MAD ABOUT THE BOY

Male call. Our first son is born. 02/29/2016 

MAD ABOUT THE BOY

Despite my reluctance to buy a house, I bravely agreed with Angie that we should have another baby, hoping it would be a boy. It really did not make any difference to us, as another girl would fit into our lives just as readily and perhaps more so. From the different way she carried, Angie decided our next infant would be a male which indeed it turned out to be.

Barry Gerard came into our lives on August 19, 1960, and made a welcome addition to the family. He arrived on time at Sequoia Hospital, Redwood City, where Angie had become a well-known patient, a frequent flier, if you will. Barry checked in at 8 pounds, 9 ounces, the heaviest birth weight of any of our children.

He received quite a homecoming. Angie’s sister Jo had decided to visit us to give Angie a hand. Some hand. She brought along her two children, Linda and Joseph, six and four respectively. The three of them screamed at each other continuously, so it seemed. Their constant bickering upset me.

To make matters worse, our three oldest and Jo’s two children got strep throats. The pharmacist looked at the prescription and asked, "How the hell many sick kids do you have?" At home, we set up a production line, spooning penicillin down their throats.

After Jo returned to New York, we took the plunge and arranged to purchase our first house, located at 20 Burgoyne Court, San Mateo in a development of six hundred homes built by a man named Eichler. Our 1,800 sq. ft. four-bedroom, two-bath ranch home featured exterior redwood siding, exposed Douglas fir beams that supported a flat tar roof, radiant heat floors and Philippine mahogany plywood walls. Floor-to-ceiling glass panels in the master bedroom and living room gave the house an airy and open feeling. We fell in love with this dream house, even if we were the second owners. Eichler-built homes became the rage in later years, and remain in demand to this day.

While we were ecstatic at living in such a beautiful home, we experienced a new problem. Jamie began to stutter early in 1960, shortly before Barry’s birth. At the same time, she began to exhibit obstinate behavior, such as refusing to hold my hand while out walking, running to the end of the street, attempting to cross over by herself, unwilling to stay with the family while out shopping or in church. She wanted to play in front of the house on a busy street, rather than the fenced back yard.  

We tried everything to make her stop stuttering. Nothing worked until we followed the recommendation of a pediatrician, Dr. Podolksy, who suggested we give Jamie more freedom. We had just moved to our new home. A few days later, we opened the front door, and told Jamie she could go out and play. In two weeks, Jamie stopped stuttering, and never did so again.  By the end of the year, we were one big happy family again.

The Christmas season of 1960 remains one of our most memorable. That year we bought an aluminum tree for $20, complete with rotating stand and spinning color light wheel. It made the Season bright. We surrounded it with gifts of every sort. But my job appeared to be in jeopardy, and that cast some gloom on my spirit.

Foster Wheeler’s cooling tower business continued to decline amid ruthless competition. Rumors abounded that FWC might sell its cooling tower business to a rival. It seemed likely my employment in this field would end. I had no work experience that remotely qualified me for work in the Silicon Valley high-tech industry. At the time, the Lockheed Corporation’s Polaris Missile contract ended and the company laid off thousands of workers from its Sunnyvale plant, few of whom could find jobs. Many families abandoned their homes and moved away. 

As the financial misfortunes of the cooling tower department continued to sink, a new cloud formed over the business. Customers began to report that many existing towers made of redwood were exhibiting signs of rot. The company appointed me to serve on a Technical Committee of the Cooling Tower Institute, investigating wood preservatives designed to extend the life of towers made of redwood or Douglas fir. This committee met periodically at different cities around the country to discuss the issue. A few members decided to shorten the official name to the “Drunk Committee,” which gives you some idea of the party atmosphere that prevailed at these meetings. One year we met in El Paso. At the end of our session, we headed across the border to Juarez, a rather sordid Mexican border town, a bad scene. In one dive, we heard three young men singing great songs. They called themselves the Kingston Trio.

Another time the committee met in New Orleans. After drinking three martinis, my cohorts persuaded me to down a raw oyster, a combination not in the best interest of society. I do not recommend swallowing them in either order.

The company grasped at straws, trying to avoid the inevitable. We offered towers of radical new designs in order to bring in revenue. Things kept getting worse. By early 1961, my job boat began sinking into the sea of unemployment. Would Barry, our fourth child, soon to celebrate his first birthday, do so without any gifts? That would surely make the boy mad.

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