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Having been a Boeing worker during the prolonged tragic strike of 1948, I remember how it felt to stand around a barrel of burning scrapwood at the Renton plant trying to keep warm, waving a picket sign at passing cars.

Each week I would go to the union hall for my weekly strike benefit. In those days it was only $10. Not much when you have a family of three kids to feed .

We lived in a tiny two-bedroom in McMicken Heights and the rent was only $31 a month. My wife worked as a checker at Herron's IGA, which helped, but I knew we could not make it for even a month without my paycheck.

I had been employed on the graveyard shift at Boeing Field, working on a modified B-29 called the B-50.

I was a functional test electrician, testing and repairing electrical systems on the big bombers. They called me Arky, and my partner was Sparky. Our nicknames were well-deserved.

The planes sat out on the tarmac and we worked rain or shine. At night there was not a lot of shine.

After months of protracted negotiating, our union leaders had announced their plan to pull us off the job at the end of our shift. My shop steward in those days was Curly Witherbee. He reassured us that we would all be back to work in a week, and insisted that I not worry. He said the company was bluffing and called their offer "an insult."

I remembered Curly's words last week when I read the same phrase in the daily paper about the present strike.

Well, Curly was wrong. Our strike lasted six months and nearly destroyed the Aero-Mechanics union.

Somehow Boeing was able to tough it out, handle the loss of business, and become one of the world's must successful corporations.

The company did shut down for a short time, but a lot of managers stayed on and many workers could not bear the struggle. Some gave in and went back to cross the picket lines. Those bitter days bred ugly scenes and deep animosities among former friends.

Many people left the area looking for employment. elsewhere, and the economic impact scalded Seattle businesses, with many smaller places closing their doors.

The last night I worked there, Sparky was outside on the wing tip, while I sat in the pilot's seat. I could see him out of the window. We were communicating with hand signals, testing the wing flaps. He'd point up, so I'd push the toggle switch up. Right? Nope. The flaps went down.

I was not the smartest carrot in the stew, but I knew there was a simple solution. I'd opened the pilot's aisle stand and reverse the wires on that switch. Right? Wrong. I forgot to turn the power off.

When I flipped the toggle, an aluminum ring on my finger caused a dead short. I was enveloped in a huge shower of sparks and acrid smoke caused by burnt wires. I set off an Ivar's fireworks show, and worse yet, my foreman's head appeared at the top of the ladder in the open hatch behind me.

Sparks danced on his head and he vanished, shouting expletives. From the cabin to the aft section over the bomb bay was a tunnel. I leaped in, setting a new world record for the 40-foot crawl on hands and knees.

I climbed out the other end, sprinted back on the tarmac to the boss, and found him poised at the foot of the ladder looking up at where I had been.

"What's up, boss?" I asked innocently.

Nearly speechless, he pointed up and said something about an explosion. I patted him on the back and bravely climbed past him into the smoky cabin.

He followed, and we looked at the tortured smoke-blackened wires. He shook his head and said, "Look at that. The wiring must have shorted out and blowed that aisle stand cover clean open. You and Sparky better drop what you're doing and fix this. And next time, turn the power off."

Three weeks later I found a new job, selling printing for a weekly newspaper in Kent. I don't do wing flaps anymore.