It's raining here in J'ville, It's Christmas Day, "She who must be obeyed" is in Vegas visiting her daughther, so I thought I'd check a couple of forums I frequent and stumbled across this thread on The Jockey Journal. This is a must see for all of us http://www.jockeyjournal.com/forum/showthread.php?t=63234.
I teach technical theater at a performing arts high school and have for 20 years, before that I worked as a stagehand on touring shows and even did a few years as a lighting roadie for R&R. This thread got me to thinking about the "old guys" that showed me the ropes of my profession. I hope it does the same for you. Tell the story of your "old guy" or mentor if you prefer and let them live.
I'll start. This was in Louisiana.
I put myself though the last two years of undergrad school and grad school by working every summer and holiday as a carpenter, The lead carp on the crew was an old guy called Charlie. I swear Charlie was 70 if he was a day (this was in '73) and could work anyone's ass in the ground. He was loud, foul mouthed, and skinny with white hair cut into a flat top. Always wore military surplus khakies with knife edges ironed in and long sleeved shirts to match, winter or summer didn't matter always the same. His father was a carpenter and Charley was an apprentice in the depths of the depression . Joined the Marines in 1940 and went to the 1st Marine Division, that divison went through some nasty business over the next several years, discharged in '46. Went back to making sawdust. He could do any job from forming foundations to finish trim work, a true MASTER craftsman and for some strange reason he took a liking to me. Charley would cuss me up one side and down the other, as only an exMarine can do, but he taught me some craft.
One day he asked my to come to his shop and help with some custom cabinets he contracted to build. That to me was being invited into the Taj Mahal. Charley's shop was perfectly surgically clean with every hand tool, many were his father's, in it's own custom fitted place and full of machinery he picked up over the years and restored. It was heaven. And as he showed my the craft and cussed me out, he also told the story that I told in the first paragraph. I also noticed in one corner of the shop there was a large rectangular object with a tarp over it, I was curious so I asked about it. In no uncertain terms I was told to mind my own business but eventually, several weeks later, he showed me the object. It was his own casket. Built from oak and perfectly fitted to himself, just like his tools. Charley had cancer, his wife had died quite a few years before, his son and daughter lived in California and they rarely saw each other. Well, I went back to grad school but got a call a couple of months later from one of his crew that Charley had died and could I come to the funeral. There he was in his khaki work clothes, in his handmade oak casket looking like a jack plane in one of those fitted Shaker tool boxes from the 19th century. It was just his crew, a few old carps (the hands and the way they walk give it away, but espeically the hands) and his son and daughter. I'll never forget that old son of a bitch, and I hope someday someone will say the same about me.
Terry
J'ville, Fl
I teach technical theater at a performing arts high school and have for 20 years, before that I worked as a stagehand on touring shows and even did a few years as a lighting roadie for R&R. This thread got me to thinking about the "old guys" that showed me the ropes of my profession. I hope it does the same for you. Tell the story of your "old guy" or mentor if you prefer and let them live.
I'll start. This was in Louisiana.
I put myself though the last two years of undergrad school and grad school by working every summer and holiday as a carpenter, The lead carp on the crew was an old guy called Charlie. I swear Charlie was 70 if he was a day (this was in '73) and could work anyone's ass in the ground. He was loud, foul mouthed, and skinny with white hair cut into a flat top. Always wore military surplus khakies with knife edges ironed in and long sleeved shirts to match, winter or summer didn't matter always the same. His father was a carpenter and Charley was an apprentice in the depths of the depression . Joined the Marines in 1940 and went to the 1st Marine Division, that divison went through some nasty business over the next several years, discharged in '46. Went back to making sawdust. He could do any job from forming foundations to finish trim work, a true MASTER craftsman and for some strange reason he took a liking to me. Charley would cuss me up one side and down the other, as only an exMarine can do, but he taught me some craft.
One day he asked my to come to his shop and help with some custom cabinets he contracted to build. That to me was being invited into the Taj Mahal. Charley's shop was perfectly surgically clean with every hand tool, many were his father's, in it's own custom fitted place and full of machinery he picked up over the years and restored. It was heaven. And as he showed my the craft and cussed me out, he also told the story that I told in the first paragraph. I also noticed in one corner of the shop there was a large rectangular object with a tarp over it, I was curious so I asked about it. In no uncertain terms I was told to mind my own business but eventually, several weeks later, he showed me the object. It was his own casket. Built from oak and perfectly fitted to himself, just like his tools. Charley had cancer, his wife had died quite a few years before, his son and daughter lived in California and they rarely saw each other. Well, I went back to grad school but got a call a couple of months later from one of his crew that Charley had died and could I come to the funeral. There he was in his khaki work clothes, in his handmade oak casket looking like a jack plane in one of those fitted Shaker tool boxes from the 19th century. It was just his crew, a few old carps (the hands and the way they walk give it away, but espeically the hands) and his son and daughter. I'll never forget that old son of a bitch, and I hope someday someone will say the same about me.
Terry
J'ville, Fl
