Coming into what very likely is to be one of my last Fridays on night shift. Out of my 13 presses 3 of them are transfer presses. 1 @1700 ton and 2 @ 2300 tons. I check the call in log just after I hit the time clock and see that one of my transfer press operators had called in. No problem I still have 2 operators and 2 assistant operators. As I round the corner into the press area I am greeted by one of my operators. "greeted" may not be the correct term... as his message was that an assistant was also not present. No problem I still have 2 operators and an assistant to run 3 presses. That is, until the second assistant informs me that his Mother was taken to the hospital and has cancer. This requires him to leave midshift. The plot begins to thicken. I slip into a nearby phone booth and slap the ole "S" on my shirt. I bring up the inventory spreadsheet on the computer on my desk and with my x-ray vision I peer into my near future. Noticing that the average inventory is noticeably lower on the #1 2300 and the #2 2300 is slightly higher than the 1700 ton. To confirm the choice is the fact that the part catchers on the #2 2300 are more experienced in sorting non conforming parts than those on the 1700. My plan becomes obvious. Shut down the #2 2300 and move the operator to the 1700 and run. The experienced part sorters will experience sorting parts and the experienced catchers will..... catch.Follow me?Maybe not... it don't matter, I still have 3 hours to kill.I was just enjoying the remnants of the mother of all belches induced by the home made pizza bread that Betty Lou had so lovingly placed in my lunch pail/back pack while opening my thermos for an after meal cup of hot coffee only to discover that it was full of ice cold milk because "it's better for me" when the phone rang. Waste matter hitting the fan sounds just as bad over the phone as it does in person. Albeit, minus the aroma. It seems that the assistant whose Mother needed her son at her bedside not later than 11:00 on a Friday night had mispanelled a part in OP30 separating the transfer fingers from the feed bar in a heap on the bolster and causing the upper and lower trim steels to meet with less than adequate clearance. Surely you have no idea what that means but it sounds real bad right? Yeah, cuz it is real bad. Futhermore, said gazelle parted the game show without telling anyone what he had done. Clearly his ailing Mother bore heavy burden on his mind.Enter the Koreans.....They appeared from nowhere. Like mold speaking in tongues. Blame throwers blazing. Wanting answers to questions that have yet to be translated. The kryptonic forces create pith on my "S". My mouth opens and the three deadly words emerge... "I don't know". I may have gotten away with it by way of the language barrier but my shoulders took on a life of their own and shrugged and gave me away. I managed to regroup my allies and roll the afflicted bolster containing the aftermath out and the new one in. Op30 and OP40 were stretchered to Tool&Die as the dust cleared and the 1700 roared back to life. I went to the machine and dispensed the closest thing that it had to a hot cup of black coffee. Monday will be a better night.
Bill,And that, my friend, as the old saying goes is why you "get paid the big bucks". Being the boss is both a blessing and sometimes a curse! Thank you for reminding me why retirement can be a good thing, lol. You got through it and so did your coworkers without anything serious happening so consider it a victory. Because it was! Regards, Jim.