Working with the same group of guys for an extended time period, you can't help but to get to know them. Even if they don't really want to.
From 1980 to 1997 I worked for the Watkins-Johnson company, as a machinist in thier Gaithersburg CEI division. It was a great job, and I would have retired from there but for my job going off to Mexico. Clean shop, new machines every five years, a great bunch of guys to work with.
And then there was Andy Balconos.
I noticed him right off, a slight built taciturn old man, who really did not want to talk with you. The boss gave him his job folders, and Andy would go about his buisness while minding his buisness. He ran the table saw and band saw. I only found out much later that he was not a machinist, but was a janitor that had put in for a machine operator job many years before. Rumor had it, he was there before the building was built, taking care of the plot of land. The boss kept him on because he had known Andy when he (the boss) was a kid, and Andy kept him out of trouble while the boy waited for his dad to get off work. When Andy was getting on in years, the boss got him a job as a saw operator.
By the time I got there in 1980, Andy had been there a very long time. In fact he'd homesteaded the saw section. It was there, I learned that Andy was a closet knife knut.
I was working the lathe section one day, and I had a good view of the saw section. I'd see old Andy cut some plexiglass or delrin parts blanks, and then sit at his table and take out a small pocket knife and slowly cut off the burr from the saw cut parts. He'd open the the small pen blade on a little serpintine jack, and use the blade as a scraper to de-burr. Sometimes, if there was a bigger melted burr, he'd open the main blade and with great care, shave off the offending material. He kept his knives sharp, and had a broken off piece of a Norton India stone on his bench, and he'd stroke the blade once in a while.
It was a few days before I realized he was using different knives. One day, I'd see a yellow handle, the next it would appear to be either pearl or cracked ice looking scales. Then on yet another day, I'd spy dark brown handles. Soon I was sure there was another knife knut in the shop. Most of the other men thought me a bit strange, with my obsession for knives, but I could see old Andy had many of his own.
The problem was, would he talk? He was not a talker if you know what I mean.
One day at lunch, I used a Buck stockman to cut an apple. I had sat down at the table right across from Andy, and I saw him glance over. He was using a cracked ice serpintine Jack about 3 and some inches. The next day I sat in the same place, and used a yellow handle sodbuster. I saw Andy glance over while he was peeling an orange with a yellow handle knife that had a Colonial look to it.
We kept this up for a while, and I was curious to see if he'd say anything. I was also curious to see how long we could go without repeating our knife selection before the other guy. I'd trot out a different knife each day, and so would Andy.
Being younger, my patience was not as long as the old hand, and I broke first.
"Okay, so how many have ya got?" I asked.
"How many what?" Andy asked.
Like I said, not real talkitive.
By and by, I got him to open up a bit. His English was that Baltimore/Dundalk accent you get from the blue collar area of the docks by the bay. He was a first generation Czech immigrant who grew up working the docks of Dundalk. He told me how early on he had learned the value of a sharp knife. By middle age, the dock work was too heavy on him, and he got a job as a janitor with W-J, and had been there ever since. He loved the serpintine two blade jack pattern, and bought a new one every once in a while. I asked him how long that had been going on.
"Oh, since about the 50's." he replied.
I did some math, and figured he'd been accumulating knives for about 30 years. He been with our company for 25 of those years. He promised he'd bring in some of them for me to see. He seemed almost relieved to be able to talk to somebody about knives, like he'd been a little embarrased by his illness. I'd been bringing a different knife in everyday, and at lunch we'd look at what the other had brung.
A few days later, Andy comes into work with his lunchbox, and a canvas haversack. I was used to seeing his lunch box, but the canvas bag seemed to weight heavy on his shoulder. Andy was in his late 60's, and was a wiry compact guy. He shurgged off the bag and held it out to me. When I went to take it, I was shocked at the weight. it was full of knives.
I don't know how many pocket knives he had in there. A hundred? More? On morning 15 minute break, lunch hour, afternoon break, I got to look at a small portion. They were all two blade jacks, mostly serpintine.
There were Schrades, Colonial, Robeson, Camillus, Imperial, Case, Hammer Brand, Western, and ones unmarked exept for Solingen Germany stamped on the tang. Handle materials ranged from plastic in lots of colors, celuloid in cracked ice, rainbow hues, brown jigged plastic, saw cut delrin, crimped on metal, and some real bone and a few stag. It was mind boggling. They were all users.
"Uh, How do you figure what one to use on any given day?" I asked him.
"Oh, I just open one of the cigar boxes I have them in, shuffle my hand around a bit and grab one. " he said.
I thought about that for a while.
"How many cigar boxes ya got? " I asked.
"I don't know. Maybe 7 or 8."
It took a few years, but as I got to know Andy, he finally invited me up fishing. He lived not too far from a shut down pier where he said was good fishing. One sunny Saturday morning I took him up on it.
Dawn found us driving the short way from his Baltimore row house to the pier, in his old VW bus. Parking at the pier he opened the side door and handed me two folding lawn chairs, a small cooler, my rod and my tackle box. He picked up his rod and closed the van. I felt a tiny bit like a pack mule.
But it was worth it later, watching the old man zip open large fish with a very sharp pocket knife. Andy didn't believe in sharpening his knives with anything but a brown Norton fine india stone. He liked that feathery edge that seemed to grab whatever was being cut. Watching his blade glide right through a good size bluefish, I wasn't going to argue with him.
One day I asked him why the small jacks.
"I never had alot of money, ya know. It seemed like raising a couple kids on a dockworker sallery ain't real flush, know what I mean? " he said. "But everyday I used a knife for something. Real handy thing to have. But I buy knives that don't cost an arm and a leg, and sometimes I buy a new one when I see one in a store even though I don't really need another one. It makes me feel good. Five bucks here, a couple dollars there, ya know? I like the serpintine jack because I like it. No reason, I just like it. Maybe it's kind of nuts, but who cares. I like all the different handles they have. And they mostly seem to be good carbon steel, not that stainless steel stuff. Simple carbon steel, cuts good, don't cost alot, and I can collect different ones. Can't beat that with a marlin spike. Know what I mean? besides, if I gotta collect somethin, it may as well be somethin I can use, ya know?"
By the early 1990's old Andy was retired. I saw him once in a while, and he was taking it easy fishing alot on the pier by his rowhouse, watching the ships come and go from Baltimore harbor. He seemed very happy with his hook in the water, a few cold ones in the little cooler besides his folding chair, and a small serpintine jack in hand stroking it gently on a broken off piece of Norton fine india stone.
I can think of alot worse ways to spent retirement time.
From 1980 to 1997 I worked for the Watkins-Johnson company, as a machinist in thier Gaithersburg CEI division. It was a great job, and I would have retired from there but for my job going off to Mexico. Clean shop, new machines every five years, a great bunch of guys to work with.
And then there was Andy Balconos.
I noticed him right off, a slight built taciturn old man, who really did not want to talk with you. The boss gave him his job folders, and Andy would go about his buisness while minding his buisness. He ran the table saw and band saw. I only found out much later that he was not a machinist, but was a janitor that had put in for a machine operator job many years before. Rumor had it, he was there before the building was built, taking care of the plot of land. The boss kept him on because he had known Andy when he (the boss) was a kid, and Andy kept him out of trouble while the boy waited for his dad to get off work. When Andy was getting on in years, the boss got him a job as a saw operator.
By the time I got there in 1980, Andy had been there a very long time. In fact he'd homesteaded the saw section. It was there, I learned that Andy was a closet knife knut.
I was working the lathe section one day, and I had a good view of the saw section. I'd see old Andy cut some plexiglass or delrin parts blanks, and then sit at his table and take out a small pocket knife and slowly cut off the burr from the saw cut parts. He'd open the the small pen blade on a little serpintine jack, and use the blade as a scraper to de-burr. Sometimes, if there was a bigger melted burr, he'd open the main blade and with great care, shave off the offending material. He kept his knives sharp, and had a broken off piece of a Norton India stone on his bench, and he'd stroke the blade once in a while.
It was a few days before I realized he was using different knives. One day, I'd see a yellow handle, the next it would appear to be either pearl or cracked ice looking scales. Then on yet another day, I'd spy dark brown handles. Soon I was sure there was another knife knut in the shop. Most of the other men thought me a bit strange, with my obsession for knives, but I could see old Andy had many of his own.
The problem was, would he talk? He was not a talker if you know what I mean.
One day at lunch, I used a Buck stockman to cut an apple. I had sat down at the table right across from Andy, and I saw him glance over. He was using a cracked ice serpintine Jack about 3 and some inches. The next day I sat in the same place, and used a yellow handle sodbuster. I saw Andy glance over while he was peeling an orange with a yellow handle knife that had a Colonial look to it.
We kept this up for a while, and I was curious to see if he'd say anything. I was also curious to see how long we could go without repeating our knife selection before the other guy. I'd trot out a different knife each day, and so would Andy.
Being younger, my patience was not as long as the old hand, and I broke first.
"Okay, so how many have ya got?" I asked.
"How many what?" Andy asked.
Like I said, not real talkitive.
By and by, I got him to open up a bit. His English was that Baltimore/Dundalk accent you get from the blue collar area of the docks by the bay. He was a first generation Czech immigrant who grew up working the docks of Dundalk. He told me how early on he had learned the value of a sharp knife. By middle age, the dock work was too heavy on him, and he got a job as a janitor with W-J, and had been there ever since. He loved the serpintine two blade jack pattern, and bought a new one every once in a while. I asked him how long that had been going on.
"Oh, since about the 50's." he replied.
I did some math, and figured he'd been accumulating knives for about 30 years. He been with our company for 25 of those years. He promised he'd bring in some of them for me to see. He seemed almost relieved to be able to talk to somebody about knives, like he'd been a little embarrased by his illness. I'd been bringing a different knife in everyday, and at lunch we'd look at what the other had brung.
A few days later, Andy comes into work with his lunchbox, and a canvas haversack. I was used to seeing his lunch box, but the canvas bag seemed to weight heavy on his shoulder. Andy was in his late 60's, and was a wiry compact guy. He shurgged off the bag and held it out to me. When I went to take it, I was shocked at the weight. it was full of knives.
I don't know how many pocket knives he had in there. A hundred? More? On morning 15 minute break, lunch hour, afternoon break, I got to look at a small portion. They were all two blade jacks, mostly serpintine.
There were Schrades, Colonial, Robeson, Camillus, Imperial, Case, Hammer Brand, Western, and ones unmarked exept for Solingen Germany stamped on the tang. Handle materials ranged from plastic in lots of colors, celuloid in cracked ice, rainbow hues, brown jigged plastic, saw cut delrin, crimped on metal, and some real bone and a few stag. It was mind boggling. They were all users.
"Uh, How do you figure what one to use on any given day?" I asked him.
"Oh, I just open one of the cigar boxes I have them in, shuffle my hand around a bit and grab one. " he said.
I thought about that for a while.
"How many cigar boxes ya got? " I asked.
"I don't know. Maybe 7 or 8."
It took a few years, but as I got to know Andy, he finally invited me up fishing. He lived not too far from a shut down pier where he said was good fishing. One sunny Saturday morning I took him up on it.
Dawn found us driving the short way from his Baltimore row house to the pier, in his old VW bus. Parking at the pier he opened the side door and handed me two folding lawn chairs, a small cooler, my rod and my tackle box. He picked up his rod and closed the van. I felt a tiny bit like a pack mule.
But it was worth it later, watching the old man zip open large fish with a very sharp pocket knife. Andy didn't believe in sharpening his knives with anything but a brown Norton fine india stone. He liked that feathery edge that seemed to grab whatever was being cut. Watching his blade glide right through a good size bluefish, I wasn't going to argue with him.
One day I asked him why the small jacks.
"I never had alot of money, ya know. It seemed like raising a couple kids on a dockworker sallery ain't real flush, know what I mean? " he said. "But everyday I used a knife for something. Real handy thing to have. But I buy knives that don't cost an arm and a leg, and sometimes I buy a new one when I see one in a store even though I don't really need another one. It makes me feel good. Five bucks here, a couple dollars there, ya know? I like the serpintine jack because I like it. No reason, I just like it. Maybe it's kind of nuts, but who cares. I like all the different handles they have. And they mostly seem to be good carbon steel, not that stainless steel stuff. Simple carbon steel, cuts good, don't cost alot, and I can collect different ones. Can't beat that with a marlin spike. Know what I mean? besides, if I gotta collect somethin, it may as well be somethin I can use, ya know?"
By the early 1990's old Andy was retired. I saw him once in a while, and he was taking it easy fishing alot on the pier by his rowhouse, watching the ships come and go from Baltimore harbor. He seemed very happy with his hook in the water, a few cold ones in the little cooler besides his folding chair, and a small serpintine jack in hand stroking it gently on a broken off piece of Norton fine india stone.
I can think of alot worse ways to spent retirement time.
