Tag: dayton ohio

Categories
Dayton Ohio Fathers Living

Three Machines

A worn IBM Selectric typewriter sitting beside a small offset printing press in a modest Berkeley print shop, late afternoon light through a storefront window, warm and slightly nostalgic, documentary photography style, no text or people visible.

I’m a chapter into Jeff Jarvis’s new book Hot Type. It tells the Linotype’s story from the top down — the tragic inventors, the media moguls, Mark Twain bankrupting himself on a rival machine. Publishers Weekly calls it “colorful and enthralling,” and the part I’ve read is. But reading it, I kept thinking about a story it doesn’t tell: not the story of one machine, but of a man who lived through three.

The first machine

My dad, Carl, was a Linotype operator, and later a foreman, at Dayton Typographic Service in the 1950s. The Linotype histories always start with Ottmar Mergenthaler, the engineer who built the machine in 1886, and they linger on the tycoons who bought fleets of them. That’s the inventor’s history.

The operator’s history starts with a man at a 90-key keyboard — arranged by letter frequency, which is why the most famous typo in newspaper history reads “etaoin shrdlu,” the mark of a finger run down the first two columns to flag a mistake. It continues with molten lead at 550 degrees, the clank and hiss of the caster, a smell that got into your clothes and never quite came out.

The Linotype didn’t deskill typesetting; it reskilled it. The hand compositors it replaced — the Swifts, who once held typesetting races before paying audiences of thousands — saw a centuries-old craft wither. But the machine demanded its own expertise: reading copy and keyboarding at speed, hearing a misaligned mold before it ruined a line, keeping a finicky foundry running through a deadline night. My dad’s generation learned that machine the way a musician learns an instrument.

On Saturday mornings he’d take me along while he caught up on work. I was watching a trade at its peak — I just didn’t know the peak was already behind it.

The second machine

Phototypesetting killed the Linotype the way the Linotype had killed hand-composition. My dad didn’t ride that one out. He left Dayton and, in Berkeley, opened a small offset print shop on Oxford Street, across from the Cal campus. The 90-key keyboard became an IBM Selectric; molten lead became offset plates. It was a real re-skilling, not a small one — a different machine, a different trade, at an age when most people stop learning new ones.

The third machine

The shop found its footing on a strange, narrow market: Berkeley then required graduate theses to be printed, not “Xeroxed,” and there was steady, respectable work in doing properly what a photocopier could only do badly. For a while, that requirement was the business.

It didn’t last. The rule changed, the copier got good enough, and the market my dad had built his second act on simply stopped existing — the same way the compositor’s market had stopped existing, the same way the Linotype operator’s had. Three machines, three trades, one man standing on each shrinking piece of ground in turn.

Whose story is it

Linotype histories, as a genre, get written about the men who owned the machines and the men who built them. Even the operator’s history — when someone bothers to tell it — usually stops at one displacement, as if a man who loses his trade to a machine either finds a permanent new one or doesn’t. My dad found three, in succession, each one narrower than the last, and the history of that — of re-skilling as a way of life rather than a one-time event — doesn’t get written at all. It just gets lived, by somebody’s father, and remembered, if it’s lucky, by somebody’s son.

Categories
Living Memories

The Depth of the Dimes

The lifeguard came out with a canvas bag, and that was the signal. Saturday morning, Kettering, Ohio, the municipal pool not yet warmed by the day, and forty kids arranging themselves along the edge like something had been rehearsed, though nobody had rehearsed it. We knew the shape of the thing without being told. He would walk to about the middle of the deck, and he would start throwing coins into the water.

Not pennies, mostly. I remember that distinctly, the way you remember the specifics of a thing you can’t explain the pull of. Nickels and dimes, a scattering of quarters, no half dollars that I ever saw hit the surface. Somebody in the recreation department had made a decision about denominations, a budget, maybe, or a sense of what a Saturday morning was worth to forty kids in Ohio in the summer, and none of us thought about that then. We watched the coins fall instead. That’s the part I keep returning to — not the diving, the falling. Coins don’t drop through water the way they drop through air. They wobble. They catch light and lose it. They take their time getting to the bottom, and you’d track one the way you’d track a hawk, losing it, finding it again against the pool floor, memorizing the spot before it disappeared into the general scatter of everything else he’d thrown.

We tried to angle ourselves near the shallow end, obviously. That was the whole strategy, such as it was — get positioned somewhere you could stand, somewhere your ears wouldn’t need to fight the pressure, somewhere the breath-holding would be a formality instead of a genuine risk. But the lifeguard wasn’t interested in making it easy. He’d throw a few coins shallow, just enough to keep the little kids occupied, and then he’d load up the deep end, and that’s where the real money went down. If you wanted more than a couple of nickels, you had to go where you couldn’t stand.

Then the countdown, and then all of us at once, forty kids hitting the water in the same three seconds, which meant the water itself turned against you before you’d even started looking — churned, clouded, chlorine stinging worse than usual because now there were elbows in it, knees, someone’s foot near your face. I wasn’t especially good at it. I want to say that plainly, because I don’t think I was; I’d come up with a handful, four or five coins, sometimes a quarter if I’d gotten lucky with the angle, and that felt like enough. Enough to matter. Enough to walk back to the locker room afterward with my trunks pocket sagging and clinking, enough to spend the rest of the morning transferring nickels and dimes into my actual pants pocket like a kid who’d earned something.

There was a boy down the street whose father worked at NCR, and some Saturdays he’d disappear to Old River instead — a real pool, he made sure we knew, an enormous one, with none of this scrounging-for-change business. I remember being aware of that difference without being able to name what it meant. He had the better pool. We had the lifeguard with the canvas bag.

I came across a piece online the other day, something about swimming and what it might mean, the kind of essay that circles a simple physical act until it turns into a meditation on something larger, and it knocked this memory loose after forty years of sitting untouched. I don’t know why that particular Saturday ritual is the one that stayed. Not the swimming lessons, not the diving board, not anything a person would call a memory on purpose. Just the coins going down, and all of us watching them go, already planning where we’d be standing when the countdown ended.

Categories
Food and Drink Living

The Toast

The bread came out dark, most days — darker than it needed to be. I never said anything. She’s gone now, and the sandwich has become a kind of monument, and you don’t deface a monument.

It was Wonder Bread, always — the wrapper with the balloons, bought on the same trip as the milk. My father’s favorite bread was Roman Meal, for his sandwiches with cold cuts, ham and bologna. Not with this one, though. The BLT got Wonder Bread. No special reason for it. Just the reason a family has for anything: once, and then always.

Kraft mayonnaise, from the jar. The same jar for everything else. Mom did not experiment. She had the regular things she made, and made them the same way every time.

Dad was picky about most food. This one he ate. I don’t know why. Maybe nothing beats bacon fat and tomato juice. Maybe it got in early, before he’d built his defenses, and stayed in by seniority.

No pickles in her BLTs. I didn’t miss them then. We use Claussen slices now, cut flat for this exact purpose, and good farmers’ market tomatoes when the season allows it.

Lunch, mostly. Rarely dinner.

Past a certain point, toast stops helping the tomato and starts blocking it. Hers had crossed that point, most days. I ate it anyway. Said nothing.

We make our own now, on sourdough, and it has never once tasted like hers. Not technique. You don’t get the sandwich back — any more than the kitchen, or the summer, or a mother at the counter making lunch for a picky man and a son who never once told her.

Note: inspired by the article “The Secret to a Perfect BLT Isn’t What You Think” by J.J. Goode in the New York Times.

Categories
AI Bicycles History

The Bicycle Shop

Part 2 of 3…

It is eleven-thirty on a Tuesday night and she is arguing with a language model about a spreadsheet.

Not arguing, exactly. That’s not the right word. She is coaxing. She is debugging. She is reading error messages that tell her almost nothing and rewriting prompts that almost work, and she has been doing this for two hours, and the spreadsheet still isn’t right, and she is going to try one more thing before she gives up and does it by hand. She is a data analyst at a mid-sized logistics company in Columbus, Ohio. She is not a researcher. She is not a founder. Nobody is writing about her. She is just a person trying to get a machine to do something useful, and the machine keeps almost doing it, and she keeps learning, in the gap between almost and done, something she couldn’t have learned any other way.

She doesn’t know what she’s learning. That’s the important part.

In 1892, two brothers opened a bicycle repair shop on West Third Street in Dayton, Ohio. The bicycle craze was at its peak — the safety bicycle, with its two equal wheels and chain drive, had just replaced the penny-farthing, that absurd high-wheeler everybody called loose change and the riders, with complete seriousness, called the ordinary. The brothers fixed flats and adjusted brakes and built custom frames and ordered parts from Coventry and kept the books and swept the floor. It was ordinary work. Nobody was writing about them either. What they were doing was accumulating, without knowing they were accumulating, a physical understanding of how machines move through space — the gyroscopic principles, the weight distribution, the thousand small calibrations that kept a rider from falling. They were learning in their hands what no university taught and no book fully contained.

Eleven years later they flew.

We tell the Wright Brothers story as a story about flight. It makes sense — flight is the thing, the miracle, the moment the world changed. But the actual story, the one that explains how Kitty Hawk was possible, is a story about a bicycle shop. It is a story about unglamorous preparatory work, about the education that hides inside the constraint, about what you learn in the gap between the machine that exists and the machine that should exist. Orville and Wilbur didn’t go to Kitty Hawk despite the bicycle shop. They went because of it. The shop was the point. They just didn’t know it yet.

We are in the bicycle shop right now.

The people building with AI today — the prompt engineers, the fine-tuners, the agent builders, the data analysts in Columbus arguing with spreadsheets at midnight — are doing work that looks, from the outside, like mere tinkering. Unglamorous. Iterative. Full of failure. The tools are awkward. The models hallucinate. The context windows run out at the wrong moment. Every solution opens three new problems. It feels like the penny-farthing: powerful enough to be useful, constrained enough to be maddening, requiring a kind of practiced vault just to get started.

But that awkwardness is the education.

Every time a prompt fails, the person writing it learns something about how the model thinks — about what it responds to, what it resists, where it gets confused, where it surprises you. Every agent that breaks in production teaches its builder something about the gap between what a model can do in a demo and what it can do under load, with real data, with users who don’t behave the way you expected. Every context window that runs out forces a decision about what actually matters, what is essential, what can be cut. These are not just technical lessons. They are epistemic ones. They are lessons about the nature of intelligence, about how meaning gets encoded and retrieved, about what it means for a machine to understand something versus to pattern-match on the surface of understanding.

The people learning these lessons right now don’t have a name for what they know. They just know it in their hands.

This is how it always works. James Starley’s craftsmen in Coventry bent and brazed bicycle frames by feel and experience, knowing things in their hands they couldn’t fully explain on paper. That embodied knowledge — the tight tolerances, the interchangeable parts, the discipline of making things that had to work — migrated into every bicycle shop that followed, crossed the Atlantic, and ended up in a shed in Ohio. The Wright Brothers didn’t invent precision manufacturing. They inherited it, absorbed it, and applied it to a problem nobody else had solved because nobody else had brought those particular hands to that particular problem.

The chain drive was the hinge. Before it, the bicycle’s design was locked — bigger wheel for more speed, higher and higher off the ground, until the machine teetered at the edge of what a human could survive. The chain drive broke the constraint. It decoupled the pedals from the wheel, let the gearing do what only size had done before, brought the rider back to earth. What had been a machine for athletes became a machine for everyone. What had been the ordinary became, almost overnight, something new.

We are waiting for the chain drive.

Not waiting passively — it is being built right now, in a hundred places at once, by people who mostly don’t know they’re building it. It might be the interface that finally makes AI genuinely accessible to people who can’t do the running vault. It might be the memory architecture that lets a model carry context the way a human carries context, not in a window but in something more like experience. It might be something nobody has named yet, something that will seem obvious afterward, the way all elegant solutions seem obvious after the fact.

What it will not be is the product of people who stayed away from the bicycle shop.

The analyst in Columbus closes her laptop at midnight. The spreadsheet is still not right. She has learned three things about how the model handles date formatting, two things about how it interprets ambiguous column headers, and one thing about her own assumptions that she didn’t know she was making. Tomorrow she will try again. She will get closer. At some point — not tomorrow, maybe not this year — she will get it right, and the thing she learned in the gap will be available to her for the next problem, and the one after that, and she will carry it forward without knowing she’s carrying it, the way craft always travels, in hands that have done the work.

She doesn’t know what she’s riding toward.

That’s the ordinary part. That’s always been the ordinary part.

Categories
Aircraft Bicycles Dayton Ohio History

The Ordinary

Part 1 of 3…

The man sitting atop a penny-farthing in the summer of 1879 is five feet off the ground. He weighs maybe one hundred and fifty pounds. The wheel beneath him is fifty-four inches across — taller than most of the children who stop to watch him pass. He got up there by running alongside the machine, hooking a foot on a small peg above the rear wheel, and vaulting himself upward in a single practiced motion. He will dismount the same way: a controlled fall forward, a hop, gravity made manageable by repetition. He has done this so many times that he no longer thinks about it. He thinks about the road ahead.

He is not a daredevil. He is a commuter.

The people on the sidewalk call his machine a penny-farthing, which is a joke dressed up as a name. A penny was the largest British coin; a farthing the smallest, worth one quarter of a penny. Seen from the street, the big front wheel and its tiny rear companion looked exactly like the two coins set side by side. Some wit had noticed, and the name stuck. The riders themselves refused it. They called their machine the ordinary — because to them, it was exactly that, the standard form, the rational machine, the obvious answer. They said ordinary with complete seriousness while everyone else was calling it loose change.

This tells you something about the people who rode it. And about the machine they thought they were riding.

The penny-farthing was not a circus prop. It was the highest expression of an engineering logic that had no other options. The pedals connected directly to the front axle. One rotation of the legs meant one rotation of the wheel. If you wanted to go faster, you needed a bigger wheel. It was that simple. It was that brutal. The geometry of human ambition ran directly through the circumference of that front wheel, and the front wheel kept getting bigger, and the riders kept climbing higher, until the whole enterprise teetered at the edge of what a human being could reasonably mount and survive.

The high-wheeler was not a mistake. It was the answer to a question no one yet knew how to ask differently.

The machines were built in Coventry, England, by craftsmen who bent and brazed steel frames by hand, fitted wire spokes under tension — a Starley innovation that made the wheel lighter than anyone expected — and pressed solid rubber tires onto rims by feel and experience. James Starley had essentially invented the industry in 1871, and Coventry became its Detroit: a concentration of metalworking skill that fed on itself, that knew things in its hands it couldn’t fully explain on paper.

Then, in the mid-1880s, someone put a chain on it.

The chain-and-sprocket drive seems obvious now, the way all elegant solutions seem obvious after the fact. Decouple the pedals from the wheel. Run a chain from a sprocket near the rider’s feet to a smaller sprocket at the rear axle. Suddenly the wheel didn’t have to be enormous — the gearing could do what only size had done before. The front wheel came down. The rear wheel came up to match it. The rider dropped five feet closer to the earth. The machine that emerged from this rearrangement was called, without any particular irony, the safety bicycle. It was safe. It was fast. It was something a woman in a skirt could ride, something a child could learn on, something that didn’t require a running vault to mount.

The ordinary had been a machine for athletes. The safety bicycle was a machine for everyone.

By the 1890s it had become something close to a religious phenomenon. Factories couldn’t keep up with demand. Doctors wrote approvingly of its effects on the nervous system, the cardiovascular system, the general disposition of the modern soul. Roads were improved because cyclists demanded it. The bicycle arrived before the automobile and prepared the world for it — softened the ground, culturally speaking, for the idea that ordinary people might move through space under their own mechanical power, faster than their feet could carry them, farther than their legs could take them. It was the first technology to feel like freedom to people who had never felt that way before.

In Dayton, Ohio, two brothers watched all of this happen and decided to get into the business.

Orville and Wilbur Wright were not, in the beginning, aviation pioneers. They were bicycle mechanics. They opened their shop in 1892, right at the peak of the craze, and what they learned there — the feel of a machine in motion, the gyroscopic principles of balance and control, the importance of getting the weight right, the importance of understanding what a human body can and cannot do at speed — was an education no university offered and no book could fully provide. They learned it with their hands. They learned it in the gap between the machine that existed and the machine that should exist.

The Wrights were not the only ones in Dayton thinking about bicycles. The Huffman Manufacturing Company had opened its doors the same year as the Wright Cycle Company — 1892, the peak of the craze, the same fever in the same city. Huffman would eventually become Huffy, and Huffy would eventually become the bicycle every American child found under the Christmas tree. Dayton was doing something in those years. It was a city that couldn’t stop thinking about how people move. The precision those Coventry craftsmen had developed — interchangeable parts, tight tolerances, the discipline of making things that had to work — migrated into every bicycle shop that followed, including a small one on West Third Street.

The chain drive had taught the world that the right mechanical insight could make an impossible thing ordinary. You didn’t have to accept the constraints you were handed. You could re-ask the question.

Orville and Wilbur had been paying attention.

When they went to Kitty Hawk in 1903, they brought with them a bicycle chain. It connected the engine to the propellers. The same principle — a sprocket, a chain, a transferred force — that had brought the penny-farthing rider down from his absurd perch now lifted two men off the ground for the first time in human history.

The man on the high-wheeler in 1879 did not know he was riding toward the Wright Brothers. He was just going to work. But the machine beneath him, the one everybody called loose change and he called ordinary, was already asking the question that would take twenty years to answer.

What happens when you finally get the wheel the right size?

The roller chain — the specific form that connected pedal to wheel and made the safety bicycle possible — was invented in Manchester in 1879 by a Swiss engineer named Hans Renold. He was refining a design that Leonardo da Vinci had sketched in a notebook around 1500. Leonardo could imagine it. He couldn’t make it. The world needed four hundred years of improving machine tools before anyone could hold the tolerances tight enough to build what Leonardo had already seen. The idea arrived centuries before the craft caught up. It is always this way.

Categories
Living

The Linotype

“Sometimes when I went to fetch proofs in the composing room I would scoot up the metal stairs through the hole in the newsroom ceiling a few minutes early and stand by one of the Linotype operators and, fascinated, watch him work. The operator, seated at a keyboard and working from single-take segments of newsroom copy, transformed the words letter by letter into pieces of metal type fashioned from hot lead. When he struck the key, the lead was in a molten state, and then the machine would magically spit out single lines of solidified hard-set type in word form. Each line stacked itself upon the previous one, the whole stack of type exactly a newspaper column wide. It was this miracle machine, invented in the late nineteenth century, that had upended the basic system of movable type going back to Gutenberg.” (Carl Bernstein, Chasing History)

This quotation from Chasing History by Carl Bernstein brought back memories of my dad who spend many hours in front of the keyboard of various Linotype machines over the years.

My earliest memories of him doing that were at Dayton Typographic Service in Dayton, Ohio where we lived during the 1950’s. Dad was one of the foremen there and he’d sometimes go in on Saturdays to catch up on work – and often take me along. Those excursions were always fun for me – so much for a young boy to explore in the shop on those quiet Saturday mornings.

I’ve been thinking recently about how certain smells are part of our memories – and this is another one of those. I’m remembering the smell of the pots of molten lead on the row of Linotype machines where Dad worked. Unlike any other smell I’ve come across in my life. Not a bad smell, just very unique. Bernstein’s quotation brought it back to life for me this morning!

Carl Loftesness – Linotype at Dayton Typographic Service
Categories
Aircraft Dayton Ohio

Constellations

Lockheed 749 Constellation Airliner (aircraft; aeroplanes)

As a kid, I grew up in Dayton, Ohio – home of the Wright Brothers, Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, the original Air Force Museum, etc. There was a lot of aviation energy in Dayton!

One of things I remember doing with my Dad was driving out (usually on a Sunday – he liked to go for a Sunday drive) to the Dayton Airport which was in Vandalia, Ohio.

We could get close enough to be able to see the airliners coming and going – and the most striking of those back in my era were the TWA Lockheed Constellations. These four-engine beauties were quite a sight to behold – with beautiful streamlined lines, four big rotary engines, that triple tail, and striking red and white TWA colors. Wikipedia notes:

The April 1957 OAG shows 73-weekday departures: 56 TWA, 13 American, and 4 Lake Central. TWA had two nonstops to New York but no other nonstops reached beyond Chicago-Detroit-Cleveland-Pittsburgh-Cincinnati. The first jets were TWA Convair 880s from Chicago in January 1961.

A beautifully restored Lockheed Constellation arrived this week at the annual EAA AirVenture 2023 event at Oshkosh, WI. It brought back good memories of those days with my Dad at the airport in Vandalia. Beautiful to watch this lovely restored “Connie” arrive and land at Oshkosh. This particular Connie is restored as an Air Force VC-121A, a VIP transport model nicknamed Columbine II first used as Air Force One back in the Eisenhower administration.

Here’s a great article about learning to fly the Constellation.

The Wikipedia note above reminded also that I first saw the Convair 880 jetliner at the airport in Dayton. I always thought the Convair 880 (and the later 990) were the most beautiful jetliners in terms of design!

Here’s a good article about piloting the Convair 880!

The 880 was the fastest of the first-generation jet airliners. We could cruise it at Mach .85 and the Mmo was .88. Some thought that is where Convair came up with the number 880. Others thought it was because the passenger cabin had 88 seats and 88 windows. Your guess is as good as mine…

The author goes on to tell a good story about meeting his future wife – “Sharon is the only thing I ever stole from TWA.”

Ah, so many good memories were triggered by that Oshkosh arrival this week!