Red Devils and Munchkins

Years ago I worked with a crane operator who had his own pronunciation system. JN was an excellent crane operator and a smart guy besides. He ran several successful little side businesses at the same time he worked in our technician crew. He was the kind of guy who would give you the shirt off his back if you needed help but would also squeeze the last nickel out of every business transaction. I liked him immediately when I met him.

JN used some of the strangest words I have ever heard anyone use. It wasn’t that he couldn’t enunciate he just enunciated differently. Every one of the words he struggled with sounded like the correct word but they were always just a little bit off. A computer was a suputer in JN’s language. He drove an old El Camino truck that had been pristinely restored. It was not an El Camino but an El Torino to JN. There was a long list of things that JN just didn’t seem to want to take the time to pronounce correctly. I could never figure out if he just wasn’t interested in pronunciation or if he just favored his own way of doing it over that used by everyone else.

He soon was a little famous in our shop for his use of non-words. People would ask him to tell stories about things just to catch the string of alternate pronunciations that always spewed force when he did. Sometimes people would correct him but he paid it no mind at all when they did. One of our engineers carefully corrected him on his usage of the term computer during a scheduling meeting.

JN: “We couldn’t get the funtroller for the suputer working on that new pump engine so we ran it automanually.”

Engineer: “Uh…. you mean the controller?”

JN: “Yes…. Ricky said there was something wrong with the communication manual or funtroller so we ran it automanually.”

Engineer: “The communication manual?”

JN: “Yes…. the manual that talks to the suputer.”

Engineer: “You mean computer?”

JN: “Yes… the supputer has to talk to the communication manual to run by itself so we ran it in automanual.”

Engineer: “You mean communication module?”

JN: “I already told you that.”

Engineer: “Did you run in automatic or manual mode?”

JN: “We ran it by hand, you know… the old fashioned way.”

You could easily get on a redundant regressive loop of growing confusion talking with JN unless you understood his language. We took to calling it “JN speak” and the best thing to do was learn to make associations between what he said and what he actually meant. Once you got used to it, it wasn’t too bad but initially it could throw a monkey wrench into communication that was pretty frustrating; especially if you were in a hurry.

As careless as JN was in his use of language, he was the polar opposite in his fastidiousness in almost every other aspect of his life. He worked in one of the pumphouses that supplied cooling water to the test stands at NASA when he wasn’t operating cranes. Since most of the parts of the big locomotive diesels required careful crane handling control in putting them in place during engine rebuilds he was invaluable to the head mechanic. He always insisted on JN being the operator when he was rebuilding engines as he JN was amazingly deft in handling and moving things with a crane.

When the pumphouse was running supporting tests, JN was an operator who ran the control system that ramped the engines and operating the valve systems in the pumphouse. He took this same level of exacting fastidiousness to this pursuit as well. He was an excellent operator who knew the system backwards and forwards and was always one step ahead in his mind when following operating procedures.

On days where the test stands experienced delays, the pumphouse would go into standby mode with engines idling; simply maintaining water pressure on the coolant and fire control systems until whatever was wrong on the test stand could be worked out. Some of these delays were pretty long and boring. On those days, JN always had some sort of home project in his car to work on. He would bring silverware in to polish or kitchen knives to sharpen; something along those lines while he waited. During one such delay I was working on repairing some of the large 54” water valve controllers on the system while we were in delay so I was in constant communication with the pumphouse. As we finished our repairs and had JN cycle test the valves to check limit switch positions, the test stand came online to tell us we were 20 minutes from test.

We got in our truck and drove back to the pumphouse to wait out the test. It was a short cycle test which was supposed to run for 3 minutes; after which we could resume our system repairs. When we got back to the pumphouse control room I noticed JN was busily polishing some metal pieces that he had wrapped in a shop rag. Curious, I looked over his shoulder to see what looked like a brass door hinge in his hands and several more still wrapped in the shop rag.

Me…. “Is that a door hinge?”

JN…. “Yes” he said as nonchalant as ever.I noticed he also had a can of Brasso and was steadily making the hinge shine to a high polish.

Me… “Why are you polishing door hinges?”

JN…. “It’s just that time. I polish all of them once a year,” as if every sane person pulled their door hinges off to polish them annually.

Me….”uh…. ok.” What could I say? I am not exaggerating when I say that if I live to be a hundred I would likely never have thought of such a thing. I looked over at Clinton who also worked in the pumphouse and he was just smiling broadly as he shrugged his shoulders. That was JN to a tee. Fastidious and at the same time incomprehensible.

Some months later as we were all eating lunch one day JN launched into an angry explanation that something was tearing up his new manicured lawn. JN had just paid a lot of money to a landscaping company to redo his lawn to his exacting standards. JN hated to part with money to begin with but money wasted was a cardinal sin in his eyes. He was quite incensed about the whole thing, grumbling about how much money he spent and how it was all thrown away.

JN… “I may as well burn a wet dog.”

Me…. “What??”

JN… “I spent enough money on that yard to burn a wet dog and all I got to show for it is a bunch of panholes.”

Me…. “Panholes?”

JN… “Critter holes.”

Me…. “Is something digging in your yard, digging potholes?”

JN… “Yes. Panholes; I’m going to get my rifle and shoot the little bastards.”

Me… “What are you going to shoot?”

JN… “The little bastards digging holes; Munchkins.”

Me…. thinking…. “Uh…. you mean chipmunks?”

JN…. “Yes… the little bastards are tearing up my yard and I am going to start shooting them.”

I knew JN lived in a very nice area of Huntsville but it was also very crowded with houses and completely in the middle of town. Shooting a rifle inside the city limits was not a good idea.

Me… “JN…. You can’t be shooting a rifle in your front yard. The cops will come arrest you.”

JN…. “Well then…. THEY can come shoot the little bastards but I ain’t going to let them tear my whole yard up after I spent a fortune getting it that way I want it.”

Me…. “I don’t think they will do that either. But you need to talk to them before you get a rifle out in the front yard and go to blasting away at Chipmunks.”

JN drew a puff on his pipe and seemed to mull that over for a few minutes.

JN… “Aye god, you might be right. I think I’ll call the sheriff’s department and tell them.”

JN walked over to the desk in the shop and got out the phone book to call the Sheriff’s department. He was still mad but at least he was not likely to get arrested by calling them first. Besides, I thought they might have a suggestion of someone who could get rid of the chipmunks as well. The conversation that followed was one that I could only hear one side of. I can well imagine what went on at the other end of it but could only judge it by how loud the tone got from the sound that escaped the earpiece.

JN…. “Hello… I have a problem and need to speak to someone about it.”

After a brief pause…

JN…. “Well… I just paid a lot of money to get my yard redone and now some munckins are digging it up. I want to just get my rifle and shoot the little devils but my friend tells me that I can’t do that in this city.”

Another pause….

JN….”Yes maam….. they are digging holes in my yard.”

Another pause…

JN…. “I don’t know why; it’s just the kind of thing munchkins like to do I guess.”

Another pause…

JN…. “You know MUNCHKINS,” as if saying it louder should clear up the misconception. “Little red devils. I’m going to get my rifle and light their little butts up the next time I see one in my yard.”

Another pause followed by a rising tone coming from the other end of the phone.

JN… “Never mind where I live. I would shoot them for tearing up your yard too. I hate the little devils.”

By this time I was trying to catch his attention…

Me…. “JN…. Tell them chipmunks! Say CHIPMUNK!”

JN… “That’s what I told her, MUNCHKINS.”

More rising tone on the other end of the phone….

JN… “I’ll shoot the little devils if I want. You can come bury their little butts if I catch any more of them in my yard.” He was yelling into the phone.

Me…. “CHIPMUNKS, CHIPMUNKS “

I was trying to yell loud enough so that whoever was on the other end of the phone could hear so they wouldn’t think a lot of local neighborhood children were getting ready to be assassinated by some crazed lawn care fanatic.

JN… “OK… then YOU can come kill them, but they are NOT going to tear up my lawnscaping anymore; I can gay-run-tee you that.”

Before anyone could say anything else, JN hung up the phone. It’s probably a good thing they didn’t have caller ID in those days. I tried to explain to JN the difference between chipmunks and the vision most people get in their head when you say “munchkin” but he had no interest in my explanation. The Sheriff’s department probably gets their fair share of strange calls to begin with but I could tell from the rising tone escaping the earpiece that someone got a good story to tell later on that morning; probably in horror.