A MODERN DAY TRAGEDY

Dear Friends, Since I am a resident of Alameda living on Shore Line Dr. I became aware of the drowning of Raymond Zack in short order. Dr. Jeffrey Lant is an avid article writer who has given his dealers or Worldprofit of which he is the CEO, permission to use his articles in our newsletters and blogs. I immediately notified him about Rayond Zack and he asked me to do some research so that he could write and article on the matter. I contacted Mr. Zack's Foster Mother, and I subsequently passed the information on to Dr. Lant. The following article was given world wide attention when the article was made available for publication by the Dealers of Worldprofit, of which I am one. I wrote letters to the editors of the local newspapers, but none were published. When I reflect on that happening, I am still bewildered t\by the events that took place. Although the dereliction of duty that transpired has supposedly been corrected such that it will never happen again, still there is the knowledge that the one occurrence should never have happened. I am glad that there are people who are doing whatever is necessary to remind us all of this tragic loss of life. There is a forthcoming documentary entitled "Shallow Waters" produced by Jaime Longhi that will remind us, lest we forget. Wallace Johnson MBA Apollo Project Test Pilot (The Lunar Landing Mission) Commander Spaceship DEWAJ http://IHaveLiftOff.com/lp/ http://IHaveLiftOff.com testpilotdewaj@gmail.com 510-521-1025 9 AM to 9 PM PST ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The short life and appalling death of Raymond Zack, an avoidable American tragedy. by Dr. Jeffrey Lant Crown Memorial State Beach, Alameda, California is the kind of place you come to breathe and shake off life's trials and tribulations. The panorama is just what you think the Golden State should be...a place of possibilities, not inhibitions. Here the air is superior to any French vintage... the chill waters are bracing and playful.... Here the very birds fly higher because they are contented at such a place... and in the distance, clearly seen, is the great structure of one of mankind's signature triumphs the Golden Gate Bridge... which sends every spirit soaring... It was here that Raymond Zack came to die... and where the people charged with protecting life assisted Raymond take his, to the astonishment, wonder and outrage of the world. Raymond Zack, born July 23, 1959. Raymond was, like so many millions of us, a son of America's great heartland; Ohio born and bred. His life moved to the rhythm that is so quintessentially ours... He was a product of Columbus' Catholic schools... where he learned good manners, the importance of being a good man and valuable citizen... and where he glimpsed, at the hands of his dedicated instructors, the reality of God Everlasting. At 6'3" tall, this giant of a boy excelled at track and baseball... people saw him above the crowd and, with a wink and nudge, said the boy had talent. He went, and went proudly, to Ohio State.... as American as any educational establishment in the land. It was here, upon graduation, that he entered the community of educated men and women... And where he decided to answer Horace Greeley's great exhortation "Go West, young man, Go West!" And he did, attracted by the dazzling sunshine and even more dazzling possibilities of California, the pot of gold at the end of America's rainbow. But California life, for all that the sun was radiant, gave Raymond Zack more than his share of life's troubles. His family life was turbulent, confusing, never restful though he was the beneficiary of his foster mother's affectionate care and unceasing concern. He weighed 300 pounds now and, like millions of his countrymen, was challenged by the complexities of food and the clear and present dangers of overindulgence. Chagrined by his bulk, Raymond, bit by bit, withdrew from the body politic and faced the secret sorrows of isolation and loneliness, the abiding reality for too many of his countrymen. His mother died in November 2010... and though there had been confusions and disappointments there, still she was his mother... and her loss magnified his burdens. Then, in the midst of a great recession, where California's profound promise was tarnished, Raymond lost his job at the St. Vincent de Paul Free Food Distribution Center where, along with Mrs. Dolores Berry, his foster mother, he had helped everyone who came. Now the man who had helped so many... was himself in need of help. This, too, was, quintessentially American for too many... Raymond, with a "God helps those who help themselves" attitude, tried hard to do what he'd been taught to do; to keep his chin up and a stiff upper lip; to do what he could... to stay cheerful in the face of adversity. But bit by bit, like so many, his resilience and hope were worn away. Raymond's dark days were nigh... In the still of the night... We shall never know where Raymond's anxious forebodings carried him, alone at the midnight hour. At such a time a man may turn to booze, women, any dissipation to dispel the gloom... but Raymond seems to have faced his great matter alone... and in profound despair. This, too, is reality for millions of the dispossessed and fearful. At some irrevocable moment in his profound human misery Raymond decided the game was not worth the candle... and that it was time to move again, out of very life itself. Thus, on May 30, 2011, while his countrymen were celebrating the sacrifices made by others to the benefit of all, Raymond Zack decided to make a sacrifice, too -- of himself, since living life was just too painful and without hope. And so he waded into the chill waters at Crown Memorial State Beach, about to be the venue of muddle, confusion, bumbling... and death. A great American tragedy was about to commence... unnecessary, scandalous, an event that enhanced no one and left Raymond Zack, floating face down, his life's work at an end. Seen by many. Remember, Raymond Zack was a big man, 6'3", over 300 pounds. He moved slowly, deliberately in the shallow waters. He was clearly seen though his purpose, at first, was not. Still, as Raymond walked into deeper waters, residents were concerned; a 911 call was made... alerting police and firefighters that some kind of incident was underway. In just 4 minutes help was at hand... and at hand help stayed... but without lifting a finger. And here is where an avoidable tragedy morphs into disbelief, reproach, scandal, and incomprehension. Not one of the many lifesaving professionals on the beach, not a single one, did a single thing to forestall the tragedy that could so easily have been prevented. Later these officials, pummelled by an incredulous world, worked overtime to manufacture excuses they hoped would appease, mollify and cover. Fire officials said that because of budget cuts no one knew the necessary rescue procedures. But this excuse was quickly blasted... when it was shown the department had money, but no sense. Other officials said rescue policies did not cover the case in point. A police spokesman said officers stayed out of the water because Zack was suicidal and posed a possible threat. A boat was requested to take officers to Zack... but those requesting it never indicated the matter was pressing. In short, at every moment where judgement, help and assistance were required... the professionals at hand, our honored paladins, were without judgement, help and assistance. And so, in full view of the world, in full view of his hysterical foster parent, 86 year old Dolores Berry, who unsuccessfully begged for celerity and assistance, Raymond Zack died... In the way of these things, everything the system could have provided Raymond in life only emerged when he was dead... in such ways does America expiate its negligence. Now there are flowers on the beach where he died, a crowd gathers daily to reflect and wonder; bishops make Raymond the subject of their learned lamentations. Municipal officials investigate and dismiss the inept. All this is good, right and proper. But we must not forget the man at the center of it all, Raymond Zack, dead too soon at 50. He meant us well, each and every one of us. Now, prematurely, he rests in the bosom of the Lord; may he find the peace there he never had here. About the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc. , providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Republished with author's permission by Wallace Johnson MBA http://IHaveLiftOff.com.

LIFE CHANGING EVENT III. THE 1960's (THE APOLLO PROJECT).

Life Changing Event III. The 1960's (The Apollo Project ).
By
Wallace A. Johnson MBA
Commander Spaceship DEWAJ

I don't know who said it, but some wise sage is credited with saying that in one's lifetime, one goes through five important life changing events. I have given that some thought and I have decided to make those events the five major entry points for my blog. I have put them down as follows:

Event I. Growing Up In Havana, Cuba. 1925 to 1932
Event II Returning to USA. The Deppression years. 1932 to 1941.
Event III. Retiring From The Military and Joining North American Aviation. The Apollo Program. 1960 to 1970.
Event IV. Joining Litton Industries 1973 to Retirement 1992.
Event V. Current: Retired Living The Good Life.

This Article Covers Life Changing EVENT III. The Apollo Program. 1960 to 1970

When I hired on with North American Aviation, I was put on contract to the Strategic Air Command. I had a Top Secret Clearance and was acting as a civilian in-flight Inertial Navigation Instructor flying in B52's flying out of Columbus AFT, Mississippi. My duties taxed me physically and mentally. It was a very important job and I was proud to have been chosen to perform it. Keep in mind, although retired military, I was still considered a civilian, and I was flying 13 hour missions that covered much of the globe's geography requiring in-air refueling from KC135 tankers. All the while, the B52 had live nuclear weapons on board, and our training missions would take us from Mississippi to Chicago, Ill, where we would in a simulated strike, destroy the city of Chicago. We would then fly to Miami, destroy it, then fly out to the Gulf Of Mexico, refuel, fly to San Francisco, destroy it, then Seattle, followed by In-air refueling again, destroy Houston, then go back home to Columbus AFB, Mississippi. It was a responsible job that needed to be done, and I was qualified to fill that role. But the realization that should some adversary decide to attack us with nuclear weapons, finding us at war, knowing that the attack profile under those circumstances with a B52 which I was flying in, with a certainty of 100%, that I would never return home, made me realize that at any moment I could be experiencing a Life Changing Event for sure.

Imagine how pleased I was to realize that the Company I worked for had won the Apollo Contract. I can still hear President Kennedy making his speech to the Congress and saying "First, I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the Moon and returning him safely to the earth. No single space project in this period will be more impressive to mankind, or more important for the long-range exploration of space; and none will be so difficult or expensive to accomplish." Imagine my mind racing at the thought. As important as my present job was, what could compare with the possibility of being involved with such a noble endeavor. I immediately went about the business of finding out just how I could somehow get involved with the program. I put in for vacation and flew out to the West Coast where my home was in Long Beach, Ca. just a few miles from Downy, Ca. the home of North American Aviation. I ultimately met Dr. Joel Canby who was the department head of the Human Factors Group who were working on the Apollo Program. It took me about four months, but ultimately, Dr. Canby had me assigned to his group and I transferred back to Downy and started the most amazing Event of my life up to that point.
I had the pleasure of meeting and closely working with the "Original Seven Apollo Mission Astronauts" chosen for the Lunar Landing Mission.

Group members
* Alan Bartlett Shepard Jr., USN, (1923–1998)
MR-3 (Freedom 7), Apollo 14
* Virgil Ivan (Gus) Grissom, USAF, (1926–1967)
MR-4 (Liberty Bell 7), Gemini 3, Apollo 1
* John Herschel Glenn Jr., USMC, (born 1921)
MA-6 (Friendship 7), STS-95
* Malcolm Scott Carpenter, USN, (born 1925)
MA-7 (Aurora 7)
* Walter Marty (Wally) Schirra Jr., USN, (1923–2007)
MA-8 (Sigma 7), Gemini 6A, Apollo 7
* Leroy Gordon Cooper Jr., USAF, (1927–2004)
MA-9 (Faith 7), Gemini 5
* Donald Kent (Deke) Slayton, USAF, (1924–1993)
Apollo-Soyuz Test Project

All of these men were very close to my age at the time and now that I am 85 myself, many of them have made the transition which we all will eventually make, leaving these earthy bounds and becoming once and for all part of the Cosmic realm.

Wallace Johnson MBA MCEC
Apollo Project Test Pilot
Commander Spaceship DEWAJ
http://spaceshipdewaj.com
http://www.IHaveLiftOff.com
http://blog.IHaveLiftOff.com
testpilotdewaj@gmail.com
510-521-1025

TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR

TWINKEL TWINKEL LITTE STAR HOW I WONDER (WHAT) YOU ARE.
FOR THE APOLLO
HOW I WONDER (WHERE) YOU ARE
By
Wallace A. Johnson MBA
Commander Spaceship DEWAJ

In the early days of Apollo studies we knew that the Lunar Landing Module would separate from the Apollo Command Module and descend to the surface of the moon with two men aboard. The Command Module would remain in orbit around the moon waiting for the return of the Lunar Landing Vehicle. One of the problems we anticipated which caused some anxiety would be the ability to make visual contact one with the other when they would rendezvous and dock. It was decided that some kind of a flashing light on both craft would take care of the matter. But that sounds a lot easier than it sounds. In the first place, was there a time restraint which had to be adhered to, ie, did we have only so many minutes to correct any miscalculations in the rendezvous such that we had to come in visual contact a soon as possible? If so, what luminosity in candle power would this light require? What color should it be? Is there a color that's better than pure white light? At what rate should this light blink? Is there a frequency that is preferable above all others? All kinds of questions come up related to finding a small object in the blackness of space. What to do?

The answer was found in a Planetarium. North American Aviation leased the facility of the Griffith Park Planetarium where we set up a mock up of the interior of the Command Module windows. We then were placed in a precise location such that we had a restricted view of the star field which was visible to us out of the windows we were looking out of. Then in the total darkness of the planetarium mixed in and hidden among the star field, a flashing light would start blinking. As a pilot subject on that study, it was my task to find the blinking star and identify its location. We had no idea what the blinking rate would be or its location in the star field. You would think it would be a easy task, but those of us who know how to search in total darkness for the slightest thing and are acquainted with what goes on with our eyes had an advantage. For we know that to get maximum capabilities from the use of our eyes at night, we know that you must never focus on the object you are looking for but rather look 10 degrees above, below, to the right, or left of the focus point. There is an explanation to this. There are two cells in the eyeball. Cones which can discern the colors of the spectrum but are not very sensitive to light and therefore of little use at night, and Rods which are color blind but very sensitive. There is only one problem, there are NO RODS in the focal point of the eyeball which is called the Fovea, only Cones are located there, and if there isn't sufficient light to activate the Cones you must rely on the Rods to pick the object up. So prove it to yourself in a real dark room, look directly at the object your are trying to see and then shift your line of vision about ten degrees and sure enough you will see the object better. If you look directly at it, it may disappear only to reappear if you look slightly off the ofject. I don't know what the data of that study proved. But I know that whatever they are currently using in blinking frequency, candle power intensity, color etc. is the result of that study. It give me a good feeling to know that I played a small part in it. To me the rhyme goes "Twinke, Twinkle Litte Star, How I wonder "Where" you are. Now you know why.

Wallace A. Johnson MBA MCEC
Apollo Project Test Pilot
Commander Spaceship DEWAJ
http://spaceshipdewaj.com
http://www.IHaveLiftOff.com
http://blog.IHaveLiftOff.com
testpilotdewaj@gmail.com
510-521-1025

THE TRAGIC FIRE OF APOLLO 1

THE TRAGIC FIRE OF APOLLO 1
27 JANUARY 1967
BY
Wallace A. Johnson MBA
Commander Spaceship DEWAJ

I had been involved in writing the procedures for removing the double hatch required for extra vehicular activity. At first the NASA insisted on an outside hatch opening to the space environment. The inner hatch would have to be removed inwardly into the command module after decompression allowing the vacuum of space into the capsule. The NASA wanted this double hatch concept because it offered a sense of redundancy in case the outer hatch experienced some kind of pressure failure. They figured correctly that the internal pressure of the capsule would be a pressure against the inner hatch which would insure the hatch would not fail with a leak. They were correct of course but our engineers were of the opinion that the single hatch would offer sufficient safety to circumvent a decompression failure to the capsule. The NASA won the argument, but imagine this scenario. When deciding to have extra vehicular activity, the capsule had to be decompressed. Then the inner hatch had to go through the procedure of rotating latches and then bringing the hatch into the capsule and storing it under the center seat. This was the task that Ed White the center seat astronaut had on his hands when the fatal fire broke out on the pad at Cape Canaveral, Florida. Unlike the Russians who had an exotic mixture for their internal atmosphere, ours was 100% oxygen. When you supersaturate any matter with 100% oxygen, It makes little difference what the kindling point is, the result is a ferocious burning and consumption of the material. In short order, due to a spark in the wiring in one of the lower compartment areas, a fire broke out. It was followed by a fast build up of pressure internally that make it impossible for Dave White to break the inner hatch from its seals. In fact, the internal pressure built up so rapidly that it actually ruptured the capsule. The command module had turned into a pressure cooker. It happened so fast, nothing could be done, with disastrous consequences. I and two other test pilots worked round the clock simulating the procedure and capturing it all on film. We were trying to determine what the time-line was to get out of the restraining harness, decompress the capsule, and retrieve the inner hatch. I am in personal possession of the 16MM film given me by North American Aviatin on my leaving the company. It is only one of many mementos I have which bring back both sad and happy memories. Ultimately, our engineers won the battle about the single hatch and I was given the responsibility of writing the actual words ;ut on a stick on placard which were ultimately put on the inside of the outer hatch on how to open it in preparation for extra vehicular activity. Talk about synchronicity. I served on the USS Hornet CV12 just before my retiring from the Navy. The Hornet is now here in Alameda, Ca. as a floating museum and believe it or not there is an Apollo capsule on board that was actually picked up by the Hornet. It's a small world, and we never know at what moment we are doing something that we think is mundane and of no consequence. How wrong we are. Every moment is precious and every second of our lives is of paramount importance. Nothing happens by chance. Don't ask me to explain it, but I believe that to be true. There is no explanation for those things metaphysical and I am not about to try and explain them. I merely accept it as a cosmological law.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=opIQKrKHke4

Wallace Johnson MBA MCEC
Apollo Project Test Pilot
Commander Spaceship DEWAJ
http://spaceshipdewaj.com
http://www.IHaveLiftOff.com
http://blog.IHaveLiftOff.com
testpilotdewaj@gmail.com
510-521-1025

WAS I A BAG LADY FOR THE MAFIA?

Wallace A. Johnson MBA
Apollo Project Test Pilot
CDR Spaceship DEWAJ
Senior Navigator Test Pilot



You know, there are cigars and then there are cigars! I mean REAL cigars. I have never smoked, but I did go thorough a pipe smoking phase way back in 1946 that lasted three months I think. The darn thing was more trouble than it was worth, and like one of our presidents, I never inhaled either. All l have to do is put a cigarette in my mouth and without inhaling at all, I start levitating and in no time I’m higher than a kite in a brisk wind. Now, why am I digressing from my journal which on the last account was way back in 1939?

Well let me explain. As you know, I grew up as a young boy in Havana, Cuba. As I was saying, there are cigars and then there are REAL cigars. I’m not a smoker, but I know a real cigar when the aroma of one comes across my sensitive olfactory nerves. And unless you have had someone light up a real Cuban, hand rolled cigar, and caught a whiff of it, you won’t know what I’m talking about. Just ask any current resident of Miami who is a Cuban and he will immediately tell you that the only cigar that is a REAL cigar is one that is hand rolled from leaves that are grown on the Island of Cuba. And although illegal to currently bring to the states, it is said that our own president Kennedy, who knew a good cigar, would on occasion fill the oval office of the White House with the aroma of his Cuban cigars. I wonder how he got them. But again, I digress.

Delivering my newspapers in Houston, Texas gave me the opportunity to meet some rather interesting characters. One was a swarthy plump gentleman to whom I would personally hand the newspaper I delivered at his address. Sitting in front of his business establishment, (A used car lot), he would rock back and forth in his rocking chair, every afternoon waiting for me to arrive, all the while, blowing smoke rings that emanated from the biggest cigar I have ever seen in my life. Not only was it big, you could tell that it was not a cigar that came from some assembly line by the hundreds, but rather a cigar that was hand rolled for sure. A perfect example of a hand made Cuban cigar. There is nothing worse than second hand smoke as far as I’m concerned. Smoking is a filthy habit I’m glad I didn’t get hooked on. But, I have to admit, provided that it doesn’t hit you full force, there is something about a Cuban cigar that’s different. And l can understand why there are private haunts where gentlemen meet to this day in their exclusive clubs with their own private humidors which contain of all things illegal Cuban cigars. They say rank has its privilege and so does money, which I guess explains a lot, from President Kennedy on down. Anyway, I would hand him the paper and he would blow me a perfect smoke ring. Quid Pro Quo I guess. This was a routine that followed day after day come rain or shine. He seemed like a nice enough guy but all the time I sort of felt that he was just a little different. I wasn’t too worldly for my age when it came to know human character perhaps, but I wasn’t stupid either, and for some reason I just didn’t feel comfortable when I was in his presence. He was too slick I thought. And now that I look back on it, he reminds me of that old character actor Edward G. Robinson, voice and all. But I was too young to fully grasp the meaning of the whole thing, and on one particular day, he asked me to come back to his place of business, because he wanted me to do him a favor. Upon completion of my appointed rounds with the newspaper route, I returned to him as he asked.

The favor he was asking was that I take a package about the size of a shoe box to an address in an area of Houston which was crime ridden and harbored some rather unsavory characters. My instructions were to deliver the package to a person in the hotel, whereupon he was to call the cigar smoker that I had arrived with the package, and he then would then pay me $5.00. Now $5.00 in 1939 was big money and although at the time I was too naïve to realize that something wasn’t just right, accepted the money gladly, but I knew that the people who lived in this hotel weren’t exactly the kind of people I should have anything to do with. There were Chinese and Latino men there and it smelled to high heaven of marijuana and liquor, accompanied by a pungent odor which I have only smelled in the orient which I now believe was opium. Suffice it to say, that when the cigar smoker asked my once again to be his errand boy, I declined saying I was told by my parents not to go into that part of Houston, he didn’t press the issue, and I was glad.

That $5.00 was easy money to come by, but like all easy money, there were strings attached, and I wonder to this day just what was in that box. I now know I was being used as a bag lady. Was it narcotics I was transporting? Or cash for dope, I don’t know, but in retrospect, I shudder at the thought of the real mess I could have been getting myself into. I know this; whatever was in that box was illegal as Hell. I want to think that it might have been a box of Cuban cigars, but I know better. You see, I know what a Real Cuban cigar smells like.

Western Union & A Near Death Experience

Wallace A. Johnson MBA
Apollo Project Test Pilot
CDR Spaceship DEWAJ
Senior Navigator Test Pilot


As you know, through the help of Mr. Taylor, I was able to get my hands on a bicycle. I got my Western Union uniform, including the leather puttees that all messengers wore in those days, and went to work.

I was 14 at the time, and I can assure you, I knew the city of Houston like the back of my hand. Besides that, the main office I worked out of had large maps and street address locators which were available to us. If we were given a telegram to deliver, we would punch a time clock and the location of the address would be identified by concentric circles with the main office at the center. Each band was identified in alphabetical order with so many minutes allocated for the delivery of the telegram dependent on what alphabetical letter the address was located. With all good luck locating your party, and depending on just how hard you “pumped” to get there and back, it wasn’t uncommon to get back to the office with some time to spare. I was determined to be the fastest deliverer of telegrams in that office. In no time, I showed my employer that I could be depended on to deliver my telegrams with speed and punctuality.

There are kinds of tricks one learns fast when one is working on a job. As you become familiar, you learn those things that work and those don’t work as well. Being young, and energetic, I was determined to learn fast, and I did. For instance, since time was of the essence in the delivery system, you were constantly aware of the time which you were allocated for the particular run you were on. The idea was to punch that time clock when you returned with time to spare. If you were given 30 minutes from stamping out to stamping in, you did everything you could to beat the clock. That messenger boy who slowly built up those precious minutes by getting back sooner than expected, was looked upon with favor. I was one of them. However, let me tell you how I did it.

Western Union had a policy that everyone had to comply with, without exception. Under no circumstances were messengers allowed to hitch a ride, by grabbing the side or rear flatbed of a truck for instance, and getting a “free ride” as it were. Besides the fact that it was against the law, it was dangerous as well. The bicycle I had chosen at the police station to start my job with, had handle bars that were long and beautiful, sticking out to each side like the horns on a Texas longhorn steer. That meant that I had to carefully calculate how much space I had to weave in and out of traffic when I was in a hurry. Naturally, in no time I was doing maneuvers with that bicycle like a pro, and in the interest of maintaining my reputation for being the messenger boy who was delivering telegrams faster than anyone else, I started getting careless.

Let me digress for a moment, when my father was running the Texaco filling station he owned in Houston Texas, a motorcycle police officer would stop by and have a coke to refresh himself. He was a friendly guy, who would always answer the questions put to him by those youngsters who are naturally drawn to the persona an officer of the law presents, especially if he rides a motorcycle. We would ask questions about his Harley Davidson, what it was like to chase someone at breakneck speeds if they were trying to elude him, and he would tell us of some recent episode about just that. As kids we stood in awe at this local hero and I remember telling him that someday I would own my own motorcycle, because they always intrigued me. Realizing what I had said might come to pass, he proceeded to tell us all that motorcycles were OK, but that they were dangerous. The problem he said, was, that the more you ride them, the more familiar you are with them and the more you think you can do with them, and so you start throwing them around doing foolish things. The next thing you know, they are throwing you, and you are in deep trouble. It was just a passing remark on his part, but I never forgot what he said nor did I forget the name on his name badge, it was the same as mine, W. Johnson. A week later I learned that he had been killed riding his motorcycle while rounding a curve. I don’t know under what circumstances he died. Did he try to throw his Harley around just one more time and the monster he was riding rebelled and threw him instead with its subsequent tragic ending? I never found out, all I know is I never bought my own motorcycle. In subsequent events in my life, and remembering his admonition, I have often wondered if Officer Johnson ever looked down on me and worried about me and my main fascination with airplanes.

Back to Western Union, since everything revolved around time, you tried to deliver your messages in as short a time period as possible, and being young and reckless, I found myself setting aside the Western Union rule against hitching a ride. After all, by grabbing a truck’s side, you could be pulled along at speeds in excess of anything you could do by pedaling. So I found myself breaking the law and hitching a ride. I get cold chills recollecting what happened one afternoon when I grabbed the end of a flatbed truck.

As I said before, my handle bars extended quite a way out to each side and if you hitch a ride you hold on with the left hand and the right hand is controlling the handle bars. Extending further out than our current handle bars do, you have to make sure that they don’t come in contact with the truck bed which puts you in an awkward position as you are pulled along.

Under normal circumstances when the truck you are hitching on gets to a certain speed limit, good judgment and innate intelligence tell you when to let go. For some reason I found myself not letting go, not only that, I could see the face of the truck driver in the rear view mirror looking back at me and laughing as he had slowly increased his speed past the point of no return. Now I was going at a speed where I was afraid to let go and he knew it. I was hoping traffic or a light would force him to slow down, but instead fate was against me, and the longer I held on the more he increased his speed. I realized I was in a dangerous situation, if I didn’t let go, I was going to get killed for sure, and I was scared to death. I summoned all the courage in me and decided to let go hoping that I would be able to get my left arm back to the handle bar so as to control my bicycle. The Gods were with me that day, and after stopping for a short while, I realized how close I came to getting into real trouble. There is a theory that says that there is no such thing as reality, but only perception. Like the cat with nine lifes, for all I know I could have been killed, but I perceived otherwise and carried on. I know one thing for sure, I was scared to death and back.

I never hitched a ride again ever, but the time for me to deliver a telegram took just a little more time than my overall averages indicated I should take, and my boss never new why and I wasn’t about to tell him.

WESTERN UNION TO THE RESCUE

Wallace A. Johnson MBA
Apollo Project Test Pilot
CDR. Spaceship DEWAJ
Senior Navigator Test Pilot

I remember I was 14 at the time, and I was having a running conversation with myself about the human condition and the role I was playing in it. Suffice it to say, I wasn't very happy with things overall. The Depression was in full swing, my mother was working for the W.P.A. (Work Progress Administration) as a seamstress, I was hawking my Extra's whenever they came out, and with my shoe shine box, I was picking up a few cents here and there. But things were rough and I wanted to contribute more to the household needs, so I decided I had to get a job!

I had heard from some of the newsboys, that Western Union needed some Messenger Boys. I immediately got myself to the main office and got an interview with a nice gentleman who asked me all kinds of questions. First off, how old I was, well I knew you had to be 16 to even be considered, so naturally, I lied! Stood right there in front of that man and told a bald face lie. Although I don't think I had hit 110 pounds yet, he seemed to accept the fact and we went on with the interview. The next question, I was really fretting over. I knew it was coming, and it did. Looking me straight in the eye he said "Do you have a bicycle?" Without blinking an eye, I lied again! "Oh sure, I said" hoping my lying wouldn't give me away, because the facts of the matter was I didn't own a bicycle. Damn I thought, I'm getting good at this lying stuff. Which really made me uneasy because lying was something my mother wouldn't tolerate and it just wasn't my nature to lie about things. However, I understood that sometimes exceptions to the rule apply if circumstances require it. Those exception gave it a name, it was a "White Lie." I figured what I was being questioned about required my answering with a white lie. I had to get that job, so I told a white lie. My mother told me that if you find yourself in a circumstance where the answer to a question might hurt someone's feeling, then perhaps a white lie would serve a better purpose than to hurt one's feelings, but the exceptions were rare and one had to give it much thought. I figured I was encountering one of those rare exceptions, so I told a white lie.

Somehow I must have impressed the gentleman that was interviewing me because the next thing I knew, he was telling me that I could pick up my Western Union Uniform at the end of the next week, and that I was to start the week after that. He did impress upon me the fact that I would have to have my parents sign a form attesting to my age etc. and I took them saying it was no problem and that I would have them back immediately. But you must understand, I was really facing a dilemma. This job required that I own a bicycle and I didn't. So now I really had a problem.

Let me digress for a moment. I have been most fortunate as far as being gainfully employed all my life. It has always been a maxim of mine that I would never be unemployed, because If I ever found my self without a job, in other words, if no-one was interested in hiring me, then by hook or crook, I would make one. I am prepared to convince a potential employer that I would work for free, just long enough to convince him his business would suffer without my contribution. I can't say that I have ever found myself unders those circumstances, and you may think its rhetoric on my part, but I merely mention it because I actually would do it if I had to. Another thing that bothers me, is the fact that those who are without gainful employment at times, just don't seem to realize that when you are out of a job, you still have one, and that is to go out there and find one. No job is going to come knocking on your door. Another thing I have noticed is that if you look for a job, you have to be prepared for the shock of finding one. In other words, you have to be prepared to go to work. Seems to me that sitting at home and drawing unemployment checks doesn't do a thing for the psyche. Now don't get me wrong, I know sometimes things are beyond our control. I can think of nothing worse than to find oneself in a situation where you literally can't find employment and thank God that a mechanism exists for those in that circumstance to be able to hold things together at least for a time with unemployment insurance. Well enough of that, let's get back to Western Union.

Since I didn't have a bicycle, I had to get one, and I had to get it fast. So I put my brain to work, and here is what I did. I knew a gentleman who worked for the School System as a truant Officer, not because I was worthy of his attention, because I was never truant, but because everyone in the Houston School System knew Mr. Foster! He acted as school counselor at times so I knew him in that capacity. I went to him and told him about my recent escapade with the personnel people doing the hiring at Western Union and the fact that If I could just get my hands on a bicycle, I had myself a job. He was very understanding, and would you believe it, he put me in his car and drove me to the Houston Police Department where we met with an officer who was responsible for safekeeping stolen bicycles. They took me into a compartment and there in front of me must have been 50 bikes of all sizes and descriptions. He told me to pick out any one I wanted, which I did, then they had a person type a letter with the Houston Police Department letterhead on it, describing me, and the bicycle in detail explaining that if the owner of the bicycle ever encountered me accusing me of theft, that all I needed to do was produce the document which explained why I had the stolen bicycle. I rode the bicycle home feeling like I owned the world, when I realized that when I got home there would be another problem I had to hurdle, and that was my mother. However, I knew I had a guardian angel I could count on that had never failed me up to this point, so I went home with some degree of confidence that somehow things would work out. And they did as you will see in my next entry.

HAWKING "EXTRA'S" & GETTING AN EDUCATION

Wallace A. Johnson MBA
Apollo Project Test Pilot
CDR. Spaceship DEWAJ
Senior Navigator Test Pilot


Although I acquired my social conscious early on, it was by selling newspapers that I was really able to fathom just what was really going on in the world. The thirties were filled with daily happenings from all around the world. The depression was in full stride in the states and Stalin, Hitler, and Mussolini, were being given credit for "Running the trains on time." which was an ominous statement when you really think about it. Wars and rumors of wars were rampant, and any time anything of any consequence occurred, the newspapers would come out with a special edition called an "Extra." I remember on more than one occasion being up early in the morning and going to the "Houston Chronicle" and picking up 15 or 20 newspapers, jumping on my bicycle and yelling at the top of my voice "Extra, Extra" and whatever was the heading in bold letters on the front page, which was the reason for the extra publication in the first place. Just by reading those headlines and a little of the byline, I pretty well got the jist of the cataclysmic events that were daily occurences, not only in the U.S. but particularly in Europe. As I said before, I was really being educated rapidly and at an early age about things which we can reflect back on and be proud of, while at the same time getting a sick feeling in the pit of one's stomach at the sheer stupidity and blunders perpetrated on us by so-called leaders of the world.Besides hawking my "Extras" of course I had a paper route. So every day I would go to the pickup point and load the bags which were hung on each side of the rear wheel of my bicycle. There were three major newspapers in Houston at the time, The Houston Chronicle, which had the largest circulation, followed by the Post, and then the Press. On Sundays, I would pick up my alloted number from the Chronicle and the Post and hawk them on Saturday nights as an early Sunday morning edition. I have nostalgic memories of going into a ratskeller near the "Uptown" Theater reeking with the aroma of cigarettes, cigar smoke, and beer, and at the same time hearing the melodious voice of Bing Crosby coming out of the Wurlitzer Juke Box singing that beautiful song "Sweet Leilani." To this day, it's "De Ja Vue" all over again, a saying made famous and attributed to Jogi Bera, the catcher for the Brooklyn Dodgers, if I remember right.Who can remember Neville Chamberlain with his famous umbrella, returning from his visit with Hitler and uttering those famous words which would haunt him to his dying day, "Peace In Our Time." What were you doing on Sept 3rd. 1939 at 3:00 A.M. in the morning? You can't remember can you, well I can, because I was smart enough to know that WWII was just about to start, and I was at the dock of the Houston Chronicle waiting for the "Extra" to start rolling off of the presses with the announcement that England had declared war on Germany. And sure enough by 6:00 A.M. that morning I can proudly say I sold papers like they were going out of style, yelling at the top of my voice "Extra-Extra England Declares War." Not in downtown Houston, but in the suburb where I lived. From my shrieking that headline, I bet I awoke more than one person from a sound sleep thinking that the world had ended or something as calamitous had happened, and of course it had.

THE LAUNCHING OF SPACESHIP DEWAJ A "Daring Enterprise With A Journey."

Wallace A. Johnson MBA
Apollo Project Test Pilot 1964
CDR Spaceship DEWAJ
Senior Navigator Test Pilot

MY SPACESHIP DEWAJ

A "DARING ENTERPRISE WITH A JOURNEY"

As a former Test Pilot on the Apollo Project, I have always dreamed what it would be like if I could have had my own Spaceship. Through the medium of the Internet, I can now fantasize. This Blog will be part of that fantasy. This Blog will be an attempt at telling you how Spaceship DEWAJ came to be.

SOME PERSONAL HISTORY
At the age of 80, time flies and the days shorten. Widowed, and without children, I can see that those who through the years have asked me to put into words, my rambling thoughts, inspirations, ideas, mistakes, adventures, travels, etc. have a point. Not that anything I might say will change much, for I don't think that anything I might say will have that much influence, but in fact it has been in the back of my mind for some time now. So here it is at last.
I'm one of those who live in California that was actually born here. My birthplace was Taft, Ca. and my birthday is 18 April 1925. Taft, California is oil refinery country. My father worked for Standard Oil Co. and before I was six months old, my father returned to Havana, Cuba, where he had formerly married my mother. As the Superintendent of the Beloit, refinery in Havana, we lived on Standard Oil Co. refinery grounds. I had a brother Willis, and a sister Wanda, who were born there. We lived well, and my childhood memories are those of a loving father and mother who doted over their children, especially me. However, those of you that remember your history will recall a revolution took place in Cuba in 1932. With Cuban soldiers bivouacked on our front lawn to protect the refinery, it didn't take my father long to decide that the safety of his family was paramount. So in late 1932 we returned to Houston, Texas.
Talk about jumping from the frying pan into the fire! The depression years were upon us, and times were rough. This was especially the case, when due to an accident at the refinery my father had an untimely death. That left my mother alone, with no skills other than being a good wife and mother with three young and quite often hungry children. As I said, times were rough. More to come.
posted by Wallace A. Johnson MBA @ Sunday, January 01, 2006 0 comments

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About Me
Name:Wallace Johnson MBA
Location:Alameda, California, United States
80 years of age. Widowed, No children. Retired Military. Currently a Substitute Teacher in the Alameda Unified School District.
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