth birthday, we caught 102 bluefish fishing out of Barnegat Light, New Jersey. Several years passed with relatively uneventful birthdays, including three while living in England. But in 1983 we drove to a marina on the Bohemia River in Maryland and closed on the Undecided II, a 36-foot sport-fishermen, Davey's best-ever birthday present. The plan was to take it about 60 miles south on Chesapeake Bay to Herrington Harbour Marina in Deale, Maryland.

We needed to jump-start the boat; not a good omen. Then we appeared to run out of fuel around dusk, in the middle of the shipping channel off Baltimore. With no engines running, the batteries died shortly, which put our marine radio, and our navigation lights, out of commission. Fortunately, we flagged down a passing boat and were towed into Rock Hall, Maryland where we spent the night. We arrived in Deale the next morning after realizing we had 100 gallons of fuel all the while: We had followed some terrible advice from the owner about the fuel valves.

When I sea-trialed the boat before the purchase, I noticed one engine was stronger than the other. The owner said it had always been that way. That was not a deal breaker, as I had checked compression on all 16 cylinders, and had confidence in the engines. After a few weeks and a bit of investigating, I found the cold-lockout on one of the carburetors was mis-adjusted, preventing the large secondary barrels from ever opening. Knowing the boat would never be running in cold weather, I disabled the cold-lockouts on both carburetors. Both engines then produced full power. It was a great boat and we ran it for several years out of Cape May, New Jersey, spending half the summers aboard.

1982 – The winner!
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The Cub Scouts sponsor an annual competition called the Pinewood Derby. It is a father and son project to build a small car to exacting specifications given some standard parts. In the competition, 2 cars race each other starting down an inclined ramp and along a flat track to the finish. There are many variables in building the car including size, shape, weight, and wheel lubrication. But it was basically an exercise in converting potential energy (with the car starting at the top of the incline) into kinetic energy (which was speed on the track). We concluded that potential energy would be maximized by locating as much of the 5-ounze car as possible near its rear; obviously the highest part of the car as it sits on the inclined ramp.

The local competition was held at the American Community School in Cobham, Surrey, England. In 1982, we did so well that we went on to the regional competition held at the RAF base in Lakenheath, Sussex, about 100 miles from our home. All cars were carefully checked and approved against published rules before being alowed to race. At the end of the competition we were either in first or second place. However, the judges informed us that we were disqualified because we “did not look like a car.” Whoa! After pointing out that the official rules say nothing about what the car “looks like,” and the fact that we passed the initial inspection to enter the competition, we were awarded our trophy.

1979 to 1982 – Living abroad
The family lived overseas in the London suburbs (Cobham, Surrey) for three years. I was serving as Mobil Oil Corporation's Chemicals Division Manager for Europe. The job involved a lot of responsibility accompanied by very little authority. No doubt I am remembered as the chief-ass-kicker by the Mobil companies in Europe. Nevertheless, I was able to double my unit’s effectiveness in each of the 3 years. By the time I returned to the US, my unit enjoyed 8 times the performance compared to when I took over.

The job included business travel to most major western European cities and also to several conventions in Venice, and Monaco. We also enjoyed many family vacations which often included parents and friends visiting from the US . . .
Is that all there is?

1979 – Home in the UK - 5 Tudor Close, Cobham, Surrey
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After considering several rentals, including a few without central heat, we decided to buy a home in Cobham, Surrey near the American school the kids would be attending. We signed an agreement and started learning local real estate customs. It seemed a bit unusual when the owners immediately approached us to also buy their installed carpeting, lighting fixtures, medicine cabinets, toilet paper holders, etcetera. After agreeing, we then learned about gazumping which means (in short) that the agreed price is not the real price, and the contract is not binding. The owners wanted even more money!

While trying to come to grips with this mess, another home we had liked came back on the market. We immediately came up to speed on local customs, trashed our current seller, and bought the preferred home, 5 Tudor Close. It had an amazing garden (back yard to you) with all sorts of trees, plantings, and flowers every month except January. It also had an artificial stream, a small lake with frogs and fish, and backed to the home of John Lodge, lead singer of the Moody Blues.

We borrowed 100% of the price in pounds-sterling to obviate any exchange rate risk. Most of the world does not have fixed rate mortgages and our rate could vary. It was tied to the MLR (Minimum Lending Rate) set by the government. By the time we closed, the MLR translated into an 18 ½% interest rate for us. Like many things in the U.K., mortgage payments were due every 3 months. Each payment was about 5,000 pounds-sterling, or over $12,000 on our quarter-million-dollar home.

In the early 1980's Milton Friedman whispered in Maggie Thatcher’s ear and she took action that tamed the rampant inflation in the UK. When Ronald Reagan noticed her results, he too became a Milton Friedman fan and decided to cure the U.S. rampant inflation: It only took one recession (1982) as a result of FED Chairman, Alan Greenspan, hiking short-term interest rates, to over 20% at one point.

When we returned to the U.S. and sold the home, it had been the worst three years ever for British real estate values, no doubt because of the unusually high interest rates. But because the home was in a terrific location, and with a little help from tax laws and exchange rates, everything worked out well.

1978 – Yardley to London
2 weeks after moving into a brand-new Toll Brothers home in Yardley, PA, Mobil asked me to be their Chemicals Division Manager in London. I agreed, and was to start in June 1978, but that was delayed due to New York personnel disruptions, requiring me to fill a vacant position and train a replacement manager. So, we occupied the $85,000 new home for 15 months and sold it for $115,000 in June 1979. On the way to the U.K. we cruised the Greek islands for a week and split another week between Athens, Cairo, and Luxor.

In Luxor, I picked up a case of “curse of the mummy,” aka intestinal distress. After flying to London on Sunday, I started work on Monday. My predecessor, Peter, informed me he had set up 2 weeks of lunches and dinners, as all the chemical managers from other companies wanted to meet me. It was not an easy 2 weeks and I’m sure those I met wondered why this new Mobil manager visited the men’s room every 15 minutes.

1977 – July 13 - Power to the people
About 8:30pm I was working in my office in Mobil headquarters when the lights went out: The great New York power failure of 1977. After an hour or so I lost hope and went to the nearest exit stairway. The emergency lights were not working and I felt my way down 5 stories only to find that the exit door was locked. I felt my way back up 5 stories to where I started. Fortunately, I had stuck the cleaning crew’s vacuum cleaner in the door to keep it from closing and locking. And that’s why I’m here to tell about it. I canceled my hotel reservation and spent the night sleeping on a couple chairs pushed together in the lobby of the Mobil building. This is the short version of the story.

1977 How to ace the SAT
Neen always did well in school and somewhere around the age of 10 she was approached by Johns Hopkins Study of Mathematically Precocious Youth to take the SAT (Scholastic Aptitude Test). She thought that would be fun so we bought one of the books that purported to help students get ready, and went to work. The idea of such young kids taking the SAT was preposterous, but there was nothing to lose. If my memory serves me correctly, she scored in the 85th percentile. While that certainly says something about Neen, it also seemed to indicate that the educational system likely had failed other students who were capable of things way beyond their current grade level.

Neen went on to take the SAT for fun 3 or 4 more times so that when she took it officially, as a high school junior, it was certainly not an emotional experience. She scored well enough (99th percentile?) to become a National Merit Scholarship semi-finalist.

1977 – You bet!
In 1977, I transferred from corporate research and development to Mobil’s headquarters in New York City. Accomplishing my assigned objective involved massive calculations using APL computer language while connected by modem to the corporate computer in Princeton.

The computer was all-powerful and one day, in a burst of inspiration, I wondered if I could put it to good use. There were about a dozen off-track-betting windows in Grand Central Station just down 42nd Street. Hhhhmmmm. So, one morning walking by a newsstand in the subway, I bought a copy of the Daily Racing Form newspaper. It not only detailed what horses would be running at various tracks around the country, but also the results from previous races.

I wondered which bits of data could be used to predict today’s winners. I compiled a lot of numbers into a matrix, a square box of numbers, and then asked the Princeton Computer to invert the matrix so that the correlation coefficients could be determined: Knowing which bits of data were important, and how important each was, I tried to predict the day’s winners. The system was not perfect but it did work well (you can’t win 'em all) and I dry-ran it for a week.

I was then ready for the big time. The next week I picked up the racing form, calculated the day’s likely winners, and placed a couple $2 bets. I was a winner. I had great results for another couple days, and in a moment of questionable discretion, I told my story to my boss, Len. He was impressed and immediately gave me $2 to bet for him. He then walked me down the hall to his boss, Dave, who also was impressed and gave me $5 to bet. I confidently strode down to Grand Central and placed their bets and mine. When the afternoon results were published, I had lost everyone’s money. I never bought another Daily Racing Form or went back to the betting windows.

1976 – To the big city
In 1971 I was selected to be a corporate research’s technical expert for Mobil Chemical’s fledgling oil-additives business. I did not realize at the time, but I beat out my friend Bill Richman for the job. But he did well, subsequently becoming one of the 2 inventors (along with friend Tom Rogers) of the synthetic motor oil, Mobil 1.

It was an interesting position and involved occasional travel to the car makers in Detroit, as well as to major oil companies. Somewhere along the way, management started offering me transfers to New York headquarters. Maybe it was my MBA or my legal adventures (suing GM etcetera) that suggested I might be more valuable there. The most interesting offer was to attend New York University and become a patent attorney, all at Mobil’s expense, spending a few hours in the New York office whenever possible. But I turned them all down, not wanting to disrupt the family with a major move.

When I returned to the laboratory after a long illness in 1976, another offer was waiting: They were convinced that I was the only one in the world with the combination of technical and business sense who could accomplish a task they had been attempting for years. “No thanks,” I replied. But having just spent a couple months sick in bed with plenty of time to contemplate my future, and after discussion at home that evening, I began to rethink my response.

The deciding factor was that this New York job was an option: I could remain in New York after accomplishing the stated objective, or transfer back to research and development. The next morning I accepted the job and started on January 2. The first couple weeks on the job I was sporting a cane, still recovering from the Achilles’ tendon injury.

The job was fun and I elected to transfer permanently, moving the family to a brand-new Toll Brothers home in Yardley, PA in February 1978 which cut my 2-hour and 45-minute commute (each way, every day) down to 1-hour and 45-minutes.

1976 – Not the best year
In late September I snapped an Achilles’ tendon playing tennis. After consulting a couple orthopedic surgeons, I opted for a non-surgical repair which involved about 12 weeks in a cast, but it worked well. A few days after getting the cast I became ill with a fever, and it was soon clear that I had to visit the doctor. He wasn’t exactly sure what was wrong but prescribed an antibiotic, erythromycin, and told me to come back in 4 or 5 days. The first ever outbreak of legionnaires' disease was just across the River at the Bellevue Stratford Hotel in Philadelphia and had been all over the news. I later found that erythromycin was the drug of choice to treat that disease.

After a few days on the drug my eyes, skin, and urine had a distinct brownish tint. I noticed that my urine was distinctly clearer a couple of mornings and concluded it was because I had not taken the drug for 8 or 10 hours. I went back to the doctor and told him I was done with erythromycin. After blood tests with high SGOT (serum glutamic oxaloacetic transaminase), he surmised the likely cause was hepatitis and advised me how to prevent infecting family members. Erythromycin is detoxified (metabolized) in the liver, so with my liver not working well, it produced jaundice.

Finally, a beef-blood agglomeration test conclusively indicated mononucleosis, and about a quarter of such cases include liver involvement: Hepatitis. The cure for mononucleosis is to lay down and get better, so that’s what I did, along with my cast. I was back to work just after Thanksgiving, still in a cast.

1975 – Mobil Oil Research and Development
Mobil Research and Development in Paulsboro, NJ employed about 1,000 people. About half worked in the process section figuring out how to run a refinery, and the other half dealt with Mobil products. I was involved with both fuels and lubricants. One interesting fuels project involved rating fuels in about a dozen new cars. I was one of several engineers selected to drive each of the cars for about a week and carefully rate the performance of whatever experimental fuel was in the tank. One memorable car that I drove was a new Mazda with the revolutionary rotary-engine. Another was a Ford LTD with an amazing stereo system. Listening to Gary Wright sing "Dream Weaver" on the way home from work one day, I had an epiphany: My next new car would include a stereo system, and within a year, it did.

1974 – The Oil Crisis
In 1973, the US oil supply was disrupted, leading to the oil crisis. The price of gasoline skyrocketed and many folks waited hours in lines to get to a gas pump. It was common to see gas stations closed because they had nothing to sell. Having a license plate with an odd-number as the last digit, I could buy gas only on odd-numbered days of the month. Fortunately, I had a job where I could leave mid-morning, and find a gas pump with just a few cars in line ahead of me.

During that time, we were invited to a friend’s party where we knew few of the other guests. I found myself next to a fellow and we started talking. It was going well with ‘where do you live’ and ‘how many children do you have’ but then he asked, "Where do you work?" "At Mobil Research and Development," I proudly stated. That set off a tirade about conspiracy theories and how the oil companies were messing up our lifestyle.

“Oil crisis?” I asked. “Yes,” he said, “the high prices and the long lines.” “Hhhhmmmm,” I mused. “Now that you mention it, the last time I went over to the refinery (right next to R&D) to fill up, there was another car ahead of me at the pump. And, I did notice that the price had gone up to 29 and nine” (i.e. 29.9 cents per gallon). As he turned to walk away in disgust, I saw the top of his head blow off, and the ceiling get speckled with brain-fragments. He never suspected that my story was a complete fabrication.

1973 to 1985 – A few new suits
Our first brand new car was a 1970 Buick LeSabre that came with a 50,000-mile guarantee. It ran well but around 32,000 miles it needed a valve job. Pleas to the dealer and General Motors fell on deaf ears. Huh? Not wanting to pay the dealer an exorbitant price to remedy the problem, I took matters into my own hands, literally. I lifted the hood, removed the carburetor, the intake manifold, exhaust manifolds, and finally the cylinder heads. After having the heads refurbished and reassembling everything, the car never had another problem.

Not happy about getting short-shrift, I filed suit asking GM to pay my total costs of $187. They gave me every reason until Tuesday why they would not pay, but the day before the court hearing they called and agreed. A slow learner, I kept buying GM cars for many years which led to 2 more suits, in 1977 and 1984. The 1984 case was settled out of court in my favor, but the 1977 case was remarkable.

Our brand-new Oldsmobile Delta 88, under normal driving conditions, shifted from first gear to second, to third, back to second, and again to third. My complaints unsatisfied, I went to court. GM sent their attorney along with a transmission expert. I told my story and they gave their rebuttal. Leaving no stone unturned, the attorney questioned my expertise. After representing myself as Mobil Oil’s Corporate R&D transmission expert, and discussing a few details, the attorney was satisfied.

It seemed like a great idea, so I asked if I could explore the expertise of their transmission expert who had poo-pooed my problem. After fumbling a few of my technical questions, their expert confided that he worked at a local dealership, and while he had seen and touched automatic transmissions, most of his time was spent polishing cars. With that, the judge awarded me $850, the maximum small-claims award.

Walking out of the building, I heard someone calling me “Mr. Rathgeber” from behind. It was the GM attorney who had some very kind words regarding my technical as well as legal expertise. It was a shocking admission, but it really made my day. The after winning my 1984 case, the third one against GM, I concluded they really did not like me, and never bought another GM car.

The in another episode, I sued the Burlington County Bridge Commission who had thoughtlessly added small green dots to my red Oldsmobile as they were painting their bridge one windy Sunday. Refusing my written request, they finally paid several hundred dollars and avoided answering their court summons.

1970 – Easter in Norway
We got up hungry in Oslo, having arrived about 8PM the night before and finding all restaurants closed and the sidewalks rolled up and put away. After a 3-hour drive, south down the coast, we finally found a place open for breakfast. We continued another 4 hours over icy roads to Kristiansand on the southern tip of Norway, only to find the ferry to Denmark had been cancelled. We turned around and drove back up the coast to Larvik where we just barely made the ferry leaving at 9PM. Lucky to book the last available cabin on the boat, we woke up at 7AM Easter Monday in Frederikshavn, Denmark, and drove the company car back to Hamburg.

1970 – Hamburg and ATF
In February 1970, Mobil Research and Development management became frustrated waiting for their German laboratory to establish the first automatic transmission fluid (ATF) test in Europe. Automatic transmissions were a novelty in Europe, and Mobil wanted to be the first to develop an ATF test in a European transmission. They chose the Opel transmission and hoped to develop a test similar to the T-12 test which had been standard in the U.S. for many years.

My boss was the corporate automatic transmission expert, and had trained me well. Since he refused to fly, I became the engineer of choice. Our German friends had the test stand all set up and had been trying to make it work for well over a year. I was assigned a couple of technicians and it only took 2 days to determine that it would be a challenging assignment.

The test simulated a car starting from go, accelerating through all forward gears, running for a bit, and then returning to idle speed. The entire cycle was just a few minutes and would repeat 24 hours a day until failure, usually several weeks. Fluid temperature, internal transmission pressures, and the duration of each shift were monitored and graphed in real time. The technicians assigned to me spoke very little English but they were happy to remind me that Rathgeber means “giver of advice.” It all made sense.

With the test running, I noticed that the temperature chart was a bit strange. Maximum and minimum temperatures were as expected, but the shape of the graph was not. After some thinking and checking, I realized that the temperature was being plotted only every 5 or 10 minutes. This saves a lot of graph paper, but it’s not what you need when the entire test cycle is only a few minutes. I had the instrument changed to record a datapoint every 10 seconds and the resulting chart looked like it should. I did not realize it at the time, but this was a perfect illustration of the Nyquist Sampling Theory gone awry.

Next, I noticed that the time taken to shift gears (less than a second) was 2 or 3 times what it should have been. But a couple of rebuilds and retries did not help. After eliminating several potential problems, I concluded that there must be some internal leakage in the transmission’s control valve circuits. In a burst of inspiration, I realized that a modification they had made was the problem. They had installed some extra O-rings (gummi rings) and had not removed enough metal from the transmission to provide space for them. This prevented a critical plate from sealing, hence the internal leakage.

I had questioned the O-rings before, and knew that if I questioned them again it would be a hard fight. So, I went to the lab and rebuilt the transmission myself on a weekend when no one was there. When my crew arrived Monday, I announced that the test would run properly. It did, and within 3 weeks we had a transmission failure: A perfect test result.

Back at R&D in the US, management was impressed with my success. This led to a promotion in 2 years that had always taken others 5 or more. Heads turned: Maybe not entirely a good thing with a target on my back, but it all worked.

1968 – This air was not free
Our first home, like most, did not have central air conditioning. In April 1968 we went to a home-show, saw some Carrier units, and had one delivered. I installed the outside (condenser) unit at the farthest end of the home from the bedrooms, to minimize noise. I found there was no main shut-off at the electrical panel and I would have to connect the wiring “live.” Not the safest way, but you wrap your screwdriver-shaft and pliers-handles with electrical tape, wear your sneakers, and stand on a board rather than on the basement concrete floor. As you suspect, it all worked. Initially, the condensate drain was running into a bucket. It was amazing to see the bucket ¾ full in just ½ hour as the unit removed humidity and cooled the air.

1968 – The first house
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We moved into our first house in February 1968. The mortgage payment was $96.15 per month. It had nice hardwood floors but we wanted carpet. My grandfather, Elmer the poet, was controller of the Hugh Nelson Carpet Mill in Philadelphia. He got us a great price on 100% wool Axminster-weave carpets. We had them installed over nice thick padding sometime in March. The very next morning, a little girl came running out of her bedroom to greet us. Did someone leave the crib-rail in the down position? No! It was in the fully up position. But that had not stopped the Neen from climbing out. She was only 11-months old, and must have hit the floor, but thank goodness it was the day after the carpets were installed not the day before. Well, that won’t happen again. But just a few days later, she was out of the crib by herself again, running to greet us. The crib rail was never in the up position again.

1967 – The story of Neen
One day in December 1967 we had just finished changing the diaper of our little girl. She had recently begun to talk and her first word was “NO.” She had also learned Mama and Dada. Although her speaking vocabulary was limited, her understanding was much further developed. We pointed to mommy and asked who’s that? The little girl whose name was Pauline responded, “Mama.” We then pointed to daddy and asked who’s that? She responded “Dada.” In a burst of inspiration, we pointed to the little girl and asked who’s that? While she understood the question immediately, she was not quite up to "Pauline." So, she did her best, and with a big grin she replied “Neen.” And that’s how she became our Neen forever. (She was a mere 8 months old.)

Sequel: Many years later, after returning from 3 years in London, Neen entered Langley High School in McLean, Virginia. Early-on we had strange phone calls asking for Susan. “Sorry you've got the wrong number.” After a week or two, we got suspicious. Neen confessed that she had become Susan (her middle name) for her new high school friends. But she is still, and will always be, Neen to all of our family.

1966 – Unfortunate son
One of my best friends from Drexel was Barry Rosenberg who graduated with me as a mechanical engineer in June 1965. He moved to St Louis but we planned to get together when he visited his parents in Philadelphia. He was very athletic and in mid-April 1966 he decided to have fun by swimming across a lake. The water must have been cold and he got cramps and drowned. Less than a year out of school I can still imagine how his parents must have felt. I saved his last letter, postmarked April 2.

1964 – South Philly
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In January 1964 I started teaching math and science at South Philadelphia High School. It was one of the industry (co-op) jobs offered by Drexel where I was studying engineering. It was as much fun as I imagined, and a lot more interesting. In my first few weeks on the job there were 2 memorable experiences. First, I was invited to the senior prom by a nice student named Elizabeth West. It was an easy decision and I politely declined the invitation for a whole host of reasons.

The second encounter was with a student named Joe who I stopped in an empty hallway while classes were ongoing. He could not produce a hall-pass and it was my second encounter like this with Joe, so I was likely less than diplomatic. Joe was incensed and told me that he would be graduating soon (they had mid-year graduations) and he was going to come back and kill me. I was a quick thinker back then, and in within 3 shakes of a nano-seconds tail, I looked him in the eye and said: “Joe, you’re here now, I’m here now, why wait?” He shook his head turned around and walked off, never to be seen again.

When I gave a test in my general science class, I noticed that many of the kids were copying answers off their neighbors them. That was confirmed when I graded the papers and dumb kids that sat next to smart kids got As. I told them we would repeat the test, and I gave them a checkerboard test. There were 2 separate tests, and if someone beside you got everything right and you copied all their answers, you got everything wrong.

1963 - John J Nesbitt
My second industry job was at John J Nesbitt in Philadelphia. They produced heating, ventilating, and air conditioning (HVAC) equipment, some small enough for residential use, but also commercial and industrial units which were very large. My job was in the research and development department. I’ll never forget that a cubic foot of air weighs 0.0765 pounds at sea level and 59 degrees Fahrenheit (STP). Their soundproof room was a 10-foot cube inside, and had one vent for air to go in and one for air to come out. Each vent was about 5 foot long and was soundproof. You could reach in and shake hands with someone inside the room, but if one person yelled, the other person could not hear it.

1962 - Campbell Soup
My first 6-month industry job was at Campbell Soup’s equipment center in Moorestown, NJ. It was an amazing machine shop, where they produced equipment for food-processing as well as can-manufacturing. I got experience in three departments: Quality control, drafting, and process management. There was a lot to learn in quality control, including micrometers, vernier-calipers, "jo" blocks, optical comparators, and the magna-flux machine which could spot invisible cracks in metal parts. Process management was the most interesting. One would start with a drawing of the finished product, and then select a piece of metal of the proper size, shape, and composition. Then the piece would be routed through the shop, one machine after another, until the finished product emerged. I was paid $75 weekly.
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1960 to 1965 – Brutality
“Look at the man on your left, look the man on your right, in 5 years one of you will graduate as an engineer.” That is my only memory of the initial assembly to welcome new Drexel engineering students. All engineering was a 5-year program with half the time spent working in industry. They’ve got to be kidding; just trying to scare us.

Off I went to my first class, engineering drawing. The professor had a heavy Indian accent and I understood about every third word. Next it was chemistry lab. The instructor was a graduate student from Japan. The only word I ever understood was tem-pressure. In English we call it temperature. I thought maybe I should quit while I was ahead.

My terms in school were summer and fall. Summer term of my third year was memorable. A third of the engineers failed physics. Another third failed calculus. Another third failed something else. If you were in the 4% that failed three courses you were out of school. If you were in the 11% who failed 2 courses your new major was business administration. Failing only one course, you could pick up the pieces and go on. That’s 15% of the engineering students who became ex-engineering students, after having completed half of the five years!

Grading was by the numbers. No A, B, C, D, F, where an F and an A would average a C. A 30% (F) and a 90% (A) average 60%, and at Drexel that’s a fail. In 5 years, I remember only one test that was graded on a curve. The reason; without the curve, no one would have passed. Final grades were never put on a curve, ever.

But they were absolutely right: Only a third of my original engineering class graduated with me in five years. Thanx Drexel. It was hell but it was a good education, reportedly the 3rd best engineering school in the US and I did it, no foreign language necessary. I chose to attend Drexel over several other schools, including Rutgers for which I had won a NJ State scholarship. And the rest is history!

1960 – A happy ending
I was running our Class-B hydroplane at about 55 miles per hour on the lake one day. I gave the wheel a quick turn and the steering cable got hung up on a pulley. This produced some slack in the cable, and the S-hook connecting it to the steering bar on the motor disconnected. The motor went hard over, the boat made a quick turn, and threw me out the side. On a bad day the boat would have continued in circles and I would have had to duck every time it came around. Fortunately, the cowling was off the motor and the carburetor intake was right in the front. The boat splashed, the carburetor inhaled some water and the engine shutdown.

1960 – Discrimination in housing
In 1948, my father’s father retired after many years working as an actuary for the Penn Mutual Life Insurance Company in Philadelphia. He and my grandmother sold their home on the White Horse Pike in Collingswood, New Jersey and purchased a home in Saint Petersburg, Florida.
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Many years later, some black folks moved into the neighborhood. Today that would likely be a non-event but back then it off a wave of panic home-selling. After a year or two, my grandparents were the only white folks left. Although this make them feel a bit uneasy, they were not inclined to move and made friends with the neighbors. But after several encounters with unfriendly folks telling them they were not welcome in the neighborhood, they realized they had to go. They sold the home for a fraction of what they paid for it, and with my parents help moved to a smaller home a few miles away.
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8176 24th Avenue North, Saint Petersburg, FL

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Same home as above 57 years later

1958 to 1960 – Sports
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I joined the Collingswood High School track team in my sophomore year. The coach was impressed in the first meet of the season when I took third place in the quarter-mile. In my 3 years on the team I also ran ½ mile and the mile on occasion. I also competed in the New Jersey State quarter-mile championship, the Penn Relays, and the Atlantic City relays.

During a practice session my first year on the team, a senior team member grabbed me and said he had someone I should meet. As we walked to the end of a field where field events were staged, my friend explained that the guy I would meet was a former team member, the State-champion and State record-holder javelin-thrower, who had moved to Los Angeles to become a movie star. The guy’s name was Eugene Orowitz, and my senior friend opined that Eugene might well make it in Hollywood someday. You know him as Michael Landon, or perhaps Little Joe.

In my junior year I went on to run cross-country with some success as captain of the team. My first win was on the Atlantic City boardwalk. The Atlantic City Press photo above was obtained by my uncle, who was a Philadelphia news reporter.

1955 – The first boat
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I had a love for boats even before I started school. I was allowed to go fishing in boats, only after I learned to swim at the YMCA in Camden when I was about five years old. I then fished several times a summer with my grandfather and often another family member in New Jersey’s coastal waters.

I was about 10 years old when I had a wild idea about owning a boat. I knew would not happen by accident, so I quietly saved all I could from cutting lawns, putting folks trash out to the curb, and an occasional painting gig. Mommy and Daddy were a bit shocked when I announced that I’d saved up $105 and intended to buy and build a 12-foot boat from a kit sold by Luger. I don’t think they fancied my doing that in the garage and suggested I build it as a shop class project in school.

The kit was delivered to the school and construction started immediately. When school was over in June the boat was 98% complete and I earned an “A” in shop. My friends helped me take the boat home and I finished it in the garage. When done I took it to a friend’s home on Newton Lake. I had prearranged with my grandfather to use his 7 ½ horsepower Evinrude motor. With it clamped on the transom, I slowly motored out of the “Cove” to the main part lake. I gave it full throttle and the boat jumped up on plane at a speed of about 25 miles per hour. At the age of 13, I had arrived in heaven.

I ran the boat on the Lake for several years. As I was too poor to own a car, I occasionally used it to go to Collingswood High School, about a mile away. This was covered by The Sunday Bulletin (a Philadelphia newspaper) in an extensive story on November 10, 1957 as well as by a local newspaper, below.
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1953 to 1958 – The Rig
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My grandfather, Elmer, was a great saltwater fisherman. He fished often, always accompanied by at least one family member. He bought his first outboard motor in the late 1940s and mounted it on rented rowboats between Manasquan and Wildwood Villas, NJ: Barnegat, Manahawkin, Tuckerton, the Mullica River, Brigantine, Somers Point, and my favorite, Fortescue. In 1953, Uncle George, who served in the Pacific theater in the Navy, bought a 26-foot, lap-strake fishing boat named Maria. Re-named the Rig, it had a 6-cylinder Chrysler engine and was berthed in Snug Harbor in Atlantic City. Grandpa was off work every Saturday and Sunday, and Uncle George was off work every Sunday and Monday. For many summers, I fished every Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, weather permitting.

One memorable Sunday, the 3 of us jigged up over 100 weakfish off Brigantine Shoal. Another day, about 35 miles offshore, a distinct dark line approached in the sky. It was obviously a storm front and the wind picked up quickly. We headed the boat into the waves as they increased to 8 or 9 feet every 5 seconds. This lasted almost an hour, but tragedy was narrowly averted. The boat did not have a marine radio, but it was equipped with the latest navigational equipment: a compass. After calculating our various courses and speeds after leaving Absecon Inlet, and estimating the effect of the storm on our location, we selected a course and set headed for shore. In less than 2 hours we spotted the large offshore gong-buoy that always welcomed us to the Inlet. But as we passed the buoy, we noticed it did not have the familiar “A” for Absecon. Instead, it was marked GE, and we had arrived at Great Egg Inlet, about 9 miles south of our intended landfall. We were surprised and shocked, but it could have been worse: Gusts of 80 miles per hour had been recorded during the squall.

1950
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My grandparents Blanche and Elmer (the poet) included me in their 6-week driving trip to Florida. It was my first time there, and I developed a lasting appreciation for the State. We went everywhere: Cypress Gardens, Weeki-Wachee, Silver Springs, the Keys, Ross Allen’s Reptile Institute (that’s me sitting on the alligator’s tail), and the Fountain of Youth in Saint Augustine: It worked! We fished everywhere we found water, and there’s lots of water in Florida. Fishing in a rowboat off Fort Lauderdale, we hooked a big Marlin, but the old, rotted, linen fishing line broke in less than a minute. In Marathon, I was befriended by the son of a treasure-hunter who gave me a 5-pound cannonball they had recovered. I was unable to part with it for 60 years.

Grandpa would take a rest from the driving now and then, and one day we were parked by a stream somewhere in South Carolina. I walked onto the bridge over the stream and was approached by a boy about my age. A friendly sort, he said “HI” and wanted to strike up a conversation. As soon as I replied he realized that I was not from South Carolina. “Oh no” he said, “a Yankee. You are not welcome here,” and he walked off in disgust. It was shocking to realize that the Civil War had not ended in the mid-1800s. The south will rise again.

A few days before leaving for Florida, my grandfather’s club, Square Circle Sportsmen, had a youth sports day. One of the many features was target shooting. I’d never shot a pistol before but I did quite well. Prizes were awarded at the closing ceremony. When the pistol shooting winner was announced his score was given. My grandfather, realizing that I had and even higher score, interrupted the proceedings to ask what was going on. He was quietly told they had decided to award first place to much older boy and thought I wouldn’t care. But with their plot exposed, and my grandfather still indignant, I went home with the gold medal.
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1948 to 1960 – Violin
My parents had me playing the violin at about age 6. There were half-size violins for little kids like me. I made my way up to a three-quarter size, and then to a full size at about age 10. I must have shown some promise because after several years my teacher was upgraded to Frank Costanzo who was a first-violinist with the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra. Things were getting serious and I took a weekly lesson at his home-studio on Locust Street in Philadelphia.

At the age of 13 I became the youngest member ever to join the Haddonfield Symphony Orchestra. They rehearsed every Wednesday night and presented several concerts every year. It was an indescribably, exhilarating feeling to be a part of the music. I also played in the New Jersey All-State high school orchestra which performed annually for the teacher’s convention at Convention Hall in Atlantic City. The violin was a lot of work and sometimes even fun. It ended in the fall of 1960 when I entered engineering school.

An interesting note: The Haddonfield Orchestra had about 60 members and I knew all of them. After leaving the orchestra and becoming an engineer (now I are one), my second real job was with Mobil Oil Research. After starting at the "Lab" in 1968 (8 years after leaving the Haddofield Orchestra) I suddenly realized that I recognized the names of several of the senior managers. They were my old friends from the orchestra. I’m not sure if it ever did me any good, but it certainly did not hurt.

1948 – The heat!
There was a coal-bin in one front corner of the cellar. It was about seven feet square and was walled off from the rest the cellar. It included a small basement window. That’s where the coal delivery man put his chute to deliver coal when we needed it. The furnace was in the center of the home and included a duct to almost every room: No heater-fan needed, hot air rises. It’s called convection. We would keep the home fires burning all winter to avoid the mess of starting a new fire. After removing the coal ashes from the furnace periodically, we would use the shovel to add fresh coal from the bin.

1947 – You can’t always get what you want?
I was mortified when Santa did not bring the requested Keystone service-center, gas-station. My family, realizing I could not wait until next Christmas, came up with a solution. It would take some time, but I could sell candy to neighbors up and down the street until my profit totaled $5, the cost of the gas-station. It was my only solution and I agreed. So, they drove me to Denbo’s Confectioners on Mt Ephraim Avenue in Camden, and advanced funds for 2 or 3 boxes of candy bars at wholesale cost. Off I went peddling my wares. Most neighbors answered their doors and many were smiling. Some bought as many as 3 or 4 candy bars. My profit on each, was a penny. I persisted, and after months of periodic peddling, I had my $5. I bought the gas station which was quite fancy, and included a car-elevator to the second-floor, and lived happily ever after. It was also a learning experience: Don’t trust Santa.

1943 to 1946 – The beach
Every summer for several years I would go to the beach in Ocean City, New Jersey for 6 weeks with my good friends Jan and Brucie. Being thoughtful kids, we always took our parents along: They were better at renting the house, driving there, and cooking dinner. We were good friends but did have distinct personalities: Jan would occasionally pee-pee, whereas Brucie would wee-wee, and I preferred to tinkle. To this day there is no alcohol sold in Ocean City, either in stores or restaurants, but at the time it was not even on our list. A hazy memory suggests we stayed on Asbury Avenue at about 28th street with a 3 block walk to the beach. Dining out was done at Watson’s Restaurant which was so popular, there was almost always a 45-minute wait to be seated. I have a vague recollection of walking on the boardwalk after dark and hearing the adults commenting on a fire off the coast which had to be a tarpedoed ship.

1943 – Earliest memories
Besides being hit in the face with a metal shovel by a girl who was one of several kids playing in a nearby sandbox, I remember the air-raid drills. The town siren would go off at night and everyone would be required to turn off all their lights. We usually went into a small bedroom and hung heavy blankets over the windows to block the light. My father was the air-raid warden, and would don a metal helmet and check our neighborhood for compliance. The Germans never bombed us, but with their submarines sinking ships a few miles off the beach, the idea was not farfetched. I have hazy memories of some neighborhood folks wondering if it was prudent to entrust their safety to an obviously German-heritage Rathgeber, as well as seeing a burning ship from the Ocean City boardwalk. Fortunately, we were not treated as badly as the Japanese-heritage Americans.

1942 – 1998
I was the first child in my family, so I got a lot of attention. I effectively had 5 parents. There were mommy and daddy of course, but right around the corner were grandma and grandpa and uncle George. My father’s parents enjoyed taking me on outings, but they lived in another town (and in Florida after 1948) and were not omnipresent. Here’s what I remember them imparting to me: Of course, all that is just the tip of the iceberg.