SPACESHIPDEWAJ

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

2011-01-28T22:38:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-28T22:24:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-28T22:00:00.000-08:00

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?

2006-12-23T20:16:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-22T13:14:00.000-08:00

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

2006-10-20T15:19:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-13T11:03:00.000-07:00

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."

2006-10-06T16:56:00.000-07:00

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.
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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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STARVATION NONE, MALNUTRITION PLENTY!

2006-02-25T15:26:00.000-08:00

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

As I was growing up during the 30's, I rapidly matured, not only physically but mentally. I acquired a "Social Conscience" early on. I mentioned in my last entry, how bewildered I was to see good food being destroyed merely to sustain a price. It didn't make sense to me then and it doesn't make any more sense now. However social planners always have altruistic end results in sight and there is no doubt that it could all be explained, at least in their minds, as having an end result which was better than not interfering at all. I can remember that the unemployment figures were 25 million or more. Able bodied men begging for work, and those that didn't find it were left with begging period! Something happens to a person’s dignity and self worth, when he is forced by circumstances beyond him, to literally have to beg to insure his survival. Worrying about oneself is one thing but to realize that one is responsible for others survival as well, is incomprehensible unless you have experienced it yourself. It's an animal of a totally different color. A day's pay at back breaking labor was $1.00 and that's all one could sell his labor for, and some were willing to do it for less. You heard it said then and it's still repeated today, "Nobody died from starvation in the 30's" and perhaps there is some truth to that, but there sure was a lot of "Malnutrition" and the thought comes to mind that maybe "Malnutrition" is just another nice way of saying slow starvation.

I can remember clearly that I was given a physical at the age of 11 and the doctor conducting my examination was an elderly lady perhaps in her late 50's. I have no idea what the real circumstances were but I remember that it had to do with the fact that my mother was applying for some assistance in getting milk for the family. With three children, 11, 9, and 7 there just was no way that she could afford to buy milk for all three. So we were doing without milk, and it was showing in our physical condition. The doctor was quite disturbed and was arguing with some functionary about the fact that we had not been included in a program the City of Houston had where milk was being made available for those who qualified. The milk was being distributed at local fire stations throughout the city, but my family was not on the list. The doctor in a large and commanding voice, was heard by me to say "I don't give a damn what you say, I said these kids will be given a quart of milk a day period, now do it" and the social worker made out the necessary forms so that our family would be eligible for the free milk. I have no ideas who that doctor was, but I know that there are angels that walk this earth, and in reflecting on that moment now, I know she was one of them. Can you imagine an angel cursing? Well under certain circumstances they do, and I'll swear to it. It's hard to imaging an angel that is pissed off; believe me, when they get that way, you pay real close attention. So we got our milk.

I used to take two buckets with me and I would go to the local fire station which was quite some distance from where we lived and I would load those buckets up with jars of milk. It would be enough to take care of our needs for a whole week, whereupon I would return and repeat the process. Milk in those days was not pasteurized and was called "Raw" milk. The neck of the bottle was built different than the bottles we had later on when it was homogenized. It had a bulge at the top of the bottle, and you could see the line where the cream had risen to the top and was laying in that section of the bottle where the bulge was. The majority of the time we got skimmed milk which had its cream removed for making butter, but it still had a lot of nutritional value skimmed or not. Another thing I remember was that the cap on the bottle was a round cardboard lid with advertising on it. Today, the whole container is made of a cardboard composite. Do you remember when the milkman delivered milk in a glass bottle? I don't think I have ever tasted milk since that tasted like it did then. Nostalgia, nostalgia, how beautiful it is.

One summer, I think it was 1934 or 35, I can't remember, it was decided that I should go to spend sometime with some friends who had a farm in the Navasota, Hempstead area. The thinking was that I would get three square meals a day and perhaps put some weight on. I was not starving, but I was experiencing some malnutrition, so off I went. I remember, Aunt Fanny, (No relation), cooking pancakes and feeding the work hands sitting at a long table. The table could handle twenty people at one time, it was so immense, and she would cook pancakes by the dozen. They made sorghum molasses on the farm, and I can still see them slowly moving the mixture as it cooked on a roaring fire ever mindful of the fact that at some point it would all of a sudden get to the right consistency in thickness requiring it being removed from the fire immediately. Going past a certain point could also cause it to burn, and I have had the pleasure of having to put burnt molasses on my pancakes more than once. It couldn't be thrown away just because it was overcooked and burnt. And woe to the person whose job was to keep it moving in the ladle, who let it get past that certain point. I knew my day for stirring was coming, and sure enough, I sweated that ordeal with the certain knowledge that I wasn't going to mess up on my assigned task. When the liquid is first put into the vat, it's not unlike water in its viscosity, but as it cooks it slowly thickens and when I noticed the resistance to the pole I was stirring it with, I yelled like a banshee, because I knew too much longer and it would be burned. When you realize that if you burn the molasses, you are in for a real lambasting and your life threatened, you keep a close eye on what you are doing. I was lucky, I stirred the molasses many times, but I never let it burn. My guardian angle has been with me from an early age, even to this day.

Unless you’re my age or thereabouts, you don't have any idea what I'm talking about when I say "Picking Cotton." In the first place, it's most likely 110 degrees in the shade. You are dragging a canvas bag that is about 6 to 8 feet long and a diameter of a large wash bucket. The bag has a large loop at the opening which you put over your shoulder, and you literally drag that bag as you reach over and pick the boll of cotton and drop it into the bag. The protective leaves that surround the boll of cotton has sharp prickly points on it, and in no time at all, your fingers are bleeding from the pricks you endure. Not much fun I assure you. A grown man was expected to fill that bag up and with a lot of cramming could get many pounds into the bag. I don't remember exactly but it seems to be that all men strived to get 100 pounds for the day into the bag. And you would be immediately fired if they caught you, but more than one man who had to relieve himself would urinate into the bag. Anything to make that cotton heavier! Can you imagine how many bolls of cotton a man has to pick just to get one pound of cotton? I picked cotton right along with the rest that summer. I was shooting for ten pounds, and I made it. The bags were weighed on a devise where weights were suspended on a fulcrum to determine the weight of the cotton. All crude by modern standards, where a human hand no longer touches the boll of cotton, but rather a mechanized cotton picker comes along and strips the cotton from the plant, doing it thousands of times as fast and cheaper in the long run. Talk about Technological Unemployment and the machine replacing manual labor! But that's another story.

THE NEW DEAL & THE ALPHABET

2006-01-29T16:02:00.000-08:00

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

It would help you immensely, if you were my age or thereabouts, to understand what I am about to tell you. I remember distinctly hearing the inaugural speech given by the new elected president Franklin Delano Roosevelt. It was notably remembered by historians as the message where he said that “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.” I could be wrong about the exact words, but that was its meaning. That famous quote was followed by his saying that the nation needed a “New Deal.” and that leads me to the Alphabet.

Government agencies are notorious for acronyms, and I can understand the dilemma a new agency has when it has to tie its name with its function. I can relate to the problem in my own personal way. Let me digress for a moment. Many of you know that my wife’s name was Doris Elizabeth. So I tied her first two initials DE, into my initials WAJ, and came up with DEWAJ as an acronym for my DBA (Doing Business As) license. Also, DE in Spanish stands for “of” and it tied in well with the WAJ portion. So for years I used DEWAJ in many ways, including the registration of a Star in the constellation of Sagitta near Sagitarius to be designated as DEWAJ. I did that as a present to my wife on our wedding anniversary. When I decided to get my own web site, I wanted to use DEWAJ, which explains my doing business as DEWAJ Synergy International. That has worked well for some years now and I continue to use it to this day. However, when my wife died, I decided to really start concentrating on my web site in earnest. So I decided to have my own Spaceship and naturally I wanted to call it Spaceship DEWAJ. So far so good, I had used DEWAJ OK, but to tie the acronym to it was a problem. It took some time, but all of a sudden it hit me like a bolt of lightning. DEWAJ A “Daring Enterprise With A Journey.” and it fit perfectly. The idea was to have a Spaceship which would use Synergy to accomplish its mission to remain in orbit long after I am gone. By including others, we would use synergy and end up with an end result whose sum would be greater than the sum of the individual parts. I thought it to be a brilliant idea as an acronym and I’m real proud of it. So now my job is to make the acronym well known on the internet. That’s a daunting task, and I know I can’t do it alone. But if I can get any exposure at all, and with help from others who will be either Passive Passengers or Active Joint Venture Partners, I know that using Synergy, it can be done. Enough of that, to get back to “The New Deal & The Alphabet”

New administrations, whether government or private, are prone to come in with a new broom and give the place a clean sweep as it were. Roosevelt did this as well. So to give us all a “New Deal” required the building up of vast bureaucracies, all with high sounding names. Bureaucratic Alphabetization which was nothing new in government circles, really took off. If you can remember some of these, it will date you for sure, but I don’t care, in my case, you know I’m 80 right now, and I remember it with some nostalgia. Just to name a few. Do you remember the N.R.A. (National Recovery Act), how about the W.P.A. (Work Projects Administration), you can see the results of many projects completed under the W.P.A. to this day in the form of libraries, bridges, dams etc. The C.C.C. was another favorite one, especially for young kids who couldn’t find employment anywhere else. Here is a list I found and what they represented including some important dates.

United States bank holiday, 1933: closed all banks until they became certified by federal reviewers
Abandonment of gold standard, 1933: allowed more Money to be put in circulation to create a mild inflation
Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC), 1933: employed young adults to perform unskilled work for the federal government
Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA), 1933: a government program that ran a series of dams built on the Tennessee River
Federal Emergency Relief Administration (FERA), 1933: provided breadlines and other aid to the unemployed
Agricultural Adjustment Act (AAA), 1933: paid farmers to not grow crops
National Recovery Act (NRA), 1933: created fair standards in favor of labor unions
Civil Works Administration (CWA), 1933: provided temporary jobs to millions of unemployed
Public Works Administration (PWA), 1933: employed middle-aged skilled workers to work on public projects, cost $4 billion
Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (FDIC) / Glass-Steagall Act: insures deposits in banks in order to restore public confidence in banks
Securities Act of 1933, created the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC), 1933: codified standards for sale and purchase of stock, required risk of investments to be accurately disclosed
Indian Reorganization Act, 1934
Social Security Act (SSA), 1935: provided financial assistance to: elderly, handicapped, delinquent, unemployed; paid for by employee and employer payroll contributions
Works Progress Administration (WPA), 1935: a reiteration of the PWA, created useful work for skilled workers
National Labor Relations Act (NLRA) / Wagner Act, 1935: granted right of labor unions to exist
Fair Labor Standards Act (FLSA), 1938: established a maximum normal work week of 40 hours, and a minimum pay of 40 cents/hour

Although Roosevelt was attacked then as now for that matter, you would be hard pressed to get rid of some of those programs that are still with us today, even though they may have a different name. Social Security is one example. However, I want to point out some incongruities that to this day I don’t understand. Take for example the A.A.A. where farmers were paid NOT to grow crops. I understand the law of supply and demand and the need for a market to exist, but I can remember kerosene being poured on piles and piles of oranges then having them set on fire to destroy them, all the while, I would give my right arm just for the chance to savor the beautiful fruit denied me because I couldn’t afford to buy it. I can also remember agents of the government rounding up many head of cattle into a lot and indiscriminately shooting them dead. You would think, hoof and mouth decease, but it wasn’t that at all, just that there were TOO MANY cattle on the market and to sustain a price on cattle, you had to have a scarcity. All the while there were an awful lot of people who weren’t eating much meat believe me, and I was one of them.
These are just a few of the things that I remember occurring during that time which made me very cognizant of social conditions and some of the inequities that existed, many for no reason at all that made any sense to me. Somehow, my family survived. In my next entry to my blog, I’ll let you know how I did my best to understand and survive as well.

THE DEATH OF MY FATHER AND TAKING THE BLAME

2006-01-22T11:52:00.000-08:00

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

When my father passed away, I was lost. The finality of his passing was something that I couldn't quite fathom. It's as if I expected that something would happen to change what I was experiencing, and somehow he would be back in my life as if nothing had happened. It's hard to accept that a person who is so much a part of you, will never be again. For a youngster, it's the height of denial. To begin with, it's incomprehensible. But I remember clearly that morning that my mother had gone to the hospital to be with my dad and I decided that I would go to the hospital myself. The hospital was very close to where we lived and in no time I was there. I arrived to find my mother crying and when she saw me, she grabbed me and held me tight as she said, "Wallace, your daddy is dead, kiss your daddy goodby." In my minds eye, I can see him just as plain as if he were before me right now, lying on the bed, his eyes closed, and very still. The main thing I noticed was that he wasn't breathing. He just laid there, still. I touched him and felt his warmth. He had just died before I came into the room. I bent over and kissed him as my mother had told me to do. Gettin no response from him, it was then that the reality of it hit me, and I knew he was gone.

That wasn't my first experience with someone who had passed on, but the previous occassion was back in Havana, Cuba with the passing of my grandmother, and although I loved her dearly, my loss didn't compare to the passing of my father. My father dearly loved all three of us, but for some reason, Iv'e always felt that I was special to him, which I now understand is not uncommon thinking. For a long while, my dad not being around just didn't fit in. We take people for granted, never giving thought to the possibility of their not being around. He was always there when I needed him, and to accept the fact that his love and counseling would no longer be availble to me was just something that I couldn't accept. I was in total denial, and it affected me to the core of my being.

Things would flash through my mind about him. I recall, as a child while living in Cuba, he would depart our home and I would follow him to the front yard. There I would look at him as he walked to the refinery grounds and to work. I would yell at him "Bye Daddy" "Bye Daddy" and he would turn around everytime and yell back "Bye Son" I don't know how many times I would yell at him saying my good byes and he always turned and called back to me. This would go on till he was just a small dot in the distance and could no longer hear me. This was a ritual that took place every morning and I can see it plainly now as if it happened yesterday. Another thing that stands out in my memory of him was something of a ritual in the home. I was always getting into his lap, especially when he was trying to read his paper. Although he had hair on the sides and on the back of his head, he was somewhat bald on the top of his head. I also remember that he had very large veins on his scalp which facinated me. I would run my index finger along the veins which were so prominent on his bald head pushing the blood along with my finger, and it would be like I was in a car on a road which was weaving back and forth. For some reason, I got great pleasure doing that and would giggle at the fun of it. I know I was a bother to him, as he tried to read his paper, but not once did he ever complain. He really was a patient man.

It's funny how you recall certain things. When it begin to sink in that my dad was really gone and would never return, I started to wonder to what degree I was responsible for his not being there. As a grown adult, I now know that children quite often blame themselves for the loss of a father or mother. I was no different at the time. I would recall, that my father had a saying "You kids are going to be the death of me yet." This statement was an aside to some activity his kids were up to which he didn't approve of, and it was said due to something I had done on more than one occasion. It just goes to show you how important little things can add up to. It's natural as I said, for a youngster to try to figure out if the death of a parent was in any way something he might be responsible for. Those words of his came ringing back to me at that time, and it bothered me something awful. I just knew that I had something to do with his death and was somehow responsible for it. It was very difficult dealing with that guilt, and I am sure that it affected me at the time in ways emotional. Those days were very difficult for me, and as I said before, I really dont know how I would have faired had it not been for Mr. Duggan, the kind gentleman who looked after the family, Ms. Smith, my home room teacher, and Ms. Norris, who was my music teacher. There were many more, but they stick out prominently right now, as the people who most were responsible for my transition as a young juvenile into the stark world of reality. They helped me grow up fast. I began to see my world the way it really was. The year 1935 was a rough year not only for me, but for countless others. I saw I was living in a world capable of boundless abundance, and yet poverty surrounded us all. The depression was hitting us hard.

LIFE IN THE 30's. (Cont.)

2006-01-16T20:37:00.000-08:00

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

It was 1935 when my father died. I was 11. I had a Sister (Wanda) who was 9, and a brother (Willis), who was 7 and the youngest of the three. Mother did her best to hold the family together and I did my best to take my fathers place since I was the older of the three children. Mother ended up working as a seamstress for the WPA (Works Progress Administration). Franklin Delano Roosevelt was the president of the United States and his "New Deal" with its alphabetism of Federal Agencies, was an attempt at government to solve the ensuing problems associated with the results of the market crash of 29. Were it not for some of those programs, I really don't know what our family would have done. My mother had two brothers and a sister that lived in Houston and I remember that my uncle Raphael moved in to help mother with the rent. It was the sum total of $12.00 a month for a two bedroom apartment. I still remember the address as 1213 Decatur St. and I was attending Dow Junior High School.

But let me go back a little and fill you in on some of the little things that I remember during that time which made such an impression on me as a young boy. Before my father died, he arrived in Houston with some savings, and I remember him going up to Navasota and the Hemstead area of Texas to look at some land to buy thinking that maybe if things really got bad he could somehow live off the land if he had to. I can see him now reaching down and picking up some of the loam and crushing it in his hand and actually smelling it, as if to get a feel for its quality. I know now that he was trying to determine whether the land would be fruitful and able to sustain a family of five. Thank God he decided that there was no way the land could support us. It too was worn out and useless so we returned to Houston where he ultimately bought the Texaco Filling station.

While in the Navasota area, we stayed with my Uncle Fernando and his wife Malcom whom he had recently married. Her father had a small farm, and it somehow fed us all and kept us together. Here is where I got an appreciation for the land and the other animals we shared our meager existence with. You have to see how the lower animals struggle to survive the visitations we as humans bring to them. You have to see animals give birth, then those born become beast of burdern followed by their dying, to marvel at the wonder of it all. And you dont have to be too sharp of mind to realize that somehow we as animals fall into the same circumstance as we live our human experience. To survive, we as humans have somewhat of an advantage due to our higher intelligence, but sometimes I am saddened when I realize how little we think of the lower animals and the way we treat them. I remember vividly one occassion when a poor mule was being used to drag a scupper which was used to take out the muck and mud at the bottom of what was actually a drinking pond for the animals. It was low on water and the mule would walk through the mud and the scupper would take out the mud. Unfortunatelly, the poor mule got bogged down in the mud up to is belly, it coudn't move out on its own much less pull the scupper through the muck and mud. The farm owner who at the time was drunk and mad with rage at the mule, took a chain and started to beat the poor animal. The animal was crying out in terror at the pain inflicted on him and I in turn who was watching this bestiality was crying out loud as well. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Undoubtedly the drunkard thought that if he inflicted enough pain on the animal, the animal would somehow miraculously gain sufficient strength to extricate himself from its predicament. It ultimately required chains being wrapped aroud the neck of the animal and a string of men literrally had to drag the poor beast out. How that animal survived his treatment at the hands of that man is beyond me, but I think of that episode often when I see someone mistreat a lower animal for no reason at all. I believe it is a sad reflection on the human conditions when we treat animals the way we do only because they are "lower" animals. If we allow our children to mistreat animals, then why should we be surprised when those children become adults, and have little regard for the feelings of humans? They have become desensitized to those feelings necessary to understand the sanctity of a living being, whether a lower animal or a higher human animal. There are too many of us that have forgotten that humans are animals too. It's no wonder it is so easy to have men kill each other in this thing called "war." The lower animals kill as a necessity for survival, whereas man kills in many cases for no reason that has anything to do with survival. As I said, it's a sad reflection on the human condition.

As I said previously, when by father returned to Houston he bought a Texaco filling station as an investment. My aunt Mary's husband Joe Ferguson ran the station for him. It was onLeeland Ave, and I remember it well. However, as you can imagine, any investment during those years quite oftern went sour. Nothing seemed to work out and in short order the small stake he brought back to the States after leaving Cuba, dwindled and he found himself just as broke as many others were in those dark days. It wasn't too long after, that he had an accident at the refinery. His health suffered and his spirit as well. His body slowly gave in and he died a rather sudden death. His death certificate says he died of Uremic Poisoning due to Kidney failure. In those days, a lot of people died for reasons unknown. Pneumonia was often the culprit, and in my fathers case I don't really know what the cause of death was exactly. I believe, it was more from a broken heart than anything else. We believe he was 49 at the time.

THE DEPRESSION YEARS Cont. Life In The 30's.

2006-01-06T12:39:00.000-08:00

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

LIFE IN THE 30's

Things were rough in the 30's. My Mother did all she could to keep the family together after my Father passed away. I was 11 and doing rather well in school, but it wasn't without the help of some people I will never forget. In particular, my music teacher Ms. Norris. I was laboring to master the violin and cello, and as it happens from time to time, one of my strings would break, and there I would be. I couldn't afford to buy strings, but somehow, the next time it came to be at practice, Ms. Norris would hand me the necessary string. I know she couldn't afford those extra expenses herself, but as a substitute teacher currently, I know that teachers quite often supply their students with necessary items which students can't afford themselves. Teachers are a special lot, at least the good ones are, and Ms. Norris was one of those. She was very instrumental in my appreciation of music in all of its forms and she was a very imnportant part in the eventual formulation of the person I am now and have been in the past. She was a kind soul and I will never forget her.

Another person I will never forget was a Mr. Ben Duggan. He was an executive for an insurance company there in Houston, Texas. He was notified about my particular circumstances by my home room teacher Ms. Fern Smith. He took it upon himself to more or less adopt the family, me in particular since I was the older of my syblings. I remember on one occassion being taken to a professional baseball game for the first time. It was the Houston Buffaloes, and we had seats right behind home plate. I'm not much on sports, but I was impressed with the whole thing and now realize how kind he was to me and my family. I saw him as a good man who was just trying to do a kind act out of the goodness of his heart. During the war, while I was overseas, my mother wrote me inform me of his passing by sending me a clipping of his obituary which was in the Houston Chronicle. I still have that clipping believe it or not. He was a special person, put on this earth for a special reason, and I now realize I was part of it in a small way. I came to find out that my family wasn't the only one who he helped and he was highly respected in the Houston business community for his various charities.

I mentioned my home room teacher Ms. Fern Smith. If there ever was an angel who walked the earth, she was one. I had her in the third grade while I was attending Hawthorne Elementary School. Let me digress for a moment. While living in Cuba, I had attended school on refinery grounds and was in the third grade. All classes were taught in spanish. I was lucky because my mother would speak to me in Spanish and my Father would speak to me in English. I always responded in Spanish. So I understood both, but my main tongue was Spanish. When I started school in Houston, with my language problems, I was put in the first grade. I picked up my English speaking abilities rapidly and within a years time found myself in the third grade. So I was at the proper grade level for my age in no time. Ms. Smith, was my home room teacher at the time my father passed away and took an immediate interest in me and my family. She became very close to the family and would visit from time to time insuring all was well and that we were being cared for. She was the person who told Mr. Duggan about my family and I kept in constant contact with her with personal visits and correspondence through the years
My first letter from her came when she wrote on the passing of my father. I still have that letter. I wrote to her and visited with her on many occassions through the years until her passing when she was in her 90's. She was an old maid, never married, who was very frugal, but somehow amassed an impresive portfolio of stock holdings and real estate, which came to a sizable sum. I remember clearly, during WWII, I was on leave one day, and I visited her. She was having her lawn mowed by a young boy who lived next door to her and she introduced me to him. I remember the occassion well, because although I was 19 or so at the time, he made an impression on me, for it was obvious Ms. Smith thought well of him. Ms. Smith dabbled in oil paintings and was quite prolific with pastoral scenes and flowers. During one of my letter writings to her in the 90's, I received a letter from an attorney by the name of Kennedy. He informed me of her passing, that he was her lawyer and was the executor of her estate. He informed me that in her estate, she had mentioned me by name, and that I was to have the choice of three of her paintings. Not only was I shocked to hear of her passing, but the fact that she remembered me in this special way was totally unexpected. I have those paintings to this day and I cherish them, but the most surprising thing of this commentary, is the fact that the attorney who contacted me about my legacy was the very same young boy who lived next door to her and to whom I had been introduced to while on Navy leave in 1944. I'ts funny how unimportant little things can seem to be at the time they take place only to realize much later that the moment was a pivotal one in future events. Maybe there is a lesson here for us to consider. I personaly believe that every moment is precious, and that it should be reflected on as important to the extreme. Now that I am in my autumn years, I realize how true this is.

MY SPACESHIP DEWAJ

2006-01-01T13:15:00.000-08:00

DEWAJ

A "DARING ENTERPRISE WITH A JOURNEY"

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 formely married my mother. As the Superintindent of the Beloit, refinery in Havana, we lived on Sandard 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 dolted 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 bivuoacked 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.