Kate "McCridhe"
August 23, 2003

Bracing for the brutal attack immediately upon opening the entry doors to the air-conditioned office, I step outside into air that feels like a flannel blanket just removed from a boiling vat. I'm sweating as soon as the last wisps of cool whither from my clothes. My lungs feel heavy with the hot, humid air, and I wonder if this is far different than the sensation of drowning.

Squinting up against the white-hot sun, I see cumulous clouds, dusty gray, and mantled in silver, towering in the hazy blue, Mercurial skies of August. Intimidating as they look, I have to wonder about their sincerity.

Though I've managed to come in to work early enough to park in what little shade is available, I know the worst of the affront is on the other end of the parking lot.

Igor (a 21-year-old Escort wagon), looks as miserable as any mount would in this typical August heat. I wouldn't be surprised to see the back wiper swish and a rear wheel stamp impatiently at the biting flies. Is the antenna laying back a little further than normal, in bored and uncomfortable irritability?

I shake the imaginings from my head, and squint my eyes tighter against the sweat that is already encroaching on my eyelids. My advance on Igor is slow, as much from the ambient sluggishness as from dread, and I see the door handle, as chipped as the chrome is, glinting menacingly. I consider the notion of packing oven mitts in my gear, as I gingerly lift the latch and turn my face away. I roll down the driver's side window and squeeze in behind the steering wheel, then lean over to roll down the passenger side window. There's little improvement, my skin still feels prickles like standing too close to an open flame.

Igor chuckles irritably to life as I bump the key, and lurches backward jerkily with the ailments of an aged transmission, and whines huffily forward out of the parking lot. I sigh about the 45-minute commute home into the next state, and wish that the Olds didn't have this mystery ailment that the mechanics can't find. At least, while not having the "character" and seeming precarious endurance that Igor has, it has air-conditioning!

I turn left (my flat land navigational skills says north, but the sun is in the wrong position) at the one light in town (Is that the new version of a one horse town? A one light town?), and head for home.

The heat has affected the volatile oils of the flora, and I smell the wild herbs in the ditches, pastures, creek beds and woods along the way. Predominant is the smell of Sweet Grass, and it takes the edge off the heat just a little bit. Once in a while there's a pungent herb I recognize the smell, but the only thing that comes to mind is the smell on my hands when weeding the garden or is it one of those marketed for repelling fleas and ticks? I have a vague image in my mind what the plant looks like, but I'm in commuter mode, the attempt to recall the name would be futile. I have curves and blind hills to contend with, and flogging Igor, a car more suited for short missions in town, to the grocery store, than long, daily commutes in hill country.

About a quarter of the way home, there is a sudden drop in the temperature, and the white summer light is dimmed just as quickly. Perhaps those cumulous clouds weren't lying after all. I glance up to see low hanging, gunmetal gray clouds, and brace myself for the other face of August.

Topping a hill, I see leaves and litter flying about wildly from a clearing, and plunge into the fray (Igor needs the speed he gains down hill to help advance up the next hill). The wind roars indignantly through the windows, rocking and bouncing Igor, chuckles my chin and tweaks my cheeks - mocking the fact that I'm no longer a young woman. I straighten my sunglasses back onto my nose and grip the wheel tighter for the battle.

Between curves, gusts and hilltops, I keep glancing at the sky. That was a sudden temperature change, and I'm back in tornado country, after all (it was a long established habit that I never lost while living in New England). None the less, for all the bluster, not a drop of much needed rain falls on Igor all the way home. Oh, I know it has fallen in the area. I can see it. I can smell it. But nary a drop of the blessed stuff falls on me.

I pass the service station where the Olds has been camped for the last two weeks, and see that it has been moved to the back of the lot. I frown and whip in to the parking lot. That is either a good sign, or a very bad sign.

I wait for the proprietor to finish business with another customer, and smile at the bucolic joking about some friend of his sister's neighbor. The fellow behind the desk glances up at me, I hadn't seen him before, but I saw the glance of one of the mechanics that I had talked to before.

This didn't bode well.

The one writing the check makes his good-byes and dashes off like he's in a hurry. No, he wasn't aware of me, particularly, other than a crinkled smile and an acknowledging nod that I automatically answered in kind.

The proprietor sighs and looks at me, excuses himself with an explanation that he needs to send one of the fellows out for a part, and answer the call of nature. I nod and he's still talking as he sidles out of the office.

I look up at the clouds through the mostly obscured window. No drops on the window. There are swirls of rain that won't make it to the ground. Tree limbs are rocking back and forth like those women from the Middle East that I've seen on TV, mourning their dead after some terrorist suicide bomber attack.

The proprietor returns, looking much relieved, and returns to his seat behind the desk. "What can I do for you?"

I'm almost a little surprised, having once again gotten used to the way news travels around here. "Well, I was curious what the story is with that Olds you've been working on for the last couple weeks. I see it's parked in the back now."

There was a slight flicker of terror on his face, then he proceeded to tell me what I already suspected. ~Sigh~ The short of it is, they just couldn't figure it out.

He reiterated the agreement that he and my husband had made over the car. If he couldn't fix it, he'd only charge for an hour of his time, a price fair and equitable for this part of the country (a bargain back in New England). He said that there were over five hours into working on the car, and several ordered parts that he'd need to return now, some of them very expensive. (I was somewhat relieved, in some cases, that he didn't fix it.)

I joked through my disappointment and annoyance (Igor just doesn't like this working life), about that Olds costing me the most I'd ever spent on the purchase of a car ($1800) and also costing the most in maintenance. The fellow agreed, saying he'd noticed that there were a lot of new parts on the vehicle. I mentioned that if he knows of anyone that would be interested in the vehicle for parting it out (I've noticed there are a lot of that particular vintage and make around these parts), I'd be sure happy if they'd offer a little better than the junk yard would. Just the new tank and fuel system alone, they'd be getting a bargain.

The fellow raised his eyebrows and considered that, politely. Pretty much, the last thing he had to say was "Don't leave it here too long."

And with that, I flogged Igor the last mile home.

My husband was sitting on the front stoop with a strange smirk as I drove up. I parked and walked up to him and said my greetings.

He unfolded his arms and shot me with a squirt gun in each hand. I was only surprised enough to open my arms out wide and exult "Oh more! Mmmorrre!" His answer was a rumbled giggle and my thorough drenching before he handed me one of the squirt guns for which to defend myself with.

I'd tell him about the mortalities later.

Evening Smoke
I took a picture of my husband. The only way I could get him to agree was to assure him that the end result would show him as a shadow figure.
I lengthened his beard digitally, and manipulated the cuff of the sleeve so that his leather trench coat would look like wizardly robes. The Pipe is a Brebia "Lecturn" churchwarden. The raptor is a graphic from MicroSoft Word. The back ground was produced on Adobe Photo Deluxe 1.0, a program that I got for freebies with my first scanner.

So, basically what I am doing, testing out this uploading feature...

When I interviewed for a position at Kansas City Power & Light, there were five people interviewing me all at the same time. Each were heads of their own department, and each had their own agenda.
There were questions getting fired at me from all directions. I was rapidly loosing confidence that I would get this job... I was getting rattled and gun shy.
And then one of the five asked me if I did programing. I instantly thought of the instance I spoke of in Part 1, and blurted out "Only under duress."
The fellow that looked like Peter Lori started laughing gleefully, and the lady who asked me the question started questioning further.
"Oh, I've done it. I'm not very civilized about it, just downright unpleasant. Besides, I have to think it's more economical to let the people that know what their doing do it."
And then I had to explane the details of the job I described in Part 1.
Needless to say, I wasn't hired into the IT department.
Instead the Peter Lori look alike became my favorite boss ever. Vince headed up the mapping department.
KCP&L was just starting the quantum leap of going from ink on linen drafting to AMFM (Automated Mapping and Facilities Management... an intelligent mapping system).
I was supposed to be one of the first people to work on the new AMFM system... but a twist of fate and there was some accident, which made updating all the distribution maps a top priority. Anybody who could hold a pen was called to duty.
Anyrate, in the process of putting out that fire, Vince discovered that I was a fair hand drafter and decided to put his more experienced personel, the guys who'd been working there since the sixties, in AMFM seats and have me keeping up with the parts of the grid that had not been mapped into the system yet.
In other words, I was the last hand drafter for KCP&L.
And then the day came when the system was mostly on AMFM, and Vince called me to his office.
He had a programing task, and he told me to work with one of the programers over on the IT side to get it done. One of our former mappers was working over in programing, so Vince wanted me to work with him.
I walked over to talk to Mark, and was told that there was a three week waiting list.
From what I was told, I needed that program yesterday.
Mark handed me a book and said "Work on it yourself." with a sneer.
I took the book, walked back over to Vince, relayed the events... and ended up with the programing task myself.
Oh goody.
Well. I had the book. I didn't look at the cover, I just turned to the index and started poking and proding this program together to get the job done.
That took me about a week, got all the maps out that Vince wanted, and once the job was done I forgot about it.
A couple weeks later I turned away from my computer screen to find Mark looming over me.
He started babbling, something about what program did I want done.
It took me a bit to figure out what he was talking about, then I said "Oh. That's done and gone two weeks ago."
Mark looked like I'd slapped him in the face with a dead fish. "It worked?"
"Ya." I suddenly remembered I had his book, and handed it to him.
"Can I have a copy of the program? We need to check for viruses."
I had to remember what I called it, then copied it onto a disk for him. "Well, all I know is that it did the job."
Then he asked "You know C++?"
I blinked a couple of times, then said "Oh. Is that the language I was using?"
"How can you work in a program an not know what it's called?" he demanded, quite irate.
I didn't know what his problem was, "I just went straight to the index, found what I needed, picked and hammered until I made it work."
Mark was rolling his eyes at me when he took the disk from me. He did not seem amuzed by this.
Actually, I didn't much see the humor in it until I was telling my husband about it later that evening...

The first time I was called upon to write a script (or series of scripts as it turned out), I was working for Brungardt, Honomichl and Co (Contracting through Aerotek).
I was plugging along, doing red-lines, minding my own business when Matt Brungardt walked up, leaned on my desk and asked me if I knew programing.
My response was pretty much the noise of the dumbfounded. "Uh?"
He expounded, going into why the company needed someone to do some programing, which didn't explain much because I was still on the thought: "Why on Earth would anyone even vaguely think of *me* for programing?" I stalled for some time and asked "Doesn't so-and-so do that job?"
There was something about my being familiar with certain procedures and equipment that he wasn't familiar with. I still had some trepidation to express, but Matt seemed determined to convince me that I was exactly the person to do the job... even to the point of giving me carte blanche to get it done.
Well... o.k. (Blink blink shake head) Pay's the same, I suppose.
Matt knocked his knuckles on my desk and said "That's the spirit!", and handed me a few examples of the program he wanted me to write in.
Well... those were MicroStation commands. I might be able to do this...
Then I was shown the rest of the material I was to be working with.
A stack of around 300 mylar sheets with photogrametric images of the route that AT&T was laying fiber optic cable through Oregon.
My mission, now that I had been convinced to take it, was to match the drawings on the computers up with the images on the mylar.
(Oh, so that's why that pen plotter was specially ordered and set up next to my desk...)
You see, this was in early 1996 and computers weren't all that powerful, as compared to today. Mixing vector and rastor files were generally hazardous combinations. Guearanteed to cause drafter/designers to use unprofessional language and make a lot of noise, with good reason I might add. MicroStation wasn't even all that civil towards Windows yet, let alone mixing with raster files!
Well... it was a crazy project. I poked and investigated the operation of that pen plotter as I have never done before, until I knew how to align the mylar on the plotter precisely. I picked and prodded at that series of scripts until they worked as needed. The process, while frustrating and nit-picking, and had me downright uncivilized at times, was intriguing to the point of having me in an obsessive state. Then the mylar images had to be aligned with the drawings on the light table, and tick marks had to be penciled on the mylar, which were used to align the image up on the pen plotter so the drawing would land in the right place.
Still being in the development stage of this, I just put tick marks on the first 10 mylars before I did a full test of the system I'd come up with for doing this project.
It worked, other than the mylar tended to slip off the vacum holes and the end of the drawing would smudge because the mylar was violently flapping. Pretty much had to wash the ink off the mylar and start again on every third spin through the plotter, dry it, redraw the tick marks on the light table, and send it through again.
Very monotonous work, but it demanded full attention and was time consuming.
A few days later, I was called in to have a meeting with the Brungardt brothers and Honomichl. They announced that they were going to hire someone else and I was to train that person to do this crazy job. I was needed back on MicroStation (Sinking feeling of dread. How was I going to tell them that I needed someone with obsessive compulsive tendancies to do this job? No one else would have the patience for such weirdness...).
I lucked out when they asked if I knew anyone that needed a job.
As a matter of fact I did.
Just the fellow for it.
Spent much of his career as a senior chemical research technician.
My husband.
My husband, John, & I have worked together several times. I was confidant in his professionalism and pride in his work. His background would make him more patient for attention to detail and monotonous, repetitive work.
(This was, however, the first time either one of us would "out rank" the other...)
The bosses had some caution about the idea, since we already had a married couple causing all sorts of havoc around the office, but agreed.
Then the next part of the job: a time chart (I wished I'd known about Gant charts at that time...). So, I cobbled up an estimation that was based mostly on when they wanted the project done.
I gave three weeks for training. There was a lot of detail, some advanced MicroStation (and John had never worked CAD before), and I was figuring it would take that long to get the routine ironed out.
By 9:00 of the morning that John started the job, he started to get a little ansy, and asked why I was being so redundant.
I got a little irritated. REDUNDANT?!? "O.k., show me what you've figured out." (Implied name calling in tone of voice, I admit.)
I got a little more irritated when he showed me that he had the process figured out, at least enough to start production.
Talk about an ego flare up!
Then I remembered that I had three weeks scheduled for his training.
Ergo: I was three weeks ahead of schedule!
I knew a few of those sheets had some special case problems, but I also knew he'd come asking questions.
Three weeks ahead of schedule on the first day!!! Woo Hoo!!!
By the end of the day he figured out how to stop the mylar from slipping past the vacume holes on the plotter, and that translated into some huge time savings in the process.
Over all, we got those sheets plotted, copied, colated, bound, approved and shipped a full six weeks ahead of schedule.
He made me look good to my bosses, and made my bosses look good to AT&T.

Given the chance, would I work with my husband again?
Yoooou Betcha!

I've been working on my artistic side. This is a board where I show off some of my philistine art and my drivel writings:
http://kate-mccridhe.deviantart.com/

My pseudonym is Kate McCridhe.
That was a joke because a friend in college used to declare "Mother Mo Cridhe!" a lot. Usually in response to something I did. I always wondered who this Mother McKree was and what she did to earn such a reputation.
Then, one day, researching obscure things I've forgotten in the deepest level of the library at Washington University in Saint Louis, I found a Gaelic/English dictionary.
Upon finding this oath, I discovered why I'd been accused of having an evil laugh.

It echoed down there...