Monte Carlos Analysis of Random blah, blah, blah

We have a family tradition of watching "Christmas Story" around the holidays. Every year we experience Ralphy's quest for an "official Red Ryder Carbon Action 200 shot range model air rifle".   He puts his heart and soul into a school assignment, "What I Want for Christmas."  When he turns it in, he sees his teacher in vision as she ecstatically clutches it to her breast and dances to the chalk board to write a huge "A", and, "plus, plus, plus, plus.. " Later in the movie when Ralphy  gets his assignment back, he gets a demoralizing "C+" accompanied by the words, "you'll shoot your eye out." 

Today when I presented my paper “Monte Carlos analysis of Random Thickness Errors in Triple Band Pass Coatings”, I didn't get any you'll-shoot-your-eye-out comments, but there wasn't the level of interest that I had hoped for. With close to a hundred in attendance from all over the world, other than a couple of "good paper" comments afterward, no one wanted to discuss it. That's not uncommon for these forums, but I admit to Ralphy-like delusions beforehand.

On the positive side, I apparently now have an honorary doctorate, or at least the moderator of the session thought so.  He introduced me as "Doctor Fuller." If I would have adhered to the lesson on honesty I heard in church last week, I would have corrected him. Practically everyone else on the program had the title legitimately. On occasion people assume that I do too.

I was privileged to share the same stage as Professor Macleod, who presented one paper immediately before me, and another one after. I’m honored that he remembers my name.  He is the reigning patriarch of optical thin films and dates back to the 1950's when the technology was in its infancy. He's royalty in my industry.  Disciples nearly bow in his presence.  Despite that, he is a very down-to-earth humble man. He must be pushing 80 years old. I normally see him once a year at this conference. One never knows when it will be his last.

Over the past year I've put a ton of time into this paper, much more than I would ever admit to my boss. It was a solid technical effort, certainly better than some others I heard in the same session. But in the end, like previous papers I've written, it will be published in an obscure technical journal which no one will ever read. Such is life.

Nick D’man Fuller

Nick Fuller

On occasion, one’s grown children do something that make their parents take note and think, “maybe we did something right”. Such was the case last week when we got a call from our son.

Nick had been with his boss at a customer’s facility, an aircraft maintenance company, doing the “computer guru” stuff that he is so good at. The company obviously thought highly of Nick’s work, because when his boss left the room, he was approached. The company had decided to hire their own IT person and quit outsourcing. Nick was offered the job, which included a very lucrative salary and jaw-dropping benefits.

The experience was a far cry from his teenage years when he “thrilled” us on occasion with 10-inch spiked hair, a “fro” hairdo which was reminiscent of a hot air balloon, and his extreme determination to do off-road 4-wheeling in low-clearance 2-wheel drive sedans. It was even further from earlier memories of push karts and go karts, not to mention the trio of events of near electrocution, fingers in the garbage disposal, and an averted fall from a second story window which all occurred in a single day. No, this hardly seemed like the adolescent that I had to chase down years earlier in an open field next to a doctor’s office when a blood sample was pending.

After last week’s phone call, we were proud of our son’s accomplishments and success, and were happy for his new opportunity. We were very surprised a few days later when he texted and announced that he was declining the job offer, turning his back on the fat pay check, and staying with his old company. He chose to be loyal to a friend rather than jump ship. What parent wouldn’t be proud to have their offspring value principle and people over the almighty dollar?

Today, we proudly salute Nick on his 25th birthday, and thank heaven that he is our son.

My Mentors



ABL Team, Jim Snyder second from left.



“May I speak to Jim Snyder please?”  Last Tuesday, with the phone pressed to my ear, I patiently waited, expecting the receptionist to redirect my call. Instead, she hesitated, and then said simply, “Jim died.” 

What? I was shocked. How could that be? I hadn’t talked to him in nearly four years, but I always assumed he was just a phone call away.

Jim and I were introduced nearly 20 years ago when I gave an industry briefing at Wright Patterson Air Force Base. From his probing questions, it was clear he was head and shoulders above the rest of the audience. Eight months later he hired me and for the next two years took me under his wing, tutored me, and taught me what I thought I already knew. Ten years later we were reunited under the $3-billion Airborne Laser Program in a year-long research effort. Again, I was able to ride his coattails and tap his vast pool of knowledge.

This week’s shocking phone call was déjà vu. The same thing happened nearly 20 years ago. It was Tony Lefkow that taught me that “sputtering” was a manufacturing process and not a speech impediment. It was Tony’s tutelage that resulted in a leap-frog of the competition and the launch of my career as an optical coating “guru”. Tony had a remarkable career with stops at Battelle Columbus Laboratories, University of Wisconsin, and Northwestern University’s Industrial Research Laboratory. Again, I thought that he was just a phone call away, until he wasn’t.

I’m not waiting for post mortem to thank my old friend and colleague Bruce Reinbolt. During our twelve years together, Bruce liberally shared his knowledge and experience. He is one in our industry that actually studied optical coatings as part of his major, unlike so many of us that learned seat-of-the-pants on the job.

On April 20th I will stand before members of the Society of Vacuum Coaters and present a paper, “Monte Carlo Analysis of Random Thickness Errors in Triple Bandpass Coating Designs.” It will be an international audience with attendees from Europe, Asia, and North America. When I finish there will likely be polite applause. As I sit down I’ll have gratitude in my heart and silently give thanks to those who mentored me, who taught me my trade, and contributed to my career and success.

Live and Learn

A phone call came a few days ago from the other side of the world. My wife and I were relieved to hear from our oldest son after 7 days of “radio silence” while he backpacked alone in the wilds of Tasmania. The area was so remote his charter flight dropped him off on a remote dirt runway. The area is described as, “pristine wilderness, unaffected by humans”, with weather that is “highly changeable, and can be severe”. For several days he slogged through thigh-deep bogs in rain forest conditions, doing his best to discern tree roots from the plentiful black venomous snakes. He didn’t see another human being until his 5th day, which accounts for his remark, “I’ll never feel more alone than I did on this hike,”

 

When I hung up the phone, I was very thankful for his safety. At the same time I chided his foolishness for hiking alone.  I also remembered being just as foolish more than twenty years ago.

During my Grand Canyon infatuation years, I became obsessed with finding the Point Huitzel route to Royal Arch and Elves Chasm. One late November trip took me by motorcycle from Phoenix three hours north to the Canyon, another hour ride across the Hualapai Indian Reservation on rutted dirt roads, then another two miles on foot through the pines to the south rim. After a cold frost-on-the-sleeping-bag night, I dropped into the Canyon expanse to search for the route, aided by a topographical map and Harvey Butchart's directions.

I was able to pick out landmarks and was certain I was on track until I hit the Coconino sandstone which guards the canyon from almost all would-be intruders with 400-foot vertical cliffs. Try as I might, I could not find a route through. As I searched, I saw a ledge about 8 feet below me which looked promising. With excitement I slid down to the ledge on a near vertical wall. But a look over the ledge gave me a severe case of vertigo rather than a route down. There was nothing but air for 200 feet below me. Unnerved, I turned to climb back up the way I came down. My heart nearly leaped out of my chest when I found it too steep to climb.

I was in a pickle. A precariously slanted 8-foot wide ledge was all that stood between me and a 200-foot fall to certain death. I couldn’t go down.  I couldn't go up. I verbally chided myself for getting myself into such predicament. The old adage “look before you leap” never meant more. No one knew where I was. I was hours and many miles away from civilization. I might rot on that ledge for weeks or months before my bones were found. How could I be so stupid?

I said a pleading prayer. My prayer was answered when I saw a 8-inch wide vertical crack in the rock. It was too narrow to squeeze my whole body in, but I was skinny enough to get in a little more than half. With fists and knees wedged into the crack, I was able to inch my way up like a worm, all the while hoping I did not lose grip, fall, and roll off the ledge to my death.

When I finally pulled myself up and rolled onto safe ground, I felt a rush of relief. That was enough for me. I pulled on my backpack, climbed out of the canyon and hiked back to my motorcycle. I was exhausted, and was even more so after the 4-hour ride home. It was the evening before Thanksgiving when I arrived. The aroma of homemade pies, a loving wife, and three beautiful children greeted me. Indeed I was grateful for them all.

I returned to the Grand Canyon a few months later with hiking partners. We found our way through the Coconino, which required climbing through a very interesting hidden crack and down an Anasazi Indian tree-trunk ladder to some ancient petro glyphs, and finally to the Esplanade plateau. Afterward, I took that same route several times on trips to the Royal Arch and Elves Chasm. It should come as no surprise that subsequent trips were never done alone.

Papa John

What kind of a goofball would marry a guy’s sister without bothering to introduce himself to his soon-to-be brother-in-law? That alone was enough to get John Martin off on the wrong foot with me. In the years following the marriage, my skeptical impression of the man seemed to be confirmed when he rarely showed his face at family gatherings. He always had a plausible excuse for being absent, but after a while, it seemed clear that he had no real interest in getting to know me. So, why would I want to get to know him? I did see him on rare occasions. He seemed nice enough, but I just wasn’t sure that he was the caliber of guy that I had always wanted my sister to marry.

It’s funny how one’s perspective changes with time. Twenty eight years have passed since that rocky introduction. Twenty eight years have passed since John Martin eloped with my dear sister and entered the bonds of holy matrimony. Twenty eight years have made me grow to love and appreciate the man.

Thank you John for gracing my sister’s life. Thank you for taking her as your eternal companion. Thank you for being such a good dad to my nieces and nephews. Thank you for being such a fine “papa” to your daughters who aren’t your biological offspring, but get treated like they are. You’re not such a bad brother-in-law after all. (wink) I apologize for any misgiving I might have had about you all those years ago. I’m indeed thankful to count you a member of my family.

Campouts, Scouting, and Other Things

Bear Siding on the Verde River

It was a Friday morning when a bunch of Boy Scouts met in the church parking lot for our first ever overnight campout. Scoutmaster Steve was really only a kid himself, who at the age of 18 had been asked to work with a ragtag patrol of 11 year olds. Our previous scouting experience had been performing lame skits and making mostly useless gadgets in cub scouts. But we were older now and ready for real scouting stuff. When a second “adult” leader failed to show that morning, Steve was not about to leave us disappointed. He stuffed the whole patrol, camp gear included, into his old 1950’s vintage Rambler sedan.

At the beginning of the trip, the stuffy confines didn’t bother us, even though nearly every kid was either sitting on someone’s lap or being sat on. But forty hot and windy miles later we were off the highway and traveling on a washboard dirt road.  We were grateful for the extra room when two boys were relegated outside to the hood of the car. Driving between 15 and 20 miles per hour, Steve did his best to view the road between the two human hood ornaments and avoid large pot holes which might send them flying. The two boys dangled their feet in front of the grill and clutched a headlamp ring with one hand and a metal hood ornament with the other.

Bear Siding was a very remote area on the Verde River which offered a nice camping spot and a splendid swimming hole. We swam a good part of the day. A rock ledge offered a terrific spot to do cannon balls. It was high enough to give us a thrill but not enough to scare us to death. While we swam Steve entertained us with stories of the first time his troop visited this place, including the repulsive behavior of one Don Covey who stood at the end of a makeshift diving board, bared his butt, and pooped into the water. As the story went, boys scrambled from the water as if it were alligator infested and refused to return for hours.

After a long day, our evening meal was unremarkable. When the sun went down, we returned to the river for more swimming – this time not bothering with swimming trunks, but skinny dipping in the dark cool waters of the Verde River under the evening stars and a silvery moon. It was done in perfect innocence. The next morning we faced a whole day of more fun, but decided we had had enough. We packed up our gear early, made the short hike to the car, and were home by noon.

Decades have passed. I’ve served as scoutmaster myself four different times. That overnight trip of yesteryear broke a dozen of today’s Boy Scout regulations which fall under the headings of “Youth Protection”, “Safety Afloat”, and “Tour Permits”. And if any scoutmaster today were to swim naked with his boys, I can only imagine he would end up on a sex offender list declaring him to be the pervert that many would assume him to be.

Last week the Boy Scouts of America settled a lawsuit with six men who were molested by a former Portland Scout leader nearly 30 years ago. That lawsuit and dozens that preceded it have made the Boy Scouts of America a safer place for boys. It has also left an organization so encumbered by rules and regulations that far more time and effort is placed on compliance than the fundamentals of scouting.

Next Spring I’ll once again donate to “Friends of Scouting” because I want to make a difference in young men’s lives. But it will pain me knowing that much of my donation will be used to pay for the crimes of a demented individual and not to enhance the lives of America’s youth. And while the plaintiffs are quick to say, “It’s not about the money,” the lawsuits quite obviously would not have been filed without it.

Scoutmaster Steve cared for his boys. His intent was to teach us to abide by the Scout Law, which declares that a scout is “trustworthy, loyal, helpful, courteous…” and eight other attributes of goodness which today’s society places little importance. I give thanks for Steve and the favorable impact he had on my life. He gave freely of his time to help a handful of snot-nosed boys grow up. He taught principles of goodness. It is a shame that every young man involved in scouting can’t have leaders like him.

Pocket Knives and Change

My introduction to pocket knives began at age five. It really wasn’t much of a knife but when I found it lying around the house I claimed it as my own. In reality, with only a 1-inch blade, it was nothing more than a keychain trinket. The blade was so dull I’m not sure it would have cut my finger if I tried. But that didn’t stop me from whittling on a church pew during a particularly dry Sunday service. My mother apparently was not as bored as I since she sat focused on the speaker, oblivious that her five year old was defacing God’s house. When she finally glanced my way, her face turned to horror. I got smacked. The pocket knife was confiscated. After the meeting I was tearfully marched to the bishop’s office where I was prodded to declare my sin and ask for forgiveness. Fourteen years later when I stood at the pulpit in that same chapel prior to embarking on a full time mission, the third pew from the back still bore the scares inflicted by a thoughtless five year old.

In fourth grade I was trustworthy enough to have a pocket knife of my own – a real one. I may have gotten it for my birthday. It resided full time in my blue jeans pocket. I took it to school. With it in my pocket I felt grown up, like my big brother, who at 16 years my senior was an avid outdoorsman and always carried one.

As a teenager I carried a knife. As a Boy Scout, it was one of the ten essential items for the outdoors. My Kabar pocket knife was used for a variety of purposes – from cleaning my fingernails to eating apples one slice at a time. The blade got cleaned between uses, if wiping the blade on a pant leg could be considered cleaning. As an adult I continued carrying a pocket knife. Even in middle age, a knife in my pocket served as a reminder of my big brother, especially after he passed away.

As my sons grew, times were changing. As adolescents they learned like I did that a knife was a Boy Scout ten essential. But if they carried one to school, zero tolerance resulted in a week-long suspension.

The September 11 demise of the Twin Towers brought more change. Since then, I’ve twice found myself in an airport security line and realized too late that I had a knife in my pocket. Both times I removed myself from the line and searched for a safe hiding place in the airport. When I returned to those airports a week later, my knife was still there – once under a sink in a men’s room and the next time on a high ledge in baggage claim. I felt a little guilty, clandestinely hiding contraband, trying to avoid security cameras, but at least I kept my knife.

Further change was evident yesterday when I read about Monday’s police shooting at Boren and Howell streets in downtown Seattle. John T. Williams, better known by the street name “Cowboy”, sat whittling a piece of wood. This homeless man was actually an accomplished carver who sold his wares nearby at Ye Olde Curiosity Shop. When a police officer ordered him to drop his knife he didn’t comply. The office responded by pumping four balls of lead into the man’s chest. Witnesses were dumbfounded by the act and felt the man posed little or no risk to the officer. The officer’s version, though yet to be released, will undoubtedly claim he felt threatened. Either way, the knife cost the man his life.

In recent years I’ve quit carrying a knife. It’s just too much of a hassle with security checkpoints.

Things have changed. I liked them better the way they were.