Hero

Much of my childhood and youth has slipped into a void unless something sparks an elusive memory. Several weeks ago I had a real treat that triggered a series of recollections. I had the pleasure of being with my brother-in-law in his sanctuary- his ever fascinating renovated barn. What a treat!
There is a new gangly, skittish, stray kitten and a few new gadgets. Most of all I enjoy all the “stuff” that he has categorized and accumulated. I think he has captured every baby food jar that ever made its way into Ulster County. They are now spotlessly cleaned and full of every conceivable goody that any handyman (or wanna-be) could desire. Nuts, bolts, fittings, and things I can’t describe. I feel like I’ve been taken into a secret treasure trove with the chests of jewels and pieces of eight. You see he has been my “go-to” guy for serious mechanical issues for years and I still feel like I’m in the presence of hidden genius.
My thoughts went back to my youth. My grandfather was a master machinist with many of those same kinds of jars and lots of formerly mayonnaise-sized jars too. Somehow both he and my brother-in-law managed to neatly store everything at their beck and call without my perpetual messy “system.” Not only could they find everything, but they also could find just the thing to fix everything know to man. (I suspect alien spaceships, too!) My grandfather actually used part of a lawn mower for my original soap box derby racer.
I passed newspapers as a kid and made it a point to navigate back home from my route through the alleys of my hometown. It was often after supper (dinner to many today) and many gents puffing their pipes retreated to their workbench havens in their garage for some favorite project. There were resurrected lawnmowers, fly-tying jigs, sport memorabilia, gardening projects, wood working masterpieces, ham radio equipment, and restored jalopies. The doors were often invitingly open and I ventured in cautiously to learn more.
I still remember the house number 912. That was the place on Main Street where I first heard the crackling phenomenon of short wave radio. The clapboard old home and garage hadn’t been painted forever. There were stacks of manuals and magazines piled everywhere which left a unique musty smell. It was owned by an older gent with lots of grey hair coming out of his ears and who was a bit eccentric to say the least. It was in that jumble of vacuum tubes and rheostats under arrays of antennas on 912 Main Street that I learned about WWL, Voice of America, the BBC, and far off Radio Moscow. Ultimately, I became Novice Ham radio operator KN3ZZH and developed a dream of electronics in the U.S. Air Force because of these seeds planted in me.
Today, we only use the term “hero” when connected with spectacular or life threatening events to which many kids can’t fully relate. I suspect the truth is that anyone willing to share and invest a bit of time can be a “hero” to a generation who has settled for second choices of video games and such. Give it a try. Share your life and invest in someone’s future.