Graduate School, Family building and Career Launch.
We arrived in Bridgeport in late July or early August, and settled in with Joyce’s Mom and Dad. Fortunately they had the room. After a few days, Joyce and I made a trip up to Middlebury VT. Although I had pre-registered for the fall, we hadn’t secured living accommodations, and I was aiming to secure one of the married student residences for the year. When we went to apply, we were told there were some available, but veterans were excluded. Man, I blew my stack. Whoever heard of such a thing, especially since I was a previous student interrupted involuntarily by the blooming war? Didn’t matter, rules were rules and I was referred to the dean, who verified all that they told me. More heated than I probably should have been, I pointed out to him that after all the tuition I have paid over the past three years, this was ridiculous, and my feelings for future benevolence for this institution have been reduced to about zero. He hemmed and hawed a bit and pointed out it was the policy of the college, and not his and please don’t take it personally. Fortunately, I ran into my old geography professor, Roland Illick, and after hearing my story and shaking his head, said he and his wife had just built a house on the top of Chipman Hill, and they had a basement room, bathroom and shower I would be welcome to for the year. Thank heavens it was at the top of the hill, given the old Chevy we had (needed a hill in the morning to get it started). While the old car was exactly that, it simply had to last another year or so. I was fortunate to have the GI Bill to pay my college expenses. So it worked out pretty well. Joyce and the kids were staying with her folks, who typically made us feel like we were doing them a favor for staying there.
When I moved into my Chipman Hill accommodations, Dr. Illick introduced me to another couple occupying a little grander space in the same house. It turns out I knew Hal Meeks from Choate. Didn’t know Millie his wife, or Smog, their calico cat. Hal’s dad was a teacher and soccer coach at Choate and Hal was a couple of years behind me. He was a Geography major, which explained living in the Illick home while he pursued a Doctor’s Degree in that discipline. With Roland as his degree advisor, he was writing his thesis on the Crown Point Military Road the British built through this part of Vermont. While walking it out he ran into an old stand of white pine on a rough piece of land in the back corner of a farm. Here to his amazement, he found not one but several of those old, straight and tall Pine’s with the “King’s mark” on them. The mark was in the form of a tree shaped by a stencil on the back of an ax. When a suitable tree was found, it was embossed by striking it with the ax. The British were reserving those trees to produce masts replacements for their sailing ships. It was hard to believe the embossed trees were still prominent after 200 years. The farmer hadn’t a clue they were there.
It was nice having a room in proximity to the Meeks, especially during the fall and winter months. A meal here and there, several games of scrabble, and numerous hours of just visiting sure made the time go by, and was positive psychological enforcement. Leaving Mom and kids back in CT was no fun.
Don’t be mistaken, those first two semesters were not just games and “bull” sessions. I really paid attention to my needed curriculum and associated projects, as well as writing letters to several forestry schools (Syracuse, Yale, Michigan State, Minnesota, Maine and Florida at least). These letters went out early in the spring semester. I had some solid references: History (major), Thomas Reynolds, Geography (minor) Roland Illick (major geographical project was recreational map of the Adirondack Mountain Reserve), and Howard Wooden, Professor of Botany ( a major dendrology project was a map of donated trees on campus, including full winter identification of a variety of hardwood species included). If these were all native species, it would have been tough enough, but as you can imagine, the trees donated were highly diversified to say the least. These projects took time and the winter tree identification effort was extremely arduous. I was approached by students and faculty alike all wondering what the heck I was doing out here in sub-zero weather with clipboard and binoculars, and had I lost my blooming mind altogether. The first part of that two part question was easy, the second part (the state of my mind) I will leave for others to judge. I will say I aced the project which made a significant difference in my final grade.
After completing initial courses in world history and world geography, future courses were focused on specific regions, i.e. European, North American and Latin American history and geography, They really go well together, for as goes the land so goes the people. For a potential forester, no set of prerequisites were more important. Although individual recommendations were necessary, my greatest recommendation actually came from me: my improved grade point average during my final year (from about a 2.5 to a 3.7 on a 4 point scale). My outlook had changed dramatically. Instead of finishing the matriculation through a four year perceived path to adult life, I had a four-year opportunity to grow up, learn a lot about discipline and potential fields of endeavor, and to begin a family. Now academia did not represent a mere rite of passage, but a serious investment in my (our) future, and I intended to make the most of it. By mid-semester, I had received responses from all my applications and all but one required at least one more undergraduate course to meet their minimum requirements. The one exception was the Yale School of Forestry. I don’t know if it made a difference or not, but brother Dick was already ensconced as a full professor of Electrical Engineering, and he knew Dean George Garrett, and Dick’s wife Sela met and became good friends with the dean’s wife at a faculty wife’s get together.
With that immediate pressure off, we made it through the spring. The highlight there was Joyce and the kids came to spend almost the last half of the semester with me. The Illick’s welcomed them into their house and the fraternity brothers just doted on the kids and refused any additional payment for food for us during that time. One of the highlights of those last few weeks was our trip out to Lake Dunmore for a fraternity picnic, and romping in the water. Kids loved it. First time doing any of that kind of thing. The semester finally ended and graduation was next. We brought the kids back home, and Joyce and I returned with my mom and dad for the big event. Graduation was not a simple walk up and receive diploma, but rather a multi-day affair with several events not the least of which were oriented toward impressing potential donors (everything was scrubbed and polished). We went to a few receptions, to meet faculty etc. but dad and I decided we really didn’t need to attend the Invocation (a religious afternoon event the day before graduation). It was spring after all and it was just a beautiful crisp Vermont day. The afternoon would be better spent wetting a fly on the New Haven River, located near the Dog Team Tavern, where we were staying. As usual the fish were perfectly safe and we had a good dad and kid afternoon. Graduation the next day went off without a hitch. It was an impressive site as we all marched up the long sidewalk to Meade Chapel. What a sight on a beautiful day. With diploma in hand, we spent one last night then home to get ready for the next step of our venture, and hopefully our dream (DIII-15).
With the whole family gathered in the Edwards house, it was time to recognize the change occurring around us, especially in nomenclature. Joyce and Bob (Mom and Dad); Joyce’s folks (Gram and Pop); Bob’s folks (Mimi and Da). Providing what was to become our home base for a couple of years, Gram and Pop were great and supportive. My folks and the Morfey’s were there at the drop of the hat if needed. All that took a lot of pressure off and made our stay in the area much easier.
Now we didn’t remain permanently at Gram and Pop’s but rather, we secured “living” accommodations at Yale’s married student complex called “Armoryville”. This amounted to rows of WWII Quonset Huts, each housing two families. Let me tell you, living here was a trip (DIII-15). Bruce and Karen were happy enough, but it was a bit difficult living there. About the lay-out – just to the left of where Bruce is sitting is a door (only one door per family). This door led to a corridor that ran from the door to the end of our half of the hut. This was defined as an uninsulated piece of sheet metal. As you entered and to the left was a nice counter. This ended with an opening of several feet to a unit divider (a right angled wall that divided the unit into two equal areas, living and sleeping). Right behind the counter was a general purpose table (all meals) and next to it was a small refrigerator up against a curved outer wall. To the right of the “fridge” was a double sink beneath two windows. Next came a small 4 burner stove backed up against the unit divider. Next to it and the corridor was a small utility closet. Right across the open corridor was the relaxing part of the living quarters (chairs, couch, etc.).
Distracting from this comfort zone was a large, obnoxious (and sometimes I thought it had a mind of its own) coal-fired heater that burned regular anthracite coal. This fuel tended to cohere into large clunkers that had to be broken up and shoveled out by hand. This meant that the fire had to be put out to do it. Then started all over again. This was always the tricky part. While coal heats well and fast, it overheats even faster, and once it does it is difficult to cool it back down. This is all controllable, but the new residents move in clueless. It’s a matter of trial and error. If one pays attention in the beginning, the clunkers can be avoided as can burning up with overheating. I remember one early late fall evening coming home and there was an inversion layer of smoke hanging like a pall over the whole community, windows were wide open as was the front doors, with many heads leaning out for cool air. To me that sight was my signal that fall had finally arrived. The lesson, of course, was one doesn’t just throw some lighter fuel on coal, light and forget it. It won’t forget you. Once you learned that, they provided a good and predictable source of heat.
Back to the corridor. Proceeding on beyond the coal heater, the corridor went to the end of our unit. First on the left was the bathroom and shower. Across from that was the “master” bedroom, and down the hall, two smaller bedrooms. At the end of the corridor was a tall stand-up wardrobe. Those folks were to be our home for the next two years. Luckily, the mileage from our front door in Armoryville to Joyce’s home (or mine, for that matter) was right at 18 miles, with most of it on the Merritt Parkway. If we were being overcome by cabin fever, we could easily bail out for the weekend. In fact I remember our first Thanksgiving, Uncle Hubie and Aunt Genie Morfey showed up with an entire Thanksgiving dinner, including turkey, dressing, cranberry jelly and of course, pumpkin and apple pie. The beauty of that was they left us the leftovers.
Although the cost of graduate school was pretty much covered by the GI Bill, living costs were not. I augment my income however I could that first year, by first accepting the job of assistant janitor for the forestry school’s Sage Hall and occasionally up the hill at Marsh Hall. Now there was a “full time” janitor, but like all University non-faculty employees, he was part of a union, which one I don’t remember (nor his name). The main lesson I took away from this job was, if you are working with union employees, watch out, and especially don’t work too hard. Their work ethic is often far short of what it should be. While he spent the required time in the building, he did as little as possible, such as mopping just the center of the lobby but ignoring the rest (except for a casual mop-swap here and there). Toilets and corridors were likewise treated. One Friday afternoon, the dean approached me and pointed out the obvious, the dinginess of the main lobby, and did I suppose I could do something about it. I told him I would sure try and one thing I promised, it won’t look any worse. I came in on the weekend and scrounged around the janitor’s closet and came up with a bottle of Lysol, which was concentrated, so I had plenty to work with. Washed the whole area down first then made up a strong batch of Lysol and with a scrub brush went into all corners and along the baseboards, and then the central area. Without scrubbing, I let everything sit for about 10 minutes, and then went after it with a scrub brush. I was astonished to see the old wax roll off and the tile turned into a whole different shade of deep and rich red. Took almost a half day to do all that, and a fair level of “elbow grease” as well. I finished up by doing the faculty and student bathrooms and called it a day late Sat. afternoon, and the place really sparkled. I hoped it would still look that way Monday Morning. When I arrived that morning, I was greeted by a highly irate janitor who wanted to know who the heck I thought I was. I told him to calm down and explained the problem. He insisted I was the problem. Where did I get off making him look bad? Oh, I thought, he was steamed because I did too good a job, which meant he could not get away with his “low-key” approach to the janitor’s job. I left him still fuming and went into the main office, where the secretary (Miss Coby) said the dean would like a word with me. Oh, brother, I must have really upset the apple cart here. When I went in, the dean got up from his desk with a huge smile on his face and I was afraid he was going to hug me, but simply grabbed my hand and squeezed and pumped it demanding what on earth I did to the lobby, he hasn’t seen it sparkle like that since he came to Yale. I told him I wasn’t so warmly greeted by the janitor when I arrived this morning. He told me that he had been trying to replace this particular individual for some time, but the “powers” thought he might be exaggerating just a bit, and with a big grin, he said his boss was coming over this PM for a staff meeting and I can’t wait until he sees the lobby.
My janitorial duties those early months (fall and winter) set the stage for a very nice transition to my graduate degree. I was given other duties, got the keys to the building and the school van, where I ran occasional errands around town. By this time, Christmas and winter was behind us, and it was becoming obvious that the “mom’ was expecting once again, probably mid-summer, 1957. As we finished the spring semester, we needed to get ready for 3 months in Norfolk CT at Ted Childs’s mountain campus. Ted was a wealthy New Yorker, who was formerly the head librarian of the New York Public Library. He had a passion for the outdoors and specifically managed forestry activities. He worked with the Forestry School to set up this quite exquisite training facility. It was well equipped with a dining hall, and bunkhouses, with other utility out buildings. This is where we learned about the field activities we would be responsible for out in the real world. We had 9 students, one professor (Al Whorl) and a forest tech, to help in the teaching. Ted Childs also had a professional forester on staff full time, who chipped in as needed. First there was the terminology. Forestry land measurements were basically done in Gunter’s Chains (a distance of 66’), and acres (an area of 43,560 square ft.) One square chain (4,356’) was exactly 1/10 of an acre. The measure was ideal for area calculation (in acres, common in this country). We learned how to pace (every other step), and to determine how many paces you took to go a chain (12 paces for me, long legged guys less and short stumpy guys more).
Once we got our ground game down, we broke into four 2 man crews with the 9th guy floating from crew to crew. Our first task was to figure out where we were in the world in terms of latitude and longitude. In the middle of a large field in the center of the camp, we set up a surveyor’s level such that the noon sun reflected on the ground. Timing and measuring its movement over time established our latitude (I think). Then at night using a sextant we measured the shifting position of Polaris (North Star) to establish our longitude. On our first try, we ended up in the center of the North Sea. Needless to say we had to recalculate, and finally came pretty close to the actual.
Once we established latitude and longitude we were able to establish the magnetic declination for our particular spot. As most already know, the Earth has a magnetic north and a true north direction. All our map calculations had to be in true north, and that declination input to the compass so we would plot the map that way. I was well into all this stuff, when one day, out of a cloud of dust, Ted Child’s forester blew in, jumped out of his truck and hollered my name. When I came out, he loudly announced that my wife had just delivered a baby girl. Our camp faculty leader told me to beat it home, take care of business and be back as soon as possible, which I did.
With the communications delays, it was a couple of days (maybe 3) before I pulled into the Edwards driveway. Joyce and baby were home by then, and I heard Diane Sherman Barker before I ever saw her (as far as I know, not much has changed in that regard). For a couple of weeks she had digestive difficulties all of which were grouped into one phrase, “the Colic”. But she was a cutie and generally a happy baby (DIII-16). This all began with a hilarious beginning. During her pregnancy, Joyce was being seen by a New Haven Dr. associated with the Yale New Haven Hospital, and she had to be delivered to that hospital for the birth. Well, when she came downstairs and announced it was and she was ready, Gordy (the driver) and Bess for support, piled into the car and started up. Lou was designated to stay home with the other two kids who were then in bed. Fortunately Gordy and/or his Mom realized there was someone missing. Upon looking up they saw Joyce staggering across the lawn toting her own suitcase. With a whoop, Gordon jumped out of the car, took the suitcase and got her comfortable next to her mom. Clearly the whole family was as excited if not more than Joyce was at the whole circumstance. But they made it to Yale New Haven Hospital, brought forth a second daughter, and made it back home by the time I was informed and made it back home myself. After a few days we drove back to Armoryville and our half-Quonset, and I went back to Norfolk to finish my field work.
Besides the janitorial work, a second employment opportunity opened at the Sanford Barn, a local restaurant in Hamden CT. Also from time to time Dick had stuff for me to do at his house in North Haven. The Sanford Barn was quite an experience. The restaurant building was built on the shore of an old mill pond. From the main building was projected a beautiful deck just above the dam. This made for a wonderful place for folks to sit for a drink (or 2, 3, etc.) until their table was ready. And I will say the food was outstanding, as managed by master chef Teddy.
The Sanford Barn was also a place I continued to learn. These years were tough on Mom, with three young’uns under 5. I felt I needed to help as much as I could, and one morning I called the boss (owner) of the Sanford Barn, (Maury Purpora) and advised him I would be 3 or 4 hours late. He very nicely said he perfectly understood my position and clearly if I needed those hours, I should take them. If you choose to do that, it was clear you didn’t have the time to be working there, so don’t worry about coming in at all. My response was “I’ll be right there”. End of incident, but learning an important lesson about responsibility (which I should have learned long ago). I am sort of embarrassed to even mention it today, but it is so important to honor commitments, I feel I have to recount the incident as an important life’s lesson.
The Sanford Barn only served dinner. During the day there were constant chores to do around the property. That work was supervised by a longtime friend of the owner, a Scot’s man we will call Scotty (forgot his given name). He was an older guy who sort of took me under his wing, and we got along great (as I did with Maury Purpora for the rest of the time I was there). Now Scotty was wont to utter bits of Scottish wisdom from time to time. One afternoon he came up beside me and simply said “Civility, it costs nothing but can return great benefits”. A simple but extremely profound sentence.
During the evening, I served as bus-boy. While the waiters wanted me to do their bidding, Teddy, the chef, was my supervisor. My main job, though, was to help the waiters where I could. I was assigned to one of 3 or 4 waiters and his assigned tables. While the waiters delivered the meals, I would clear tables, refill water glasses and bring after-dinner coffee if requested. Often in this kind of job you meet all kinds of people, good, and nice, crummy and disagreeable and those in-between. The nice and crummy usually had too much to drink. On one occasion, I was replenishing water glasses, and the woman I was serving was several sheets to the wind and was falling out of her dress. I had to watch where I held the pitcher, when she just screamed that I was looking down her dress. As I indicated, the outside was at least as fascinating as the inside. But she really made a fuss, and the guys at the table tried to calm her down, and finally did by offering her another drink, and apologizing to me. Not long after that they were carrying her like a rag doll out the front door.
On a Saturday night during football season, and a night where Yale lost to Princeton by a substantial score, I was bringing coffee to a table of Princeton fans. Now there was no coffee pot or cups at the table. Those were on a sideboard. The cups were designed to nest on each other, so with a little practice one could manage 5 cups if both hands were used (4 nested in the left hand and 1 in the right). I had mastered this pretty well, but on this night as I approached the table, one of the saucers in my left hand touched a nerve in my left wrist to which the hand uncontrollably twitched, and with the 5th cup in my right hand, I was powerless to do anything but watch as one of the top cups peeled off and landed upside down in a guy’s lap. A moment of pandemonium as the guy leaped back and up in his chair (coffee was hot, of course). I carefully put down the other 4 cups, apologizing profusely. A staff person showed up and ushered the guy out to a dressing room and fit him with a nice suit, and the restaurant sent his coffee stained suit to the cleaners, who promised to have it back the next day. He was back in about 10 minutes or so, and I was still there cleaning and drying up. The other folks at the table were great. The woman seated across from him (apparently his wife), said she saw my hand shaking, and was already thinking “uh-oh” when it happened. She said please don’t let this spoil your whole night, it could have happened to anyone. “Anyway”, she said, “I have never seen him move that fast in the past 20 years” and the whole table broke up. By that time the guy was back, and he patted me on the back, and told me not to worry, most everyone has undergone such a situation one time or another. Then he asked if I was a student, which I confirmed. “Well” he said “that explains why Yale lost to Princeton so badly”. Then he gave me a $20.00 tip, and said “better luck next week”.
The above episode occurred in the fall and as we approached the Christmas Season, the place was abuzz getting everything ready for the busiest time of the year. One night as we were cleaning up, I noticed something flapping under one of the chairs. When I looked closer, it was a fifty dollar bill. Today that would be a nice find, but in 1955 it was a small fortune to a guy like me. Realizing that, I figured some poor soul dropped it, and he/she could be hurt by the loss. I took it to Teddy and said I was afraid a customer could come looking for it. He looked at me and said to take it and hold it for two weeks and if no one called it was all mine. Don’t by any means tell any of the waiters. They would all want a piece of it. Don’t treat it like any other tip, (where if I shared it would get 10% if lucky). “You found it,” he said, and it is yours if there is no claim. He pointed out to me that I would be surprised how much these guys made in tips on a typical night in an upscale (dinner only) restaurant (upwards to $1,500 per night). He told me that one of the guys worked a luncheon in town for some fancy group, and his luncheon tips ran well over $3,000, and this was in 1955 dollars. “You need it more than they do, enjoy”. Oddly enough, no one seemed to have missed it, for we got no calls.
The week before Christmas, we had the largest group of the year. They were all part of a merchant’s association in town, and practically all of them were of Jewish descent. The girl standing next to me was a receptionist at the restaurant. She was very nice and we got along just fine, being of similar age. I made the comment that here we were during the largest Christian season of celebration of the year, and the biggest party was thrown by the Jews. She laughed and said “yes, just like my mom and dad” (Ooops, didn’t even know she was Jewish). She slapped me on the back and told me not to worry, but she just couldn’t resist the jab, and we both laughed it off. She pointed out that there was no better time for the Jewish community to celebrate than Christmas when they have just fleeced the rest of us of our yearly savings for the season. In fact the Christmas season made their year, so why not party?
One more incident at the Sanford Barn is worth relating. I mentioned the lovely deck cantilevered over the mill pond. It was really a nice spot, and there lived the local wildlife, the most visible of which were the ducks. A large white adult and a string of five or six little ones paddling behind were a typical sight. Not so visible was the population of snapping turtles also inhabiting the muddier parts of the pond. I also learned that there used to be a fair skunk population around the pond. The owner decided that of all mammal wildlife, skunks had to rank right at the bottom in terms of human impressions. So to avoid unwanted sightings of these animals, he launched a successful trapping and relocation program virtually wiping them out of this particular habitat. The program was completed a few years before my time. Up to that time the pond itself was in pretty good balance. But within the past year, snapping turtle sightings were increasing.
One beautiful Saturday fall evening, when I was doing my thing out on the deck, the line of ducks came cruising by creating an idyllic picture, which prompted people to get up to look and several cameras all of a sudden appeared. All of a sudden the silence was shattered by loud squawking and flapping wings of the lead Drake. The water was churning around it and then quieted down only to be followed by a huge roiling of water that quickly turned from blue to red as the last little one was ripped apart in front of all. A huge snapping turtle had found his dinner. He couldn’t quite handle the big duck, but the little one was just right. Shrieks of despair along with the loud tinkle of drink glasses landing on the deck and more than one voice echoing the sentiment “John, I am no longer very hungry”. Within a short few minutes, the deck was empty of formerly hungry patrons. A wildlife expert was in the next week and when the history of the pond was unfolded to him, he just shook his head. So happens, the skunks caused it all. The favorite diet of the skunk is turtle eggs, and snapping eggs are a special treat. Trap the skunks, and there is no one to eat the eggs, and the population of snapping turtles burgeoned. The result: an all-out snapping turtle eradication program against remaining turtles (some of them were just huge), and the arrival one day of a small convoy of wildlife carrying vehicles that off-loaded and dispersed several families of skunks. Lesion: the complex interaction in play in the so called balance of nature, and the debacle often caused by unintended consequences. So we bid adieu to the Sanford Barn.
The fall and winter in Armoryville was rather grim, in terms of weather and living conditions in the Quonsets. The fall was not too bad since the complex was right across the street from the Yale Bowl, and football weekends were always lively with the “tailgaters” and their carrying on. But Armoryville was no place to be in the snow. Fortunately we were close enough to Bridgeport, we had a convenient place to go for Christmas. Of course we traveled to Bridgeport for Diane’s baptism, where both families just doted on our new “bundle of joy”. The one bright light was Diane, who seemed always joyful (well not always). DIII-16.
As part of our classwork, we spent much of our lab work in various forest lands owned by the University, or made available to them (Ted Childs tract in Norfolk CT was one of them and the New Haven Water Works was another with substantial timber holdings around their several reservoirs). In all, the University owned and managed some 10,888 acres on several tracts. The largest one at the time was in Union CT, near Hartford. While we spent some time there, most of our activity was spent on the lands of the water works. These outdoor labs were working labs in which we learned (and tried) to apply operational techniques such as using an ax, cross-cut saw, and chainsaw (rather new at the time). Learning to fell a tree accurately was a vital skill not easily learned. In one instance we were thinning a twenty something old plantation. No matter how we tried, each tree cut fell as far as its neighbor’s crown. Next thing we knew, most cut trees were leaning on the trees next to them, to the degree we had the feeling if we cut the wrong tree the whole forest would fall on our heads. I had just cut an 8 ” or 10” tree and upon immediate area survey decided if we could move this tree off its stump it would fall along with several trees with it. I leaned down and grabbed the base of the tree and yanked it out, yanked my back out in the process. While the maneuver was successful in felling the trees, it was also successful in felling me for a while. Part of that time was in the Yale New Haven Hospital orthopedic unit. Several weeks later I was released with a cumbersome sacroiliac brace (still have it), so I wouldn’t miss out on the spring trip to Crossett AR. Lesson-in any operational activity, the word “yank” should be dropped from the vocabulary. Since then I have had several painful episodes with the back (Some of which were actually humorous if painful) I will share as we move through this retrospective. As much as I hate to say it, the bad back is still with me at 91.
As the spring of 1958 approached, much of my effort (beyond classes and labs) was preparing for our spring camp annually held in Crossett Arkansas. The Crossett Company, (our hosts) was a large wood products company (paper and lumber products). They held many acres of prime timber producing property which became Yale’s outdoor laboratory for 3 months (March – May). From a weather standpoint, not a bad time to be away from New Haven. From a personal point of view, it couldn’t have been worse. Leaving the relatively new mom for three months in the Quonset was no picnic. Fortunately, home base was not far away, so she did have some relief. I didn’t though. It was the roughest separation so far. Back to the beginning. While the Crossett Company provided a lot of resources, including faculty, we had to bring a lot of our own stuff down in our school carry-all vehicle. Because I was a bit older than most of the students (Navy service), and my maintenance work at the school, I was selected to be the driver. One of the students was an exchange student from Iraq. Abdul Hassan was the head of the Iraqian tree nursery, and was over here to find out how we did things. He was a good guy and we really hit it off. He was my passenger on the way to Arkansas. I taught him a little about reading a U.S. Rand-McNally atlas, and we actually made it to the Crossett camp on time and with little or no difficulty (DIII-17).
As is obvious in the picture, the group was not a large one. There were 9 students, Professor Walter Myer and his assistant Bill Thompson, forest technician (and his dog, Mark, an exuberant Weimaraner. Our activities at camp somewhat mirrored what we did at the Norfolk camp, but were cast in a real day to day operation, where our results were taken seriously by Crossett forest managers (more or less). Decisions management made concerning the tracts we worked were subject to what they called the “Yale” factor. What was new was the method by which we accumulated and managed the data that were collected. We had 9 students. This allowed for four 2 man crews with one guy left over. This person was responsible for collecting all the field data acquired the day before and key punching them into “IBM ” punch cards. These cards were approximately 8” x 4” in size (just would fit into a shirt or back trouser pocket). The card had 80 columns with all but the first seven used for data recording. The key punch was so weird that as you typed in the data from a typewriter type keyboard, the proper data would be punched into the card in its designated row. That was only part of it. Once key punched, there was a verifying process where you keyed in the data into the punched card. The hole originally punched better be precisely where it should or a red light will flash. You have three chances to retype hoping it will clear. Usually it does not and the card has to be redone. It was a tedious process, and usually took all day to process one day’s work. When we had all the cards corrected we delivered them to the Crossett data processing department (don’t think that fancy phrase was coined back then). The cards were then entered into an IBM 602 Calculating Punch. This was a state of the art piece of equipment, and in 1958 IBM (International Business Machines) was the leader in automate processing. It not only punched out results, but it had an accounting function as well. The only problem, the machine functioned through a network of interconnecting wires that had to be pre-set by the operator. Just looking at the wiring board was enough to blow your mind. The Crossett guys did that. The output from the 602 was then fed into a digital line printer, and the user had sets of spreadsheets summarizing the data by major category (diameter, height, cubic feet, board feet, product class, etc.). This was all very new to us. Up to then we had only desktop electric calculators (Marchant, Monroe, Friden etc., and typewriters (if you were lucky). Massive computing machines were just appearing on the scene but in the highly classified environment of the government and military complexes.
As the capabilities increased, so did the space requirements. As the name implies, the desktop machines just required a desktop of modest size. The 602 Calculating Punch and associated printers demanded floor space, whereas the massive data requirements of the ENIAC demanded an entire floor of the Engineering Building at the University of Illinois. In 60 years of technology development, the data capacity requiring such great size as the ENIAC can fit nicely within the confines of an Apple iphone (or similar device) that will easily fit in a trouser pocket. Of course there have been fantastic advances in digital technology over this period of time, which we will touch on as appropriate throughout the remainder of this retrospective (DIII-17).
About halfway through this spring exercise, I was told I received a call from Pensacola FL. St Regis Paper Company was calling and they wanted me to return the call when I could. When I got to the office (no phones at camp), I found out it was from a guy named Bob Hyde, Manager of Forest Engineering, St. Regis Paper Co. Now I should say this was not really a surprise since I had sent letters to many potential employers from Koppers Coke, Pittsburg PA, Union Camp, Savannah GA, Bowaters Southern, Calhoun TN, and to St. Regis Paper, Jacksonville FL, just to mention a few. One of our neighbors in Armoryville was Bob Walton from Union Camp, and a classmate of mine at Crosset, Frank Watkins, was on loan from Bowaters Southern. They both were good references. The idea of forest engineering was intriguing since I would be putting to use technical skills not likely as a forest manager, mainly forest biometrics (statistics of sample design). All this was not my strong suit, but a necessary tool to round out my forestry introduction. You learn things by doing them, not reading about them, and this appeared to be an ideal opportunity regardless of what I would end up doing as a forester. I found Bob Hyde extremely easy to talk to and he was also a Yale alumnus. Dr. Myer gave me a couple of days to travel to Pensacola, interview and return. Sounds simple enough, don’t you think? As should be expected, it was not.
The closest place to catch a plane to Pensacola (or anywhere else for that matter) was Monroe LA some 50 miles south on a major U.S. highway. Bastrop LA was about halfway in-between. I made all my reservations and was to leave Crossett two days later. Bill Thompson was going to drive me to the airport. It started to rain that very night and it poured and poured and by the end of the next day 11” of rain accumulated, and high water was everywhere when we had to leave for Monroe. From Crossett to the LA border was not too bad but once entering Louisiana, Bayou Bartholomew paralleled and then crossed the highway. You wouldn’t know it that morning. A shallow but complete body of water crossed the highway from east to west and with a significant current. Bill proceeded forward and I rode shotgun keeping an eye on the row of transmission poles and making sure we were maintaining a proper distance, for they represented the edge of the right-of-way and we needed to stay out of the ditch if possible. We were traveling from north to south and the bayou was moving east to west, which was a bit mesmerizing, and it was that way almost to Bastrop, but we made it and I actually made my flight.
Nothing special about the flight, I arrived on time and took a taxi into town and the Hotel San Carlos. I was pleasantly surprised by the stunning main thoroughfare named Palafox St. with a huge wide esplanade down the middle. (DIII-18). Bob Hyde met me for breakfast the next morning and we drove some 16 miles north to the small community of Cantonment (on a current map, just north of Interstate 10 which did not exist then) and on US 29, yes the same US 29 that runs through Athens and north through South and North Carolina. You couldn’t get further north and west than that, with the Alabama border less than 5 miles west and some 30 miles north. Just to the east of the highway was a parallel railroad r/w, and beyond that some buildings and the Southern Timberlands shop. There was a railroad crossing right at the shop with a stop light. That road crossing US 29 accessed the mill and the rest of “downtown” Cantonment. Across from the shop was a house in which Bob Hyde had his office. Here he explained that the Southern Timberlands Division was composed of two departments; Land Management and Wood Supply (Procurement). Land Management involved those lands owned or controlled by St. Regis. Wood Supply was concerned with the regional wood supply owned by non-St. Regis interests (open market wood). Depending on raw material supply and costs, and weather conditions, demands for company wood were highly variable. This often caused friction between the two departments when wood supply demand ran against on-the-ground land and timber management plans.
Forest Engineering was an operating section of Land Management where it supplied support to the several field foresters. This included current inventory information to assist in developing annual cutting budgets, and a permanent network of plots from which periodic growth data were gathered providing information on growth and yield to be used in strategic (long term) planning. All this took good knowledge of statistics and sample design (not my strong points). It also involved close cooperation with the mapping and surveying section. All that gave me something to think about on my way back to Crossett.
I got back to Crossett in good shape as we began to prepare for our trip back to New Haven. About that time, I received a letter from Bowaters-Southern offering me a land management position in Iuka MS, right on the Tennessee River. Well, that sounded good, and I know my friend and classmate Frank Watkins placed a good word in for me. It must be a beautiful spot considering its geologic position, but it was also in the boondocks and pretty remote. I also had the feeling that being a forest tract manager could be a beginning and ending job, especially if you were in an obscure location and out of sight (and mind). I also had to consider the family. It didn’t take long for me to realize the St. Regis job was not only the best but actually the most ideal starting job I could possibly have. Although the job entailed extended work in a field where I was academically weak, I felt sure if I was forced to put them to work in real life situations, the logic of it all would fall into place (sampling schemes and practical economics). If I could get that under my belt then I would be ready for most jobs with St. Regis or competing companies in the Southeast. Not only that, but we would be living in a rural, but populated area. Once that sunk in, I wired Bob Hyde and informed him I was his guy, and agreed to report for work about a week after our graduation.
I don’t know if Abdul was Sunni or Shiite (didn’t know they even existed back then). Whatever he was, the other group assassinated his king, and took over the country to the point Abdul could not return and survive. That concerned him all the way back to New Haven. I didn’t see him again after we arrived home. I was told he was accepted into the forestry doctorate program and assumed he was granted asylum along the way.
In the few weeks left before graduation, we closed up “shop” in Armoryville without much remorse and moved in with Joyce’s folks (Gram and Pop) until we could take off for Pensacola. Few more weeks of class and then graduation. Don’t remember too much about it except the Morfey’s true to form, were there and we had the necessary photos taken. To meet my “start to work” day, I had to head South in a few days. We agreed that I would go by myself, get preliminary paper work done and find ourselves a place to live. Then I would return to pick her and the kids up and return. Well graduation day arrived, and my mom, Dad, Dick, Sela and the Morfey’s joined the celebration. While not as grandiose as the Middlebury exercise, it was to me more significant. By golly I was holding a document written completely in Latin with the heading “PRAESES ET SOCII UNIVERSITATIS YALENSIS” and then something about George Robinson Barker achieving honors in graduating with a degree in Forest Management and Administration (Short version: I was holding up my “Master’s Degree” in forestry). Of course, Joyce and I were ecstatic that it was over, my Mom was very proud, as were the Morfey’s, and my Dad and Dick carried an expression that said they accepted the notion the “kid” may make it after all. It was a great day and “Hallelujah” all around. With no further ado, it was time to move on South (DIII-18).
Back in 1957 the Interstate Highway system had not even been conceived. There were, however, a few parkways and turnpikes available which were welcome amongst an aging mostly two lane U.S. National highway system. I headed south through New York City, over the George Washington Bridge, and down the New Jersey Turnpike until it intersected with the Pennsylvania Turnpike. At that point I traveled west on the Pennsylvania Turnpike as far as Carlisle PA, where I turned south on US 11 to Birmingham AL. From Birmingham to Montgomery AL, I followed US 31 joining US. 29 south of that city. US 29 took me straight to Cantonment and Pensacola. It took a two day weekend to make the trip, and I checked in at the Cantonment facility first thing Monday Morning. Unlike the peaceful Sunday of my interview, this was a Monday morning and a lot of activity was going on all around. The first thing I saw was Bob Hyde (just a little guy, but feisty) jumping up and down on the hood of a well-used Jeep while waving his fists in the air and muttering unkind things about the local company shop. When he saw me he got down, laughed and said “not all around here runs well”. Apparently the shop had been working on the Jeep (an essential vehicle to have in forest inventory work) and after an extended period of time finally delivered it on the past Friday. But it didn’t come close to starting on Monday morning. He told me to go on in the office and he would join me after he had a few words with shop management (which was an apparent oxymoron).
As I entered the building I heard a lot of chatter coming from the main room, which served as a ready room for field crews. It was also where Joan the secretary was located. She kept track of time cards, and other administrative forms. As was typical of the situation, she was the one that knew everything about the operation and took proper charge of her territory. I started right off introducing myself, first to Joan to whom I presented my appropriate documentation, then to Jack White (field crew chief), Marvin Raines, his assistant, and over to one side a quiet looking tobacco chewing individual named Clinton Morgan. After the brief introductions were done, there was a brief pause, and then Clinton in a low, slow southern drawl said “well I see I now have one more person to tell me what to do ”. I thought Joan would fall out of her seat, and the whole room broke into laughter. It was really a very good ice breaker, but I felt like I was the ice standing there with a beat up briefcase without a clue what to do next, let alone respond to Clinton.
About then, Bob Hyde came in and made the proper introductions, especially the secretary so she could add me to the roster. He then showed me a small desk over on one side of the room, and announced “welcome to your new office” (followed by more laughter). Here I got a little background on the company. St. Regis Paper Co. expanded south from its original location in upper New York State (almost on the St. Lawrence River). It was named after the St. Regis Indians who dominated the area at one time. The Southern Division was the last of four divisions, and represented a geographical region with an abundance of suitable raw materials. The other three divisions were the Western Division in Tacoma WA, the Lake States Division in Rhinelander WS, and the Northeastern Division in Bucksport ME, and northern New York State.
In 1956, there were two major mill locations in the Southern Timberlands Division. The largest one was in Jacksonville FL, which was a major producer of Kraft paper. Its raw materials were located primarily east of the Chattahoochee/Apalachicola Rivers in FL and GA. The other was here in Pensacola (Cantonment) which was known for its bag plant. Its raw materials were derived west of those rivers, but east of the Mississippi River and included west FL, south AL and eastern MS. The major raw material for both mills were the several species of southern “yellow pine”, mainly longleaf, shortleaf, slash, and loblolly pine, Lesser amounts of “soft” hardwoods were also used. The company was in the process of creating a third area near Picayune Mississippi just west of the Pearl River. The Division was not only charged with supplying both mills with the basic raw materials they would need, but also responsible for securing land and timber in support of these operations. The land base was used as leverage against fluctuating wood costs on the open market. About ¾ of the mill requirements came from the open market and not company controlled land. Forest Engineering was a divisional service group charged with the task of providing the operating foresters with resource information that would help them with their strategic (long term) and tactical (yearly) plans. They were also responsible for basic Forest Research.
After that exciting historical background lecture, we were ready for some lunch. We all adjourned to the local restaurant just across the railroad tracks and facing highway 29. This would be the point of many lunches and even more cups of coffee over the next three years or so. When we got back to the office, a person I had not met greeted us all. I was introduced to Robert (Bob) Elliott, who served as Bob Hyde’s assistant in the Pensacola area. He was in preparation to take an acquisition crew to Mississippi to assess the lands of the Crosby Paint and Tung oil Co. These lands were near Picayune and Poplarville MS, with some parcels falling in Northern Louisiana, near Slidell (for those interested, these towns are located right along Interstate 59, just North of Lake Pontchartrain and New Orleans). Bob wasn’t leaving for a couple of weeks though, and he would be glad to show me around and help get me settled in. Bob was a New England native (Maine) and a graduate of that state’s flagship University. We hit it off right away.
The Elliott’s lived in West Pensacola in the community of Warrington. (Warrington is an area in west Florida bounded on the East by Pensacola city center, to the West the Alabama border, to the South, Navy Point on Pensacola Bay and the U.S Naval Air Station and to the North, US Highway 98). Bob had me over for dinner, and to meet his wife Jane. Being New Englanders, we had a lot in common and plenty to talk about. Jane, who originated just outside Boston MA, was a serious diabetic, so to their disappointment they could not have kids. She couldn’t wait for Joyce to get down here with ours. Bob said he knew of some possibilities in that neighborhood we might want to look at in the morning (getting anchored someplace was a priority).
As we mentioned earlier, the main N/S road through the center of Pensacola, is Palafox St. (Hwy US 29). It runs south right to Pensacola Bay. Just south of the San Carlos hotel, is a main intersection where the E/W Hwy 98 crosses. It is named Garden St. and from Pensacola it runs west becoming Navy Boulevard before turning south leading to the Naval Station at Navy Point. Shortly after turning south, Hwy 98 turns west toward Alabama just a few miles away. A mile or two west of town, Garden St. was joined from the south by Barrancas Ave. which ran south and then west crossing Bayou Chico and proceeding west until terminating at the juncture of Navy Boulevard. Located south of Barrancas Ave. was the Pensacola country club. At that time it was a major stop on the PGA golf circuit, which was just getting started with a rising star by the name of Arnold Palmer. Upon reaching Navy Blvd, Barrancas Ave becomes Gulf Beach Hwy. Turning south on Navy Blvd, it was but a few miles to the Main Gate of the Naval Station. About half way there, the highway crossed Sunset Ave. Turning west on this road leads to a bridge across a beautiful unnamed bayou. On the west side of the bridge was Navy Point Park which boasted of a fine beach with calm waters. A great potential resource for us. I was feeling better already and it was time to go pick up the troops from their temporary quarters in CT.
Fortunately we had not accrued too much stuff. We had Joyce’s old bed and bedroom furniture, a Morris chair and one stuffed chair donated by the Morfey’s and a few other things we could fit into a small U-Haul-it trailer. With the trailer packed to the brim, we headed south through NY City and then southwestward to our destination.
Our new home in Warrington was a small 3 bedroom single story frame house with dark brown shingle siding. Facing the house on the left was a detached single car garage set to the back of the house. Inside the garage, and right by the garage door, there was a regular door that opened to a small patio at the back of the house. At the end of that patio there was a concrete wading pool, which we never used, except for certain photo ops. (No water was ever in it). Off the living room was a small sunroom that ran the width of the house, with windows into the living room as well as to outside. It was here we placed our one major appliance, an 11 inch TV (black and white of course). It sat atop a blond wood cabinet. For the day, it was quite the thing. Joyce picked up at a sale held by the Easton CT Fire Department before we moved (DIII-19)
By late 1959 and early 1960, we had pretty well settled into our new digs in Pensacola. From the fall of 1959 to the spring of 1960 I was involved in re-measuring the permanent Continuous Forest Inventory network of 1/5th acre plots in the Escambia River bottom and establishing the same network design in the Tombigbee River bottom near McIntosh AL, some 40 miles north of Mobile (a circular 1/5 ac. plot is 53’ in radius). The winter was picked for this activity because of the dormancy of most of the vegetation, especially the hardwood component. With no leaves, the transpiration (and evaporation) rates were well down, thus the water levels in the area bottomlands were high (some placed up to our necks). We had to visit each plot in a boat, and take critical measurements of all the trees included within the plots area. This included the existing trees, taking note of those that have died (mortality) and those that have grown into the 6.0” diameter class as measured at 4.5’ from the ground. This height was considered ‘breast height”. This measurement is standard and is referred to as the “dbh” (diameter breast height). To get good measurements under high water circumstances was a bit of a challenge to say the least, but operating from an outboard motor driven Jon boat topped even that. Our access to the river was on an east-west state road that crossed the Escambia River just north of Cantonment. As with most bridges, there was a boat launching facility close by, if not under it. In this case, the entry was on the east side of the bridge, where one turned right 180 degrees and drove right to the river’s edge. There was a guy and a shack that had a bunch of boats to rent. He also managed launches and did minor repairs. He was well known (as was his wife, who was a piece of work) to all St. Regis personnel. I think he was related to one of the field staff.
While it probably wasn’t the first time we launched there, it was the first time I had an assistant (Bret Mathews) who was just starting. He was a student at Auburn where he was taking a semester off. We loaded up the boat, put the outboard in place, and I shouted for Bret to “crank her up”. Well I heard a roar, and looked around to see the engine shoot into the air and plop down with a loud hiss in about mid river and bubble out of sight. The guy running the landing almost fell into the water laughing so hard. Turns out Bret mounted the engine on the transom alright, but forgot (maybe I forgot to tell him) to screw the clamps onto the transom and screw them on tight. As a result the outboard exercised a mind of its own. With the help of the guy on shore we retrieved the old Johnson motor, but our day on the river was postponed.
While I could spend many pages recounting our adventures on the major southern waterways, just a few more tales of our season on the river will give the reader a flavor of the situation. The Escambia, Tombigbee and Pearl River basins represented many old sites of heavy logging activity (cypress, tupelo, and Atlantic White cedar primarily). As a result many abandoned and half submerged boat landing and off-loading facilities were still in place, though in many cases out of sight just beneath water level. When on the river is not the time for “hot dogging”. It is slow and deliberate with one person riding in the bow looking out for obstructions. Furthermore, the person managing the boat’s activity needs to pay attention to the range of operation with a single tank of gas (and the extra cans on board). Finally, working in a river bottom can be almost surreal at times. Everything is pretty flat and it is easy to become disoriented. The important lesion here is to always hold the compass correctly and at all costs believe it.
Our first story deals with river navigation. A mile or so north of the east-west road that led to our first launch, was a small town of Molino. There was an old cypress sawmill with piers and docking facilities, mostly falling down and in disrepair, right on the river bank. It was a good place to launch a boat which was handy since we had to visit Parker Island that dominated the center of the river and contained at least two of our CFI plots. My new friend and boss Bob Elliott had just returned from Mississippi, where we were finishing a major land acquisition which included many acres in the Pearl River bottomland. He wanted to make sure the “neophytes” were following proper procedures for “swamp” hardwood measurements. Not only that, but he was the boss and he was going to darn sure drive the boat himself. I should point out here that he was affectionately referred to as “crash” Elliott. There was no half way with Bob. It was wide open all the way, or stop. We loaded the boat with all our cruising gear and the IBM cards containing all the data from the previous measurements. We took off from the landing under full throttle, zoomed out into the river when there was a huge bang and bump almost throwing us out of the boat. Bob was looking back at the engine, while I was up front witnessing a fountain of water shooting up and all over me. I shouted to Bob that we were in the process of sinking. Over the roar of the engine, it didn’t sink in to him for a minute, then he looked forward, and shouted “let’s head for shore” to which I heartily agreed. Our approach must have been hilarious, because the three black guys fishing from the bank could hardly contain themselves. Bob was trying to save the boat, I was trying to save the data, and Bret was trying to save his life. We must have looked like the Nautilus on test dive as we slowly lowered into the river as we approached shore. The fishermen jumped in and helped us to shore, and I was still sitting with water up to my chest and trying to hold all our treasured IBM cards above water, but many were floating around well soaked, swollen and totally useless for automated processing. We didn’t reach Parker Island that day.
Poor old Bob. This was his second bad week in a row. The week before he had a couple of crews over in Mississippi on the Pearl River finishing up an acquisition cruise on a large property we were about to put under contract (for timber removal and land management). He was the boat “jockey” on that project as well. They had already put one crew on the south end of the tract and had moved up river to place a couple of crews on the north end of the tract. About mid-afternoon, he went to pick up the northern crew, which included our future boss, George Park, who retells the story with great flourish. No sooner did he pick up George’s crew and start back down river, than they ran out of gas, with no back up cans on board. It was already getting dark and boy you haven’t seen dark unless you have been where there is no light at all. Being in an engine-driven boat, there were no oars on board, so they had to use their clipboards to paddle down the river. While they knew generally where the other crew was, it was too dark to recognize any landmarks. George said they kept singing songs to keep up their courage. Finally they saw a dim light, and sure enough it was the other crew who had built a fire hoping Elliott and crew would find them. Well they did, and it turned out the southern contingent was not about to try to walk out of the bottomland in darkness. Now one of them (an urban dweller who was temporary help) said they were all sissies and he by God was getting the heck out. He wasn’t about to spend the night there. He got as far as the rim of the fire light and walked slap into a big birch tree, leaving him with a nice “mouse” on his cheek. He learned the hard way that when there is difficulty, there is safety in numbers.
Another lesson learned during those early years was to always look before speaking. In this particular situation, I was out with a group of college students we had hired temporarily for the summer months. I was teaching them about forest land and tree sampling and measuring techniques. One of the things I wanted to make sure they understood was how to handle those trees with swollen bases such as cypress and tupelo. Of course these swollen bases were referred to as “swell butts”. The group with me contained men and a few women who were just beginning to enter the profession. One of these female students was from the University of Georgia, was very bright, energetic and had (luckily) a robust sense of humor. Although she was short and a bit “dumpy”, she had no problem keeping up or performing the tasks required for the exercise. We were trudging along when I saw a tupelo to my right having a “swell butt” to die for. I walked a little further on and stopped to make sure everyone caught up. Then with great flourish I wheeled to the right and with my finger pointing, pronounced: “Now there is an almost perfect example of a swell-butt”. To my horror, there was my finger pointing straight at our little gal from Georgia who just happened to be leaning up against that very tree. Well, that brought down the house, and no one laughed any louder than she did. After everything quieted down, she quietly said: “so glad you noticed”. More laughter after that.
One final example emphasizes the notion of not wandering off by yourself and to be familiar with your instruments and surroundings. Once again summer students, but not the same bunch. We were in Mississippi in a creek bottom environment. During past logging days, an elevated railroad tram line was built to bring the logs to road side. This made a nice walkway into the woods. One of the students was from Miami FL. He was indeed an urbanite in every sense of the word. I am sure that people like this feel like real outsiders when thrown into a rural environment, and some go out of their way to convince everyone they are rough and tumble and are fitting right in with local customs. Along the tram, we found several holes made by armadillo’s, and some of the local guys were telling tales of pulling them out of the holes by their tails. The Miami guy decided that if that is what the locals do, he sure can too. Unbeknown to me, he went off on his own to search for some of these critters. When we got back to the car, this guy was nowhere to be found. We hollered and shouted, listened and got no response. It was getting late in the afternoon and I was getting a bit nervous. Some suggested we start blowing the car horn, which we did. After a few blasts, we hear a faint shout. A couple of guys went back up the tram, while we continued to blow the horn. The returning shouts got louder, and finally the crew on the tram met up with him and brought him in. In explaining what happened, the guy said when he realized he was all alone, he just had to get back to the tram and walk on out. Like I mentioned earlier, if the sun isn’t out, sense of direction can be tricky, but he had his compass, so he knew which way to go on the tram. He showed me his compass, and he had it upside down such that the direction shown was exactly 180 degrees from where he thought it was pointing. So instead of heading south toward the car, he was heading north toward Jackson. We barely got him within ear-horn shot. Unlike the “swell butt” this caper was not a bit funny. For the remaining 3 day exercise, “Miami” wouldn’t let us out of sight. He was on us like glue. He learned an important set of lessons, and that part was a bit amusing to all of us.
The more I recount incidents from that inventory activity, the more that come to mind, like the time I was standing at plot center next to a lovely babbling creek, and Bret was out locating and reporting back on the individual trees, when I heard a rustle near my feet and looked down in disbelief, such that I had to call Brent in as a witness. As the current expression goes “you can’t make this stuff up”. Crawling slowly across the terrain was a blue-black mud dauber wasp pulling a leaf with an inert spider on it. In other words, this wasp’s instinct told him a sled arrangement made transporting an irregular object over uneven terrain much easier. I don’t know where he was taking the spider, but there was plenty of mud around. But we have to move on.
After our field work was complete in early spring, 1959, I was spending a lot of time at the paper mill in the accounting offices where all these new fancy computing machines were being used. When I returned to work, Bob Hyde showed up and we went to lunch. He said that Forest Engineering was not just inventory and growth measurements, but also included a Research section regarding the superior tree program, seed orchards and genetic characteristics of the pine tree that might be profitably exploited. Pick one of the two, it’s your choice, he said. Well research always sounds good and was tempting, but I was just starting and I told him to give me a week or so to get a better feel for things and I would let him know. A week later he came by and Bob announced they just hired a researcher from North Carolina State University, Charlie Rogers, and he was taking over the Research section. That news resolved the question. I really thought I had missed a great opportunity, for in research the future is always evolving. After all, what kind of future was in cruising timber and measuring permanent growth plots? While I was disappointed, I was bound and determined to make something out of the position I was assigned.
After a couple of weeks, Bob Elliott informed me that he had enrolled me in an IBM training class being held in Atlanta the following week. Well that was exciting, my first road trip where I would have my own expense account, and not only that, but I was going to fly to Atlanta from Pensacola. That was exciting. The plane was a Douglas DC-3, made famous in WWII in flying the “hump” between Burma and China. My accommodations were made at the Heart of Atlanta Motel which was located right where I-85 and I-75 joined (although, at that time the Interstate Highway system was just getting underway as a Dwight Eisenhower (34th president, 1953-1961) initiative. The first morning of class the instructor (a rather dower and no nonsense woman) had everyone introduce themselves, what their interest in computing was and what company or organization they represent. That all went fine. The class was mostly accountants from Sears, Penney’s, Georgia Power, etc. They were all a pretty good bunch of people with whom I enjoyed interacting.
When it became my turn, I simply gave my name and noted I was a forest engineer from St. Regis Paper Co. About three more people gave their basic statistics, when the instructor interrupted and said “hold it, hold it” and looked back at me and asked me to repeat what I said, which I did, and without hesitation she asked “what the hell are you doing here?” My only reasonable response was: “All morning I have been hoping you were going to tell me”. That brought some laughter, and I went on to explain how we were trying to optimize the harvest and regeneration of the raw materials for the product the members of the class were in the process of shuffling (i.e. paper). She was rather impressed with the fact that others besides accountants and bookkeepers were interested in the technology (she was a representative of IBM, after all). A good part of the week was learning the art of wiring the boards for printers and calculating punches, and I left feeling much better about what the heck I was getting into. Not only that, but with the birth and growth of automated computing, I was entering an exciting field of research that could well define my future career. We were back to the old notion of not missing the opportunities presented by disappointment.
Back in New York, where the company headquarters was located, an executive vice-president by the name of Paul Dunn was in charge of all company timberlands. In addition to the Southern Timberlands Division, there were divisions or operations in the Northeast (Maine, New Hampshire), North-Central (northern New York State), Mid-west (Rhinelander Wisconsin), and Far-West (Libby, Montana, and Tacoma, Washington). Late in 1959, Bob Hyde was promoted and moved to New York to serve on Paul Dunn’s staff. George Park was put in charge of our group, which dropped the Forest Engineering label and became the Information Systems Department within the Division. We broke off the research function into an independent group, which made good sense.
In the winter of 1960, Bob Elliott (still my boss) said George Park, and he had enrolled in an advanced class in Operations Research (OR) being held at Purdue University, and they had signed me up for a beginner’s class, and we would be leaving for West Lafayette IN next week. When we met George in Atlanta, he was upset that Bob had put me in a beginner’s class, and as soon as we checked in, I was elevated into the advanced class with the two of them. Boy, what a week that was. I will not attempt to involve the reader in the intricacies of OR, other than to say that it dealt with the optimization (financial) of product development and production. One example presented was the manufacture of sausage. Not only is pork involved, but many other ingredients are as well (you just as well not knowing any more than just that). Not only does the pork have a cost, but so do the ingredients, and the costs are all different and vary weekly if not daily. In addition, quality and consistent sausage making requires strict limits on the added ingredients. Question? How much pork and included ingredients are needed during manufacture to maintain quality while minimizing cost? We are talking about lots of data, its gathering, organization and analysis to address that question. One of the speakers at this conference was a young professor by the name of Jim Bamping. He was a former part time employee of Union Camp Paper Co. and was continuing consultation with them regarding their CFI program and the processing of their data. That was about the same problem I was foreseeing in our program.
At the end of the week, as we headed home, I could see the real possibilities in forest management for paper and other wood product production. Not only did we have a basic raw material (trees) but they were not all the same and were available in unpredictable situations. Most of our forests areas were made up of Working Circles (areas of management) and cutting units (areas of production). Cutting units were timber stands with similar characteristics. Some were homogenous as in a pine plantation. Some were heterogeneous stands of mixed pine-hardwood of generally the same age, density and growing site. Some were really sad conglomerates of varying species and age with mostly light density. I used to like to refer to them as homogeneous heterogeneous. These stands needed to be cleaned up, regenerated and returned to full productivity. A lot to think about.
Returning home, I set about business as usual, but at the same time thinking of the week past. Over the past year or so I had traveled around the Pensacola Mill Area forests and interacted with many of the area foresters. What surprised me was we were supposed to maintain their cutting unit inventories so the foresters could prepare their annual cutting budgets. Well we were well behind on that task and many of the foresters depended on the CFI results to do their yearly planning. The idea at the time was southern pine (the favored conifer) should be grown on a 30 year rotation. The forest then should be divided into 30 blocks (cutting units) each of which would be clear-cut as a unit. The cutting units (CUs) varied in size depending on its potential productivity. Planted the following year, the CU would be ready for harvest again in 30 years. We should live so long that natural functions are so well organized. Because of the light sample and the absence of any species stratification, using CFI data was an “iffy” proposition, if not disastrous. I put together a report that suggested the acronym “CFI” be dropped and be replaced by “PGS” (Permanent Growth Sample), and that cutting units be reconfigured to represent stands of timber with similar age, growing site and density. Those are the key variables in growth prediction. These should be called Operating Areas, and information collected from them, Operating Area Inventory (OAI). In my opinion, this was essential if we were to even dream of an OR approach to forest management. Much easier to predict current rates of growth (interest) (ROI) on homogenous tracts.
Back on the home front, things were going along just fine. We attended the local Presbyterian Church, where Karen and Bruce were entered into their Sunday school, and Diane into the children’s “sandbox”. There was no Congregational or church nearby, so we elected to use the hour or so to take a breather. I would stop on the way home after dropping the kids off, to pick up a couple of donuts at the local bakery, and we would enjoy a cup of coffee together. We took a couple of trips back to Connecticut during those years. That was an arduous trip in those days, no Interstate Highway system yet.
The trip was divided into two parts: southern, including the standard 2 (occasionally 4) lane U.S. highway system, and northern, including the 2 fairly new state multi-lane turnpike systems. From Pensacola it was US 29 to Brewton AL, US 31 to Birmingham AL, US 11 through AL, GA, TN, VA, WVA, and PA to Carlisle where we picked up the Pennsylvania Turnpike east to just south of Trenton NJ, where we picked up the NJ Turnpike north to the George Washington Bridge crossing into New York and then north on the Henry Hudson parkway to the Connecticut border where we picked up the Merritt Parkway north to our old familiar state road 59 (Stratfield Rd.) and “home”.
On a few of those trips, I came back early and the rest of the family would return with Joyce’s folks a week or so later. On one early trip, I was told that they stopped at a restaurant which had as its feature a soda bar where all kinds of flavored drinks, milkshakes, and floats were dispensed. Of course behind the bar was a series of push-pumps that dispensed the flavors needed for any particular custom made drink. Apparently Bruce became infatuated with that situation to the point of boosting himself up and pushing hard on all the pumps he could reach, dumping a wide variety of flavored liquid on the counter behind. They left quickly.
1959 was really a memorable year. Not only was it the end of a decade, it was really the end of a way of life. The first full year in a new job with a private company was a full time learning experience on many fronts. Also in our own house with three active youngsters it took a little “getting used to”. The kids celebrated their first Easter together, and enjoyed their first real bunk beds. We had more than adequate support from Joyce’s folks (Gram and Pop) who made several visits. During one of these visits we made a memorable trip to Mobile AL to visit the famous Bellingrath Gardens. It was in the spring of ’59 and the azaleas and camellias were in full bloom. What a burst of color that was. Finally, the kids were becoming more and more photogenic, or at least we took more pictures, and they never seemed to mind “hamming” it up for the occasion. (DIII-20)