July 22, 2007  Truckin' and Stuff, Part I
 
My friend Paul over at Huml.org was kind enough to reference this site in a recent blog post. He spent many years on long-haul trucking. My previous reference to the History Channel's Ice Road Truckers program brought back memories for both of us. Paul made 3/4 million miles driving the long haul routes in big 18-wheeler rigs.
 
I began driving much smaller 28ft. box 6-wheeler rigs delivering kitchen cabinets to construction sites during summers in order to earn money for the following college year. The summer before my senior year I got a higher paying job loading, driving and unloading plumbing supplies on a large housing development near Lisle/Lockport, IL. I had an apprentice card with the local plumbing union, arranged for by my Dad's very benevolent boss so that he could justify paying me a higher wage....he understood that I was actually in my second Senior college year because Bradley University had no integration between the requirements from the different scholastic colleges. I needed to earn money to graduate after Bradley's conflicting schedules forced me into an additional and unexpected year.
 
Yet, I was just a glorified "gopher". I had to stock supplies when they were delivered, then grab appropriate materials based on a "pick list" for each of the six different style homes being built. In each case, it was imperative for me to stay ahead of the various plumbing crews. I'd deliver the correct cast iron pipe and fittings for the newly poured basements for the rough-in crew (comprised of one former farmer who could dig and follow plans) and with whom I caught a ride for the 60 mile trip to the jobsite every day. I split gas costs with him plus a little extra. Both of us benefited from the deal, and he said he enjoyed the company on the long trip to an from work. Unfortunately, he liked heat, which was good for working in those heat reflecting ovens called basements all day though the summer. But the heat control was on HIGH from the time we left his house until we arrived at the jobsite. I typically fell asleep 10 miles into the trip.
 
After the carpenters framed out the house, our waste and vent crew moved in and needed materials to do their job. Close on their heals was the water crew who put in both hot and cold water supplies including the water heater. Lastly was the crew that put in the finish fixtures. Let me remind you that I was the only gopher on the job. My day was comprised of loading up the smaller truck with hundreds of pounds of creosote covered cast iron pipe, fittings and gaskets. Then hundreds of pounds of waste and vent pipe and fittings, followed by copper water pipe and all the fittings for each house.
 
The kicker was the finish fixtures. Most of these homes were pre-sold, and the owners had already selected their bath & kitchen sink colors. It was up to me to deliver the toilets, sinks and bathtubs in the proper colors to the proper rooms for each house. Kitchen sinks were porcelain coated cast-iron sinks. Bathroom vanities and toilets were heavy-duty porcelain/china. All of this stuff was pretty heavy. But the heaviest were the porcelain-coated cast-iron bathubs. Weighing in at 345#, these buggers came in flimsy wooden crates. It's good that I was a sturdy lad, since I often had to wrestle these awkward monsters half-way through the house and up several flights of stairs.
 
Our crew foreman was named Silkie (I knew better that to ask why). Silkie had ordered a brand-new custom 1-1/2 ton Dodge 4x4 pickup to deliver the materials on the jobsite. Silkie was from Chicago and really wasn't experienced in what was needed in such a truck. A truck with a 3/4 ton rating would've been more than sufficient, since it had a short box. Indeed, the extra-heavy suspension proved to be a detriment since Silkie forgot to order limited-slip (also known as positraction) on the rear axle. I got stuck more than once crossing dried mud ruts that were only five inches deep, because opposing wheels would spin free.
 
Most of these homes were multi-story. Some had an extended deck near the back door of the main living area. These were constructed by extending the floor joists to form the frame of the porch landing. The railings, posts and stairs would come after the finished grade was established. Whenever I could drive my truck near these elevated platforms, I'd unload the heavy bathtubs and fixtures onto these platforms in order to save time and effort. That's where I made my first mistake!
 
I'd put a crated bathtub on one of these landings, then watched in wonder and horror when the landing and the tub plummeted to the ground, some eight feet below. I'd inadvertently discovered that the carpentry crew had forgotten to extend the joists and later had "scabbed" on the deck which had virtually no support. The inadvertent discovery of shortcuts made by the carpenter crew turned out to be a strike against me with the carpenter foreman, a nasty old German with a heavy accent that didn't appreciate my discovery that his crews were taking shortcuts. That and the fact that I had later flattened all four tires on my truck after running over hidden debris left in the roadway by the carpenters.... Silkie wasn't happy but correctly placed the blame on the carpenter foreman.
 
The carpentry crew had the only two vehicles that were capable of vertical lifting. I had no animosity with them because my Grandfather was a carpenter and I'd gone on jobs with him since I was six years old. These were forklifts on steroids, called "Rangers", they were articulated critters on huge tires, capable of extending their forks three stories up and one story down and 20 ft forward. They were used primarily to lift materials to the two-story houses and all the roofs. Roof trusses came in on flatbed trucks, bundled in groups, banded by steel straps. Once the trusses were off-loaded by the Rangers, the carpenters would cut the steel straps with tin snips so that they could position the trusses off the forks when they were lifted up high. The razor sharp steel banding straps were thrown into the unpaved street, and would always land edge-up. The Rangers and other big-tired vehicles would slightly cut their tires on these buggers, but trucks like mine....and the building inspector's vehicles would be sitting on flats after running over these straps.
 
That was just before I sunk my truck. It'd rained for three days straight and all the crews were called off the jobsite which had turned into a muddy quagmire. The ground was still muddy when we were called back. I was delivering finish materials to the houses. I tried backing in to the second house, but it was in a low area and water covered the front yard and what eventually become the driveway. Backing in wasn't an option, so I started as far back across the unpaved street as I could and gunned the truck toward the garage. After a messy offload I put the truck in reverse, hoping to back out through the ruts I'd made coming in. Without the extra weight of the fixtures, the truck had a mind of it's own taking a kind of a corkscrew pattern. It decided to head toward a bunch of plywood sheets that had been laid on the muddy ground so workers could move around without getting mired in the muddy goo.
 
What neither the truck or I realized was that the plywood also covered an eight foot deep by twenty foot wide flooded pit that the sewer guys had to abandon days before because of the rains. That's what led up to my sinking of the truck and narrowly escaping death .... or, perhaps the truck attempted to commit suicide. Either way, way we went down stern first, the engine exhaust blowing death bubbles in the "Evil Lake of Doom".
 
My only views were of the sky through the windshield, the rapidly rising land-turned-murky-water through the side widows and the muddy/watery grave rushing toward me through the rear view mirrors. The water was only a few inches from running into the cab through the window when it dawned on me to evacuate my truck cab and swim for shore. My mind conjured up the likelihood of crocodiles, water moccasins, piranha, sharks and Libby, the Loch Lisle Monster lying in wait in the dark waters of this sea that was a mix of water and muddy goo.
 
I began scrambling out the driver's side window when I heard this booming voice with a definite Deutch inflection: "Nein, Nein... Stay mit da truck! Ve vill get you aus, aber, you may have to drive!". It was the carpenter foreman, yelling to me and talking on the walkie-talkie radio he used to communicate with his crews. One of the Rangers was racing down the roadway toward me. I climbed back into the cab and waited for the calvary to arrive.
 
Just a few weeks before we had another rainy period on the jobsite. I was unloading material just two houses away when a cement truck pulled in and sank to his frame in the mud. The driver had left his engine running and the barrel turning. A Caterpillar D-9 was doing some grading across the road. The cement driver ran over and to ask the D-9 engineer to haul him out. My truck had been stuck so often that I knew all the turnapull and Cat operators on the site... they'd graciously haul me out of all sorts of places that my truck decided to get stuck. The D-9 operator was and old friend, and I wandered down to the stuck cement hauler and the approaching D-9. I got close enough to hear the conversation between the cement dude and the D-9 driver. The D-9 operator said he'd haul out the cement dude if the cement dude would dump his load... the cement guy said no-way and insisted on being hauled out fully loaded. Figuring that the gathered crowd would support him if there should be an inquiry, the D-9 operator cabled up to the sinking cement truck and pulled it out to the roadway. That's when everybody realized that the back two axles and springs and drive shaft were still back in the mud.
 
With those memories in mind, I realized that any attempts to extract my truck horizontally from this pit would just tear it apart. As I slithered back into the cab I realized that I was putting my fate and that of my truck in the hands of the man who considered himself my arch enemy. The Ranger arrived and positioned itself to one side of my truck. The Ranger operator proceeded cautiously but quickly. He dropped his forks into the murk of my personal hell hole. gently extending his forks as if they were extensions of his own fingers, he probed until he felt assured that they were beneath the frame of the truck. Gently, he began lifting the truck until it was clear of the water. To this day I remain amazed that he somehow got those forks positioned so they hooked the frame fore and aft of the transfer case, missing the drive shafts altogether!
 
When the truck and I were just a few feet above our deadly pit, the Ranger driver backed up to more solid muck. The carpenter foreman began yelling into his radio. The Ranger driver was "encouraged" to raise his forks to their upper limit. That's how I found myself in the cab of my truck, suspended over 20 feet over terra-mucko, riding on the forks high in the air, lurching as the Ranger charged it's way through the muck and over the curb was amplified by my suspended position. Eventually I was deposited safely in the middle of the street, amidst the gufaws of other crews.
 
I finally graduated Bradley University with a Bachelor's degree in Electrical Engineering. I figured my truckin days were over. I was wrong... So very wrong!
 

 
Until later.....DKHT

July 11, 2007  The Credit Racket ~ Boycott Chase
 
I've spent a few weeks setting up a new blog for this site, but a situation recently caused me to write a whole new warning to those of you who use bp/Chase/Visa credit cards.
 
Back when I first graduated college, I fortunately obtained a job with Westinghouse Electric Service Corp. Chicago division as a Field Engineer. This job would require a lot of driving from Southern Wisconsin, Northern Illinois through Northern Indiana and Southern Michigan.
 
I'd been advised to establish credit, and that is and was sound advice. A family friend ran the local Standard station and supplied me with a credit application. I filled that out, submitted it, waited a few weeks, and found my first credit card in the mail.
 
That was back in 1969.
 
For the past 38 years, in spite of the variations of names and ownerships of this gas company and it's credit services, I have faithfully used their products, charged them and faithfully paid every single month for all those years, never with an outstanding balance.
 
Back in the mid 1990's, British Petroleum (bp) bought out most of the Amoco (formerly Standard Oil) chain, and reissued cardmembers with new British Petroleum cards, using Chase Bank USA as card issuer. Chase Bank USA began a letter campaign to encourage me to upgrade to the Chase Visa card. Benefits included cash back rewards, and I was driving about 65 miles every day, so I went for the offer. They sent my card without having to fill out an application. That was 12 years ago. I've used that card all over the US of A and never missed a payment nor made a late payment. The same goes for my other cards, which may explain why my credit score is in the excellent range.
 
That's why I was amazed to receive a bp/Chase/Visa bill in the mail saying that I'd missed a payment for $55.00 worth of charges. But the real kicker was the $39.00 LATE FEE!
 
I typically make all payments through my bank's online EFT (Electronic Funds Transfer) feature out of my checking account. I quickly jumped online (with dialup, I suppose "jumped" is too strong a statement). I ultimately got into my secure bank site and checked out my accounts and transactions. Sure enough, the original payment for $55.00 had been scheduled, but for some reason had not been sent. Jumping offline, I cleared the phone line and called Chase's Customer Service number (although what I encountered was far from "service"). The young gal that took my call took the necessary security information. I proceeded to tell her my tale of woe. I stated that I would issue an immediate EFT for the $55.00... it was only a few days late (even 'though my new bill wasn't due until the end of the month) if she would consider dropping the late fee. She said she couldn't. I asked to speak to a supervisor.
 
I digress briefly from my story to make the following observation which is the result of years of experience. Companies tend to place individuals with absolutely no people skills, a poor attitude and a superior demeanor in these so-called supervisor jobs. And if you're unlucky enough to reach a female supervisor, you can be certain she's on permanent PMS. You gotta wonder if these yank your chain, just because they can!
 
The supervisor sounded like an even younger gal that the first one I spoke to. She listened to my story, and replied with an emphatic "NO" when I asked if she'd consider dropping the late charges. I pleaded with her that a $39.00 LATE FEE seemed a bit excessive. I asked her to look up my credit history which would show that I was indeed a GOOD GUY and that this was an isolated accident. I knew she had a computer terminal because I could vaguely hear the distinctive music from Pac Man in the phone receiver..
 
Again, I got an emphatic "NO". Then I was treated to a lecture by some gal at least 35 years my junior who probably doesn't even have credit. She instructed me that her company had not received payment by the expected date and therefore were well within their rights to demand an extra $39.00 LATE FEE because that was what I agreed to when I accepted the card. My mind was racing....how could I have missed the " I agree to letting CHASE screw me, rape me, take a pound of flesh, my first-born and treat me like an asshole" clause in all that fine print? She went on to tell me that an adverse report on my credit would be issued to the three credit agencies in three or four weeks. Push the knife in and give it a few extra twists.
 
Needless to say, I cancelled my account. I issued an EFT for the statement amounts, including the pound of flesh. I will not do business with any company affiliated with Chase Bank USA NA. It occured to me that the big loser is British Petroleum (bp) and all the small businesses that sell under their banner. Chase can afford to be smug and demanding, but bp has lost my business forever. It's unfortunate because I enjoy being recognized at the local bp station and buy gas, car washes, and commodities in their store. Never again. It's the principle that matters. Maybe if bp was aware of the customer relations presented on it's behalf by Chase Bank USA NA they'd have second thoughts about that affiliation.
 
Don't believe me? Checkout this site.
 

 
Until later.....DKHT