Bear

(Told at the big tacky Marietta Diner where the perky little waitress asked us if we were out without our wives and we said yes. I made up Leroy's name.)

Stinker and Leroy went to the Bear Place outside Kings Mountain (the place with the monument and the bear out front).

The man said, "The bear died."

Stinker said , "I'll go get you another bear."

He and Leroy got in Stinker's white Cadillac convertible and went to this place in the mountains near Tow River where Stinker knew they had bears.

(It was probably the place where I went with Bill and Loretta and Mimi in 1960 in my father's white 57 Chevrolet. I have a picture of a bear drinking a Coke. Then we went to the cabin and Mimi lay down and got lipstick on a pillow and wouldn't let me near her. Mimi's father ran the Stice Shoals dam.)

The man told Stinker, "This bear will be all right so long as you give him Cokes. He wants Cokes."

Stinker said, "OK".

They got in the Cadillac convertible. Stinker and Leroy sat up front and the bear sat in the back drinking his Coke. (There might have been somebody else along sitting in the back to hold the Coke for the bear.)

Things went all right until they ran out of Coke. (This bear was a sugar fiend. There was another bear who liked beer and was a drunk.)

With his first swipe, the bear tore a hole in the top of the Cadillac. Stinker and Leroy ran out and the bear finished tearing up the inside of the car.

I don't know what happened. Maybe the bear ran off. I don't know if Stinker carried a gun but it would have been in the glove compartment. Bob thinks the story is probably true, that is father saw the Cadillac, how it got messed up by the bear.

Introduction

It won’t be long before the Inventor’s ideas start to change the world, probably just after this book comes out.

The Inventions

The Vibrational Electric Generator (VEG) will change energy production. GE found it when Elana Dorchester, a summer intern hired to review Google’s Project 10^100 contest for overlooked ideas came across the VEG entry and the supporting YouTube video. By the time this book is published there should VEG transducers all over the world. (Elana is now a lead engineer on the VEGs project.) We’ll be getting electricity from swaying trees, shaking roads, undulating water, bouncing bridges – the up and down movement of automotive suspension systems. Instead of turning blades, wind will vibrate electrically conductive chords which in the presence of VEG transducers will generate electricity (no more mangled birds). Electricity production will become ubiquitous, a cottage industry. Anything that vibrates (or that can cause vibration) will be a natural resource. “Wasted” energy will be reclaimed.

The Tetra Triangular Building System (TTBS) will probably be next, although it might be Planes Without Wings (PWOW). It depends on how fast TATA (the Indian company that is developing these ideas) moves.

TTBS will change housing. The system replaces rectilinear building elements (bricks, blocks) with triangular components that form both roofs and walls. Unskilled labor can assemble dwellings in days from mass produced TTBS modules. The appearance of a TTBS house can be a as varied as a house from bricks. Depending on the market, modules can contain just minimal electrics (or not even that) or complete HVAC elements. In regions of high vibrational potential, TTBS structures can be packaged with a VEG. (TATA is aware of GE’s work and there have been rumors of collaboration.)

PWOW might revolutionize transportation, maybe even space flight. It is the most radical of all the inventions. It should not work. The Inventor did not think it would, but could think of no reason why it wouldn’t . According to sources in TATA R&D, he was right (or wrong depending on which of his assumptions he actually believed). Whereas he was too lazy and mechanically unskilled (or maybe too afraid of what he would find) to build a prototype, TATA investigators have constructed working models of planes that actually fly without visible wings. Boxes (and various fanciful shapes – e.g., representations of Shiva and Buddha) have hovered in labs with no apparent support. There are even unconfirmed stories of some sealed models “flying” in vacuum chambers, which the Inventor definitely believed was impossible. If this true, it means that the staple of science fiction, the space ship with no visible means of support, is about to become a reality.

The Theory of ULOM

Prompted by association with the Control Theory Group in the 1980’s (a precursor to the Perceptual Control Theory group), the Inventor wrote a paper called Universal Law of Mind (ULOM). In this paper, he explains how minds work – not just the minds of people, but animals, machines, even God (who in terms of ULOM is a “meta entity” that might or might not be self-aware).

Ignored for years, this paper and the ULOM it described are now discussed in cybernetic and philosophical circles. The Cybernetic Research Labs in Bangalore has developed a new generation of thinking machines based on algorithms which express the rules of ULOM. There is even talk (probably fanciful) of a Pulitzer.

Following is the Inventor’s introduction to ULOM:

The Universal Law of Mind (ULOM) describes mental events. Because it makes a testable statement, it is scientific.

The ULOM offers these premises:

• Mental events are physical events.
• Mental events are performed by mental atoms. Borrowing from Perceptual Control Theory, a single atom compares perceptions to goals and makes changes in the environment to get the two to match. Mental atoms are joined to create mental molecules. Different kinds of mental atoms create different kinds of mental molecules which create different kinds of minds.
• Mental atoms work the same way for all types of minds. This includes the minds of humans and non-humans, living and non-living things, physically diffuse and physically coherent entities, God, and Dog (which, for a dyslexic, is the same thing).
• Mental atoms create islands of order in the normal flow of entropy.
• Mental atoms are about information.
• Mental atoms are information processors and Turing Machines. .
• The self is an interior artifact created by a special “I” atom.
• The "I" atom arises out of conflict as an agent of intention and free will.

The ULOM is reductionist, mechanistic and dehumanizing:

• Reductionist - because complex mental systems are reduced to collections of elementary mental events.
• Mechanistic - because the minds of living and non-living devices are said to obey the same physical laws.
• Dehumanizing – see above.
• The ULOM is also poetic. Although capable of being described in scientific terms, the true significance of the physical events which make up minds is not the physical events, but what they represent. Testable theories can be devised to describe mental events, but not their symbolic meaning. The observer would have to enjoy the same status with respect to the tested mind as the owner of the mind.
• The ULOM does not recognize the term “artificial intelligence”. To the ULOM, it is all the same.

This Book

Before he disappeared on a snow-covered dirt road going up the mountain to Burkes Garden Virginia, the Inventor had written a wealth of material – blog articles, stories, reminiscences, impressions, fiction, non-fiction (sometimes it was difficult to tell which was which). In addition to the textbooks he co-authored with Claud Hunter in the 1980’s, he self-published several memoir books and one book of fiction (mostly).

My book “The Inventor’s Life and Times – A Grand Guy Who Would Change the World” is a collection of the Inventor’s own writing. He explains himself (or doesn’t) in his own words.

Deciding what to include and in what order has been a challenge. Naturally I have included his descriptions of his inventions – even though they are typically less about the inventions and more about him. In many cases I relied on Allie, his granddaughter, who though still a child had definite opinions about the content– telling me to “put that in, leave that out”. Much of what she said makes sense. Her mother Yancie gave me permission to use and when necessary edit the copyrighted material (although most of the Inventor’s writing was tossed carelessly into the public domain - still available on Google - who never gets rid of anything). The ULOM paper is included in its entirety.

Except for names, his words appear pretty much as they were written. For reasons that are not clear even to me I refer to the subject of this biography as the Inventor. Perhaps I think he would like it, think it was grand (which he so desperately wanted to be). When use of that sobriquet becomes too awkward or odd (for instance in third person dialog that he has authored) I use the name “Tommy”. Also if he has used the name of a living person in a way that might be offensive (or get me in trouble) I have come up with other names. (Of course by the time this book is out, some of those living people will have entered what the Inventor referred to as the realm of the “conveniently dead”. )

As for me, I have decided to adopt the pseudonym “Ennui Pidawee” for this book. It is the name the Inventor assumed in his own book “The Life and Times of Professor Ennui Pidawee.” (Readers can find an explanation in his book.)

I should also note that I am splitting royalties for my “Life and Times…” book with the estate. The Inventor’s “Life and Times of Professor Ennui Pidawee” book didn’t make any money. And the rest of his work was given away, not because he was a philanthropist but because he simply didn’t believe it was worth anything.

Chapter 1... Florida Story - Brigadoon

Although he wrote several pieces about a girl named HT and the actor George Hamilton, the Inventor was probably thinking more about the play than the people when he did this. He once remarked that Burkes Garden (where he would disappear) reminded him of Brigadoon.

George and Brian performed the lead roles in the Palm Beach High production of Brigadoon. George played the Gene Kelly character; Brian the Van Johnson role.

The Inventor and HT watched from the back of the auditorium. The Inventor idly rested his leg against her leg. She snorted and giggled as George and Brian emoted and sang and danced around in tartan tights. She muttered, “Can you believe that.”

The Inventor said, “Umhm.” He was afraid somebody would object to HT’s manner.

Afterward they rode in his family’s faded green 1950 Ford to Pyewackets, the new coffee shop in an alley just off Okeechobee Blouevard. HT had discovered the place. They had been here once before, sitting in a corner beneath a cat silhouette cut from black construction paper, writing poetry on napkins.

The Inventor had scrawled…

Heap high the horse shit Harry

The hounds of hell are howling

Dig deep the dung dump darling

Hell’s angel’s come unbidden

Fling far the fireside feces

Disgorge domestic do do

Heap high the horse shit Harry

The hounds of hell are howling

Looking at his effort, HT had asked him if it was love poem for her.

He held her hand and said, “Sure”

Tonight, except for the willowy boy who served their stale coffee, they were the only ones in the place.

The Inventor tried to explain his reaction to Brigadoon. “Of course it is silly. But the idea of finding a magical place, outside of time – well that’s appealing. Don’t you think?”

HT lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and blew smoke at him. A piece of tobacco fell on the front of her black turtleneck sweater. The Inventor said, “Let me” and reached over to brush it off. She grabbed his wrist, held it. “Careful, big boy.”

“Trying to be helpful.”

She put his hand a table. “Yeah. Anyway, maybe at one time something like Brigadoon was OK, if horribly hokey. But not any more. There are more important things going on.”

“Are you still going to Puerto Rico this summer to work in that home?”

“Yes I am.”

“What does your mother say?”

“She’s got nothing to do with it.”

At that moment the door opened and the sound of traffic on Okeechobee could be heard. George from the play walked in. Although he was dressed now in regular clothes there was still some makeup on his face. HT who knew everybody yelled, “You look pretty George. Come over, join us.”

Eyed by the willowy boy, he made his way between the empty tables. He said, “Hi HT. I’m not surprised that you know about this place.” Nodding at the Inventor, George said, “Hello Tommy.”

George knew him because the school paper had run a piece in which the resemblance between George and the actor Tony Perkins and the Inventor and James Dean was noted.

“Hello George.”

HT said, “What are you doing by yourself?”

“Some other members of the cast will be here in a minute.”

“Nobody wanted to ride in your Kaiser Darrin?”

George had a pleasant, non-pretentious laugh. “I guess not. Probably afraid it would quit.” He looked at the Inventor, “You were there in front of the school the last time it wouldn’t start weren’t you?”

The Inventor nodded, “Yeah, I helped try to get it started.” Before anyone had a chance to say anything else, the Inventor added, “HT and I were talking. She says Brigadoon is silly, not relevant today. I say maybe – but it is also magical. What do you think?”

George frowned. “Not relevant? That’s a bit harsh. I was in it. That’s relevant to me.” Then he smiled ruefully, “Of course it is terribly silly.”

He looked at the Inventor. “But maybe it was an escape for you.”

Chapter 2... 30th High School Reunion

The Inventor and Harriet drove across Shelby from their little house on Gold Street to the Cleveland County Country Club for his 30^th high school reunion. This is what he wrote. He also wrote about his 40^th and 50^th reunions.

It was the fall of 1987. The Inventor was 48; Harriet was 47.

He sometimes seemed old to himself.

In the winter going to work in Charlotte he had chest pains that he could no longer ignore and he came back home. She drove him to the hospital while he chain smoked knowing that one way or another he would quit. Doctor Gold did an angioplasty to open up two blocked arteries and he did quit smoking. That weekend he had stood with other post-operative patients in the vanishingly long hall of the coronary unit of Carolinas Medical, everybody with arms crossed over vulnerable chests. He tried to be empathetic, sympathetic – but all he felt was his own discomfort and fear. (Was it hell or heaven at the other end of the hall – or no place?)

They rode in “Big Guy”, the electric blue Land Cruiser. (Vehicles that she liked got names.)

He was surprised that she was going. Normally she hated this kind of thing. But they did look good. Since the procedure he had lost 40 pounds and he walked 30 miles a week. She was always striking. She never seemed old.

In high school she dyed her hair platinum blond, cut it short, and wore a black windbreaker with the collar turned up. She walked across campus , without speaking, without looking at anybody.

Once somebody accidentally pushed her and she fell down the concrete stairwell at the end of the school. He did not know whether he saw it because he lived in West Palm Beach one year but he had an image of her blond head bathed in a crown of blood as she left without telling anybody walking several blocks downtown to her father’s business where they took her to the hospital to get stitches.

Several times when she was walking home in the rain bold guys stopped and asked her if she wanted a ride. One was a dark saturnine fellow who drove a black 50 Mercury coupe, like the one James Dean had in Rebel Without A Cause. She secretly liked the dark guy’s looks and got into the car with him, sitting in the corner, not saying anything.

The Inventor looked like James Dean, which attracted a number of girls and perhaps a few boys.

Jon Faye asked him to go with her on a picnic to North Palm Beach. Her mother packed a basket and he drove the old Ford. No one else was around. He thought Jon Faye was cute in her one piece swim suit but he couldn’t think of anything to say and ended up saying bizarre things which is what he tended to do under such circumstances. He might have told her about how he no longer believed in God and how he wanted to run guns to Castro who was at that time still in the Cuban hills. She seemed disappointed and they ended up staring across sand scattered with seaweed like clumps of tangled olive drab hair.

This was the same area where he had come with friends the night of the high school junior senior party when he had been chased by a band of marauding lower classmen. He had run through the jungle not feeling the tugging leaves and vines. He jumped a 10 foot drainage ditch which his pursuers had been afraid to cross. It was a fine moment.

It was about 7:00 when they got to the country club. They parked in the lower lot and walked up to the front door. A man was getting out of a white Lincoln Towne Car parked nearby. The man had a full blond toupee and wore a lime green jacket. The Inventor wondered if it was a classmate but he didn’t like the guy’s standoffish manner and decided not to speak. A professional looking sign mounted on an easel in the entrance announced that the 30^th reunion of the Shelby High class of 1957 was being held in the ballroom to the right.

Harriet smiled a little and didn’t say anything. But she seemed alert, aware of the place and of him, ready to stick an elbow in his side if he did something outrageous.

They walked down a long empty hall. He had been in the country club only once before, when a girl named Frankie had asked him to a party. He didn’t remember anything about that night 31 years before except that he had missed the turn into the property and driven across a corner of the lawn. Also his friend Larry as a joke had hidden in the back seat, leaving a note to be found when Tommy and Frankie came back out. Other friends had followed, picking Larry up after the dating couple had gone inside.

Harriet walked with long easy strides like a model.

They found the ball room. A woman gave them name tags, his with a picture from 30 years ago. (Actually it was 31 years ago. Although he had attended Shelby High for two years, he had graduated – just barely – from Palm Beach High in West Palm Beach. But since he had lived in Shelby most of the following years it was decided that he should celebrate reunions with the class from Shelby High.)

People gathered in small groups. Grinning like a crazy man he greeted people that he knew. If left to his own devices he would have moved around the room, like a politician (or mortician) on the make. He would have done this until became aware of himself then he would have gone to a corner or he would have left. However, when he started these social forays Harriet stayed put so he remained with her hiding in the corner where he would have ended up anyway.

But, other people were making the circuit so they got to see everyone anyway.

(looking down at a name tag and picture)

Hello, You’re Tommy. You look good.”

“I’ve been sick but I am better now.”

“What was wrong with you?”

“I had a coronary blockage. They did an angioplasty.”

“Wow. Harriet you are as beautiful as always.”

“Thanks.”

“What do you do now?”

“I work for the Department of Transportation.”

“What do you do Tommy?”

“I write technical books.”

“Ah.”

Bill and Loretta asked the Inventor and Harriet to join them at the long table in the dining room. They were old friends, getting together three or four times a year, usually to eat out. They were among the few people that Harriet felt comfortable with.

Harriet had not yet entered her vegetarian period so she selected ham which she loved, (even after becoming a vegetarian she still talked about bacon, ham and sausage). The Inventor ordered roast beef, the other choice available for the twenty five dollar check he had written to the SHS 1957 Reunion Committee. Everybody got small whole potatoes, green beans, and rolls.

As was his custom, especially when he was nervous Tommy gobbled his fare. He was unaware of eating. He could have picked up the roast beef with his hands and would not have known it. Harriet barely touched her food, even the ham. She elbowed the Inventor in his side, saying “Slow down.”

He laughed and did as she instructed.

Throughout the dinner people were up and about visiting other tables, chatting.

Four members of the class of 1957 had become security operatives, one for the CIA, one for the Army, one for the Navy and one for the US congress. All stopped by to say hello. He could have been one of them.

Eddie asked, “What are you doing these days?”

“I write technical books.”

Eddie laughed, “Well somebody has got to do it.”

After a while things got weird for the Inventor. He became aware of his own performance, grinning, laughing. He felt that others could see through his act to his uneasy core. He leaned over to Harriet, “I expect you are ready to go.”

She frowned. Actually, she was enjoying herself, sitting in safe proximity to Bill and Loretta, not having to talk just watch the people come and go. But she answered, “All right.” Given the opportunity she would always leave whether she felt like it or not.

Chapter 3... On The Way to Burkes Garden

Not long after writing this the Inventor disappeared.

Harriet died in December of 2009. Jane, Robert’s wife died in November of the same year.

They started taking trips, some lasting several weeks, some just for a few days.

They were old boys looking for diversions.

This was late September.

They were going to see the sights in the Virginia and West Virginia mountains. They drove in Bob’s Lexus SUV, coming up from Charlotte on I77, observing but not commenting on how the road abruptly rose into higher country just beyond the Virginia line. At Bland they turned south on Virginia 42 then before getting to Ceres they turned north on 623.

The road quickly became dirt and gravel. Robert set the wipers to the slowest intermittent rate as they climbed the cloud shrouded mountain. The big tires crunched and threw up pebbles which thudded against the underside of the vehicle.

Robert, who spoke with a West Texas drawl, although he had lived most of his life in North and South Carolina, said, “You liked those high meadows in the Smokies. I thought we’d go to Burkes Garden. That’s something.”

The Inventor had not asked where they were going. “You and Jane come up here?”

“Yeah but never this back way. “

“This is one of those roads?”

Robert snorted. “I expect so.”

“But you got a map, saw that the road goes all the way through?”

“Of course.”

They came to the first switchback. Their orientation changed. The mountain now loomed on the right side of the road and dropped into nothing on the left.

The Inventor laughed. “Of course. Anyway, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Chapter 4...

Burkes Garden - Other Worlds

A first-person Burkes Garden story. Probably fact that wanders into fiction. The Inventor seemed to like that. Bob, the Inventor’s travelling companion, will neither confirm nor deny that these events happened.

We talked about other worlds.

(Bob was told by a close relative who once worked in a criminal law office that two inches below the surface there is another world the rest of us don’t know anything about.)

I still think about it.

The place where they sold roasting hogs was another world.

Crossing the mountains into Burke’s Garden was like entering another world. In places the mist was so thick you could barely see the road, just hear the gravel crunch and feel the ruts, knowing that on one side the mountain loomed, unseen but felt, and on the other side the edge crumbled off into nothing. The road could have forked, gone somewhere else, and we would have not known it.

It was another world on the Appalachian Trial where I walked out to pee (knowing that I would write “I pee in the mist on the Appalachian Trial”). After a few hundred feet I could not see Bob or Big Boy (the Land Cruiser). There was just the sound of my own water splashing on the already wet ground and the whisper of wind in the trees, like the sound of old hymns. I could have gotten turned around and gone the wrong way into the wilderness.

The Burke’s Garden Café and General Store was another world.

We had crossed the last mountain and were in the valley, driving down a narrow paved road past well-kept farms. The mist had lifted but the sky was still overcast. At first the building seemed abandoned. There were no vehicles visible. But going past, lights shone from behind chintz curtains on the front windows. There was a sign. And in the parking lot on the other side, we saw an old Mercedes diesel sedan with a sooty rear bumper and a faded red Subaru Outback.

I said, “Let’s stop here and eat lunch.”

Bob said, “Sure” and turned around.

We parked beside the Subaru (it had a Vermont tag; the Mercedes was from Virginia) and walked around to the front. I pulled back an unpainted screen door. Hinges creaked. Inside the place seemed bigger than outside. That might have been because the rear was filled with cases and shelves illuminated by a few dim lights. I could not see the back wall, just those individual pools of clarity.

But it was cheery up front, six tables on one side and a counter and small grill on the other side. A couple sat at one of the tables, heads inclined toward each other talking in low voices. They seemed middle aged. He was balding. She had short blond hair, suggesting a recent bout with chemotherapy. They were dressed in clothes that might have come from LL Bean, but not this year.

A tall woman wearing jeans and a baggy blue sweater stood at the grill, facing away from us. Her black hair was fluffy and streaked with gray. There were holes in the elbows of her sweater. Her jeans were snug but not tight. The left back pocket was frayed. When the screen shut she spoke over her shoulder, “Sit anywhere you like. I’ll be over in a minute.” She had high cheekbones like an Indian or a Russian. Her eyes were green. She wiped her face with the back of her hand.

Bob and I took the other table by the front window. Down the road to the left was an old white frame church. A rock wall bordered a large graveyard. Tombstones gathered on the hill like curious children.

Bob nodded toward the people at the adjoining table. “Good morning folks.”

The man glanced up; his lean face breaking into smile. “Morning.”

The woman nodded and smiled but didn’t say anything. Her thin face was pretty; her skin was translucent.

I said, “Interesting place. Unexpected.”

The man looked around as if he was just now aware of his surroundings, “Yes it is interesting.”

The woman spoke. Her voice had a fragile bell like quality. “But not unexpected.”

The brunette woman came out from the behind the counter. She placed plates in front of the couple and leaned over and patted the thin woman on the shoulder, her hand lingering like a caress. Then, walking over to our table, she pointed to a chalk board on the wall. “Gentlemen, my name is Grace. That’s what we have for lunch today. Drinks are tea, homemade cider, lemonade, coffee. Do you need a minute?”

We glanced at the board.

I said, “I see something. Let me try the scrapple sandwich. And I’ll have tea.”

The woman laughed, a throaty, rich sound. “Do you know what scrapple is?”

“Like North Carolina livermush, right?”

“You do know. Ours is home grown, put up right here in the valley. In the sandwich it’s fried with a slice of onion, cheese, mayonnaise and mustard. The bread is homemade, sliced thick.”

Bob snorted. “Thank you Grace. I’ll stick to the BLT. And I’ll have tea.”

The couple at the next table resumed their low conversation. Occasionally there was the sound of a fork striking a plate. They did not seem hungry. At one point the man reached across the table and touched the woman’s hand. I imagined that it must be like silk or parchment. She patted his hand on top of her hand.

Paws. That’s what Harriet and I called hands.

Bob and I talked about this and that. About the ghost town of Thurmond where we would go this afternoon. About Beckley where we had reservations tonight in a Hampton Inn and where tomorrow we would visit a coal mine.

In 10 minutes or so Grace brought our food. I was right. Scrapple was like livermush, but not quite as rich. Bob said his BLT was good.

Leaving our table Grace disappeared into the back of the store. She walked like a ballet dancer or an Indian. The couple stared into the shadows. In a few minutes Grace came back out. Looking at the thin woman, but speaking to both of them, she said, “Would you like to look around?”

Before the man could say anything the thin woman said, “Yes.”

They all walked to the back. The thin woman moved carefully, as if she might break. I heard voices then it was quiet.

Grace returned. Stopping at our table, she said, “Would you like a fried apple pie? The church ladies made them last night.”

Chapter 5... Pidaweez - Radio Thing

Starts the first-person series which the Inventor called Pidawee Projects. In this story he tries to explain why he was drawn to projects and inventions (ultimately to grandeur). He also refers to a little girl named Genie. She shows up in various stories under various names.

We lived in Baltimore, in a transient neighborhood of beaverboard houses, inhabited by people from all over the country, drawn by wartime jobs at the port and the Martin airplane factory. The men wore hats with wide brims and the women wore tight dresses with bold patterns and pronounced shoulders.

In addition to other memories, such as playing with Genie, the pretty little brunette who lived behind us, and getting a haircut while sitting on a board, I remember projects. Some were mine, but most were the work of others.

There was the playhouse. My father constructed it from tarpaper and slabs of scrap lumber. It was located to one side of the backyard near the garden he planted in the remains of a rotted tree.

Looking up from the child-size entrance to the playhouse I could see into the small kitchen where my mother could peer down on me. Looking out I could see other houses. Although I appreciated what my father did, I had mixed feelings about the results.

The playhouse didn’t seem quite right, like the defective toy pistol purchased on a family outing to downtown Baltimore. The pistol, molded from gray rubber, had a bent barrel. I recall standing in the kitchen, complaining, and my mother saying that she felt sorry for my future wife.

There was the wooden packing box which served as a boat. One day after the creek beside our house flooded, older boys let me join them when they floated the box across watery backyards into the stream. We went past several houses then paddled to shore before our leaking boat sunk and the creek rushed into an aqueduct under the road in front of our house. I liked the box boat fine, how it bounced on the water, and how it provided a different perspective on the familiar backyards, slipping by like moving pictures.

There was the cardboard cutout of a half-track military truck. My mother gave it to me when I was sitting on the steps behind our house. I think she got it from a cereal box. Bending down, she smiled and said something about my uncles, both of whom were in the Pacific, one in the Army and one in the Marines. I was supposed to assemble the pieces. At first, it seemed wonderful. There was the connection to my uncles and the war. And the truck itself looked good the way the tank tracks in the back balanced the wheels up front and the snout stuck out at a rakish angle. But I could not get the assembly right and became frustrated.

And there was the thing that I imagined was a radio. Of course I knew it wasn’t a radio. We had one of those in the sparsely furnished living room at the front of the house. Although we must have listened to the radio at night, perhaps even FDR’s fireside chats, all I can remember is hearing a station (I think it was country) in the middle of one long day or another and being bored.

The radio thing was an object located in the hallway, just before the kitchen door. I don’t know what it was, actually. There were some pieces sticking up and a lot of other pieces attached here and there. It might have been a crib for my sister who was born in 1943. But I saw it in a different light – at least for a moment. Knowing that none of it was real, just like the Uncle Wiggly stories read by my grandmother were not real, the assembly acquired a fictional reality.

The crib or playpen or whatever it was became the material for my story, something I would create. For a moment, I felt expansive and grand.

Chapter 6... Pidaweez - Fisher Body Contest

Second story in the Pidawee Projects series. This one describes his first real (albeit failed) project.

It was around 1951. We lived in Shelby, in the second or third house on Lee Street. The first house was where we returned just after the war, when my father was laid off from his job as a crane operator at Martin Aircraft. It (the house) had a white picket fence. The second house was where we came after spending a few years in the country living in my father’s old home place. We probably moved because the house in town had indoor plumbing. Also, we might have gotten a good deal on the rent since the second and third Lee Street houses were owned by Mr. Daniels, my father’s boss at Shelby Millwork.

I don’t remember how I learned about the Fisher Body Craftsman's Guild contest. It could have been an ad in Boy’s Life. The magazine was handed out once a month at the end of the Monday night Boy Scout meetings. (After the meetings we walked up the hill to Tillman’s Firestone to get Cokes and wait for our parents to pick us up. I always gravitated to the gun display and a double-barrel Fox shotgun. Picking it up, pulling the butt to my shoulder, swinging the barrel at imaginary targets, I was careful not to touch the metal, especially the delicate engraving. )

I could have learned about the contest from something in Popular Mechanics. My uncle usually had copies lying around. (When he lived in the duplex up the street, before his car burned and he moved back in with us in the basement of the third house, he also had girlie and detective magazines stacked on the card table beside his gun cleaning paraphernalia.)

The contest, which started in 1930 and ended in 1968, was sponsored by GM’s Fisher Body division to develop talent and promote products. Initially the competition focused on model-making skills. Competitors were required to create replicas of Napoleonic coaches, the Fisher Body trademark. In 1937, the emphasis shifted from construction to design. The contestants were invited to envision cars of the future, creating paper drawings, and clay and wooden models. The contest was a life-altering experience for some people, leading to careers in design and engineering. I don’t know what happened in 1968. Perhaps the future was no longer anticipated.

However, children are hardly ever afflicted with such ennui, even in an era of irony. They usually look forward to the future. In 1951, 12-year old boys anticipated rounded cars and rounded girls - Buick Roadmasters and Marilyn Monroe.

The car I designed for the Fisher Body Craftsman's Guild contest had the curves, but their arrangement was odd. The car’s distinguishing feature was a set of protruding headlights attached to fenders that rose up from the passenger compartment. In retrospect, the car resembled a mud skipper, the goggle-eyed fish who uses rudimentary lungs and stumpy fins to lumber between mud holes in dry seasons.

In keeping with the contest rules, I did a drawing. After that, I was supposed to build a clay model. That was how designs were done at Fisher body – first a drawing, then a clay model, then a wooden mockup.

I did not have modeling clay, but I did have access to glazing putty. At Shelby Millwork, where my father was superintendent, a man called Frolicking Fred employed large quantities of glazing putty on the windows the company built for housing projects around the Southeast. Every morning, he would dump a blob on a sheet of plywood then towel the gray matter on window sashes, sealing panes of glass in place. Although younger workers teased Fred and caused him to throw things, he was an artist with window putty, able to lay a bead in a single continuous stroke. One of my jobs, working the summer of 1951 at Shelby Millwork, was helping Fred. I rolled buggies of unglazed windows into his little studio and rolled out the finished product.

So, with or without my father’s consent (I don’t remember) I took home a sheet on which a blob of glazing putty had been dumped. I can still remember carrying the sheet, liquid leaking from the edge onto my hands and clothes, across the lumber yard to our house.

As it turned out, glazing putty and modeling clay are not the same thing. Putty does not hold a shape well and when stuck in the oven to speed up drying, tends to crack. Even so, I might have pursued the contest if my car had been pretty.

Chapter 7... Pidaweez – Misunderstanding Ducted Fans

The Inventor describes the mistake that lead him to invent Planes Without Wings (PWOW).

I don’t know when I first learned about ducted fans. It could have been in the late 50’s when we were still in West Palm Beach or in early 60’s after we moved back to Shelby. The place doesn’t make any difference. There was just me draped over a chair, or maybe propped up on a slightly soiled bed, poring over an article in Popular Science or Mechanics.

The article showed a man standing on a circular platform that looked like a large drum. The platform hovered about 20 feet in the air. The man was wearing a helmet and holding on to a bar that extended up from the top of the platform. There might have been evidence of turbulence beneath, like blowing dust and debris.

I suppose it was the idea of being levitated that appealed to me and the freedom such movement implied.

Upon reading the article, I learned that the platform was called a ducted fan. This was basically a tube in which fan blades were enclosed. The blades, which were operated by a small gas engine, sucked air in from the top and blew it out the bottom.

As one who read science fiction and owned a copy of the ABC’s of Relativity, it was obvious to me that much of the lift was generated by the thrust of air being blown out below. It was like a rocket.

What I misunderstood was the purpose of the horizontal lip that went around the top of the fan. Or, maybe it was the author who got it wrong and I understood him correctly. The lip was likely just a supplemental feature for channeling air flow into the duct. The real secret of a ducted fan, I have since learned, is the close proximity of fan blade tips to the sides of the duct. This reduces the turbulence and drag that occur at the tip of an unshielded propeller. A ducted fan blows more air and generates more thrust than a propeller by itself.

Ducted fans using this principle have been employed in various Vertical Take Off and Landing (VTOL) aircraft – most still in the experimental or prototype stage. These aircraft look exotic and continue to be featured in magazines like Popular Science and Popular Mechanics. Many are touted as personal airplanes of the future – one in every garage.

My misunderstanding was that I thought the lip was there to direct air flow in a horizontal direction. Air flowing down into the fan would suck air across top of the lip. This fast moving air, would, according to Bernoulli’s Principle, which I had read about somewhere, generate upward lift.

Later, I would apply this misunderstanding to a new category of flight, resulting, ultimately, in the airplanes without wings and spaceships with no visible means of support.

Chapter 8... Pidaweez – Planes Without Wings

The Inventor describes Planes Without Wings (PWOW). This sketchy article, which appeared in Pidawee Projects, is what got TATA’s interest.

It started in 1963. I was working for Celanese Corporation in the Charlotte applications development labs. The labs were in the basement of a large, yellow-brick building located on what was then the edge of Charlotte. The Eastern Airlines reservation center was across Park Road. The Rathskeller, one of the few real bars in Charlotte at the time, occupied a basement off Montford, a mile toward town. Sometimes, I would go there when I stayed overnight in Charlotte, drinking beer that I really didn’t like, listening to conversations between the Eastern Airlines people who frequented the place.

The applications labs tested and developed products used by Celanese customers. The facility reproduced, on a small scale, all the textile manufacturing operations in which Celanese artificial fibers were likely to be processed. Later, after I came in one day wearing a tie instead of a green shirt with Tom on the front, I ran the hosiery knitting lab where stretch stockings were developed.

This was my second real job. Previously I had painted houses for my father, done six months of active duty in the Reserves, and worked as a lab technician (my first real job) for Fiber Industries, which Celanese owned with Imperial Chemical Industries, a big British firm. Before that I spent some time at NC State where I studied to become an aeronautical engineer. I occupied my last week on campus eating peanut butter sandwiches, going to movies, and trying to drink port wine.

(Imperial Chemicals Industries was featured in The Man in the White Suit in which Alec Guinness played an earnest but naive textile chemist who invented a fiber that could never get dirty.)

At Celanese, I was a technician, assisting engineers in various development projects. The first engineer I worked for was Jim Williams. He was a nice guy. He let me drive his Alfa Romeo and his old Rolls Royce. He also gave me the opportunity to call myself an inventor.

That I got a patent was not all that unusual. Everybody in the labs was potentially an inventor and a number of other technicians were awarded patents. However, in my case, getting the patent stirred dormant grandiosity, resulting eventually in planes without wings and other developments.

My work-related invention happened in 1963 during my first week at Celanese. Not sure what to do with me, Jim put me in the Yarn lab. I worked near but not with ladies who wore starched green uniforms and moved like dancers down aisles of spinning frames. Jim introduced me to the ladies, who promptly ignored me, then showed me how to run tests on the Turbo Stapler. It converted long, continuous bundles of fibers called “tow” into short individual lengths called “staple”. The tow started out about the width of a hand. The converter machine spread the bundle about three or four times wider before it was cut. The problem was that cross-fibers prevented the web from being spread uniformly. My “invention” was to simply let the tow pass over the back of my closed fists. My protruding knuckles acted as guides, causing the tow to maintain its width.

Jim had me write up my discovery and work with the machine shop to create a prototype device that replaced my knuckles with a finned rod which we attached to the converter. Then he submitted my idea to the Celanese patent department. I don’t think he believed that they would actually pursue it. I always suspected he just wanted to make me feel good – to be a part of this group of engineers and scientists. However, the patent department apparently didn’t care if an idea had any value, just that it satisfied the criteria for patentability. Their job was to get as many patents as possible for Celanese. As a result, several years later patent 3,439,385 issued with my name on it.

Although I knew this idea was worthless, I began to see myself in a different light. New York patent attorneys in expensive suits interviewed me about how my “invention” worked. They deferred to me. I was no longer a kid wearing a green work uniform with “Tom” on the front. I was an inventor. This idea might be worthless, but other ideas might not be.

The planes without wings happened because a lot of our work involved devices that used air to spread fibers which were then stuffed into pillows. It was inevitable that thinking about the uses of air reminded me of ducted fans. Also, I had a lot of spare time. When the engineers didn’t need anything, I worked on correspondence courses, read, wrote stories, and from time to time thought about grand ideas. Nobody seemed to care.

I was probably thinking about how I thought ducted fans worked – how the air flowing over the lip that goes around the top of the duct causes lift – when it struck me. All other airplanes get lift by moving wings through the air. Fixed wing planes move the entire airplane to get air flow over the wing. Helicopters move just the wing. The ducted fan, as

I misunderstood it, seemed to be moving air across a stationary lifting surface (the curved lip). Moving air instead of the wing seemed inherently more efficient. Why move the entire airplane (or the rotors in the case of a helicopter) when you could just move the air? Air is insubstantial; airplanes are big and heavy.

Lacking the theoretical knowledge, I never determined how much energy it would take to move enough air to lift a craft. I expect it might have ended up like my work-related idea to use a hot-air jet for tufting carpets. One of the engineers speculated that a full-scale machine would use all the steam generating capacity of the local power plant.

I attempted to build a model using a motor from a small-scale electric train, but got sleepy trying to find a small squirrel-cage fan to blow air across a lifting surface. And lifting plywood sheets with the air hoses from our lab didn’t really prove anything.

However, I did pursue the idea in a conceptual fashion. I drew pictures of various aircraft that embodied the principle. Most were shaped like flying saucers or Frisbees. They sucked air (in theory) through ports in the top or bottom and then blew it out the edges across narrow circular (or, annular) wings. Later versions dispensed with airfoils altogether, simply venting air across the upper surface of a body, which itself could be hidden. Like blowing air across a piece of paper, the pressure difference between the upper and lower surfaces would generate lift.

These craft looked like real flying saucers. In my 40 mile commute across country from Shelby to Charlotte, I had extended fantasies about creating full-scale models which I would demonstrate to an astonished world. I could see myself soaring over the traffic, even flying past Shelby, going over the mountains to somewhere else.

The final iteration of the idea was the spaceship. This was a fully enclosed craft that recirculated air across the lifting surface. By eliminating the need for an external source of air, I had created (on paper of course) a space craft with no visible means of propulsion.

I expect that the planes without wings might work, at least in theory. In 1970, when I was a Patent Investigator for W.R.Grace and regularly going to the Patent Office in Washington , I found three patents (3,465,988, 3,424,404, 3.451.645) which were similar to what I proposed. The cover from one of the patents is shown below.

In my own defense, I never really thought the spaceship would work. It would be like lifting yourself by your own bootstraps. Joe, my boyhood friend who actually became a rocket scientist, said he thought the idea seemed feasible – but I suspected even then that he wasn’t paying attention.