Showing posts with label electrician. Show all posts
Showing posts with label electrician. Show all posts

Friday, July 13, 2018

Back-Slappping Gleeful Delight



I have discovered that as your age increases, and you enter your senior years, the discovery of how to do something becomes extraordinarily exciting.

In one’s youth the learning that confronted you at school and on through college or university, if you were fortunate enough to climb the educational ladder was a tedious affair.

 You were confronted by either teachers and lecturers you loved or hated. They gave termly tests and exams at the years end which you dreaded, and then gave gleeful sighs of relief when you learnt you had passed and achieved your goal.

In the age of the over-seventies, when ones appendages seem to be breaking down, that gleeful sigh becomes an explosion of back-slapping delight.

I recently experienced such an explosion when I learnt how to wire a three-position rotary switch, that’s one with an off position and two active live positions. Such devices were common in the fifties, sixties and seventies before the arrival of new chip and transistor technology.

They were in your HiFi units, your portable radios, your fridges, household appliances, and your televisions. You used to switch channels, change dishwasher and steam-iron temperatures, regulate toaster times and even set your alarm clock using a basic rotary switch,

So, when a friendly defence-force trained plumber who I have worked with for years, Keith, handed me a Metop three position rotary switch and asked me to wire it so that he could run his grinder in a forward mode, a reverse mode and an idle state, I was filled with a questioning mind, could I or couldn’t I do it?


I started by exploring the internet and discovered numerous circuit diagrams, several U-tube videos and one or two sites offering practical and theoretical advice. I watched the videos, read the documents and perused the diagrams and was none the wiser, until I remembered something I learn in my physics class at school. Electricity is like watert it flows until something stops it and that’s what a switch does!

How do you test the ability of electricity to flow?

You use a continuity tester and I have one.
So, I set to work testing the switch with it set in all three positions. In the off position I discovered that there was no flow on any of the sixteen terminals, eight one side of the barrel and eight on the other;

Position One, there was flow from one left mounted terminal to two terminals on the right. I had discovered an on circuit. Two hours later, on position two, and I had discovered the second on-circuit coming from a different left mounted terminal to two right mounted terminals. Success!

But I was still confused, and something was not right. Yes, it worked, I could feed live power in and out, but where the fuck did the neutral wire go?

I knew this system would work with Keith’s grinder, I could feed the live current through the switch and connect a separate neutral to his grinder, but I also knew that the Metop switch had not revealed all its secrets.

A phone call to another old friend, Herman the German, a trained and fully qualified electrician of over forty years. He asked me to send a photo on the “Whats Application”.

Another new learning experience for me. Having transported the photo through the ether the cell phone rang.


“It’s got Bruken.” Said Herman.

“What? I don’t think it’s broken,” I replied.

“Not broken, it’s got Bruken!” he repeated irritably, across the terminals, on both sides, what was it used on before?”

“I don’t know.” Then my O-level Deutsch resurfaced, “Ah, Bruken, Bridges!”
“Ja, strip ‘em all off, they is confusing you They triangles.”

“Triangles?”

“Ja, them things mit three corners, strip the bridges, and then retest with the continuity tester, you did gut mit dat!”

“I did that, and it works.”

“Ja, but you got no place for neutral, strip bridges and retest. Call me back when you’ve done Dat.”

I duly followed Herman’s instructions and removed all the nine bridges and discovered that I had no continuity at all between the terminals that I had before!!

I felt as if I’d lost the battle, defeat was staring me in the face.

I re-read the numerous pages I’d downloaded from the Net and tried Wikipedia. A triangle sprang into view and it all began to make sense!

Out with the tester and this time I knew what I was looking for, an imaginary triangle with two of its corners touching two separate terminals, one on the left side of the Metop and the other on the right.

Within half an hour I had discovered four circuits and had the Metop switch wired up so that both positive and negative were switched on and off.

I quickly rigged up a light on an old piece of Oregon Pine, supplied power to the Metop switch and onto the light and tested my wiring. It worked!


A gleeful telephone call to Herman-the-German, thanking him, followed.

And now, Keith’s grinder could now go forward or in reverse mode with a flick of the rotary switch.

An explosion of back-slapping delight engulfed my aged old frame!

Friday, December 29, 2017

OLD AGE



Well knocking on the mid-seventies, I can tell you all that it's not too pleasant. 


Muscles ache with regularity, cuts, bruises, fractures and the common cold and flu take more time to leave your ageing body than they did in your youth.

I've always been a DIY-er., and even now I try, but the numerous times I have fallen foul of the surroundings I was working in, increases with each attempt.

Ladders and roof and gutter work are definite" No-Nos" and even trimming the bougainvillea is beginning to give more scratches than it used to.

Gardening is still a passion but wielding the fork and spade is not as easy as it used to be. Soil sifting and mixing with manure is still a doddle and can be done seated if all the necessary ingredients and tools are within easy reach. With spring in full swing in the southern hemisphere, it's a job on my list of things to do.[ 

My grand-pa used to make me do the job as a youngster and I have not forgotten how to prepare the right clay, loam, manure, sand mix for the seedling trays.

The right mix is the key for the germinating seeds to build strong roots and makes transplanting so much easier and successful. And if you water with his pigeon-shite mixture or worm wee-wee you're bound to have healthy seedlings, that will give an abundant and tasty crop.

I still do the occasional electrical job either around the house or for a friend. 

Recently I found myself in Groot Marico, a small hamlet in the North-West province of South Africa. I was taken there by a friend, Allen, who wanted me to put in three new double plug & plates and repair a couple of bedside lamps.

The jobs were finished before the sun set. Allen told me we were to visit a neighbour on the adjacent plot. The neighbour, Johann, had asked Allen to buy a frozen snoek for a braai we were going to have that evening.

For those of you who don't know a snoek is a sea fish that is caught mainly by the Malay fishermen of the coast round Cape Town. It's been described as the South African barracuda.

Groot Marico is named after the river that flows through it and the name was made famous by the writings of Charles Herman Bosman and the one-man re-enactments of his stories by the late thespian, Patrick Mynaard.

All his tales are set in the surrounds of Groot Marico, an area he describes as: "There is no other place I know that is so heavy with atmosphere, so strangely and darkly impregnated with that stuff of life that bears the authentic stamp of South Africa."

The area's other two claims to fame are its legal and illegal mampoer stills, and and its equally dubious rows of the Cannabacaea plants that are seasonally harvested and sold giving many of the locals a healthy income and lifestyle.
Many growers of the weed have turned their love of getting high into a highly profitable business either by selling the weed itself or extracting the highly sort-after cannabis oil.

Slowly but surely, we are definitely heading towards the legalization of the use of cannabis for medical use.

When this happens, many growers may join the legal distribution network even though this will involve a lot of red tape and the receiver of revenue. An entity that puts the fear of God in all of us.

When it came to payment for my second electrical job I was asked to do, this time for Johann the following morning, I decided that the R of R would not get a look in and choose the barter method.

Johann had asked me to insert a new 30amp breaker in an external  distribution board and link it up to run a new borehole pump; normally a 500 Rand job.

I have no idea of the going price of dagga, the weed or the extracted oil, so I asked for a bank sachet of dagga and enough oil to last me a month. Johann obviously thought this was a good deal. He smiled and said, "Give me a minute." And he departed.

On his return he passed me a bulging plastic back sachet of dagga and a large jam jar filled to the brim with oil. What disturbed me though was the greyish sediment that lay at the bottom.

"You can drink the clear oil, and also use it as a rub on your skin. The stuff at the bottom is frankincense and myrrh. Great healers, aches pains, cuts and bruises."

"Right, time for a drink, Scotch or Irish?"

"Irish please."

"A man after my own heart. You and Allen can get the braai fire going while I get the toots."

After the sixth or seventh double Irish Johann announced the snoek and sweet potatoes were ready for consumption. A large sheet of clean cooking foil was laid out on the outside bar and the crispy snoek was placed atop, sprinkled with roughly crushed peppercorns, sea salt and the juice of a freshly picked garden lemon was squeezed. This caused minor eruptions as it hit the cooked surface of the fish. I peeled back the cooking foil off my sweet potato and tucked in. It was superbly divine, tender and succulent and the flavour was enhanced by a light smear of homemade apricot jam. This was Johann's suggestion and it worked a treat!

He opened a bottle of cooled dry South African white wine and in under half an hour eighteen ravenous fingers had laid bare the cooking foil leaving the fishes skeletontonial bones to be tossed onto the dying braai fire embers.

We returned to our camping chairs around the fire, wood was tossed on it, the second bottle of Jameson's was opened, and I suddenly realized why Charles Herman Bosman had so loved this area. The smoke curled gently upwards, fire-flies danced in the distance over the running spruit/stream, and the whole magical scene was enhanced by musical tweets of the night-time crickets.

The Bosman flavour filtered through embellishing our fire side conversation which encompassed religion, politics, ex-wives, past and present lovers, children and of course many jokes which certainly would not find themselves on either the air waves or the internet.

One such would be classed as racist in the new South Africa but would be classed Ok if the word "Zulu" was changed to "Irish".

You all know that Neil Armstrong was not the first human to land on the moon? No?

When he took that first step he looked across the sea of tranquility and saw a bunch of black African men sitting there surrounded by wheelbarrows, picks, spades, and cement mixers. He bounded slowly across to them. " Hi guys.  I'm Neil Armstrong, I'm supposed to be the first human on the moon. What the fuck are you doing here?"

The largest 6 foot 4 Zulu took a slow drag on his cigarette, a hefty quaff of his Carlsberg larger and said slowly, "We do fuck nothing - - till the boss arrive!!"

It is totally beyond my comprehension that if the hero in this joke was either Irish or a Polack it would not be considered racist, but in this age of political correctness I apologise to anyone I have offended.

I also apologise for meandering off my opening statement.

Old age certainly restricts the playing of my youthful addiction to a forty-five-minute session on a squad court. I also no longer go to a gymnasium, so my only physical activity is either gardening or doing handyman jobs around the house or for friends.

Cleaning the swimming pool is now a dangerous business for my rickety joints, and I must employ help to scoop out the leaves and suction-pump the sediment off the sides and bottom.

It is a labourious and boring job as when you clean, no matter how slowly you do it, some of the sediment is disturbed, clouding the water and making it difficult to see which area you have already swept. I try to be very methodical, starting at one side and going carefully round the pool, but there is always some interruption, a telephone rings, or someone, usually a manure seller in summer or an innocuous and disheveled beggar in winter at the back gate. No matter how meticulously you position the brush, so it will not slip into the pool, it always does. This requires that I start again, but by now the water is far too cloudy, so the whole operation is suspended till the following day.

All in all I have to surmise that the older one gets the longer time it takes to do anything. I’m sure all you older readers will agree. I have learnt however as long as I still enjoy the work and I can stand back and be proud of what I have accomplished, life must go on till the reaper makes his call.

C’est la vie!!!