<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN"> <HTML><HEAD> <META http-equiv=Content-Type content="text/html; = charset=iso-8859-1"> <META content="MSHTML 5.50.4134.600" name=GENERATOR> <STYLE></STYLE> </HEAD> <BODY bgColor=#ffffff> <DIV> Ari Isaac.     Hammer maker’s corner 2   G, not a friend, exactly but someone I’d run into off and on = for years. Currently, remember this is still 1978, he was in his big entrepreneur = phase of owning airplanes and running a parcel delivery business between cities. = I was really hot to start making hammers, it was a heady thought, to have = someone install a set of hammers I made to sound like my idea of piano tone and = like it or get some pleasure out of hearing them played… I’d called = airlines and discovered that going to boyceville, Ronson’s place, was a = nightmare so I conceived the idea of calling G and chartering a plane to take us down = and back on the same day. G hahd been brought up by a father who owned a fleebag motel renting = rooms out by the hour, who thought and acted like he owned the Waldorf. Smoked = cigars and treated everyone, especially his family, like they were not worth = very much. G spent his life trying to go his father one better. To hear him talk = you’d think he knew everyone worth knowing and everything there is to know = about every subject. He brought loudmouthing and tactlessness to a new level. "Boychik", he used to call me that in those years, he was a few years = younger than I, "so, you’re making hammers now, your new jerk-off?" I was, by this time, so intent on executing my plan that remarks of = that kind hardly registered. "I need to go down to New York state", I told him. "My planes a booked, one is waiting for an engine, the other is busy. = When do you want to go?" "next week, Tuesday". "Let me see the schedule, and you’ll have to pay for a pilot, = student pilots are cheaper, also you’ll have to pay for an instructor, = can’t have a student pilot without an instructor". We took off in the two engine Sesna on a bright spring morning. A few = minutes out of Rochester NY where we had to put down to clear U.S. customs and immigration, the student pilot, silent till then, suddenly piped up " = the radio is dead". I am, usually, blind. I am, really blind and have been for = many years but I don’t, usually, feel blind. I have never let blindness stand = in my way. That time I felt really blind and it is not a nice feeling. No radio, = with all the other jets and planes around us with no communication… = that’s feeling blind all right. "flip to another channel" G sat in the back seat of the six seater = plane, Dave, the machinist and I, in the middle and the student and the = instructor sat up front. He flipped with no audible results, the radio remained = obstinately silent. "Kick the bastard" G was becoming frustrated, something he did = regularly. The student pilot kept flipping and, after a little while the radio came = alive. I was just receeding into a calmer space in which I was letting my imagination loose on hammer making schemes when, all of a sudden… = silence. Both engines died out. Funny, that didn’t bother me as much as the = radio dying. The plane kept cruising, the silence was enjoyable but, hay, we had no = engines. "You’re supposed to change to the auxiliary fuel tank before = the other one’s empty!" G was yelling, now and it took all the effort he could muster = not to include something like "you jerk!". Once fuel started flowing to the engines, they came back to life. We landed in Kingston NY and took a cab down to Boyceville. What I saw at Ronson opened my eyes… </DIV></BODY></HTML>