My Life -- Before and During Monolithic

by Freda Parker
October 5, 2007

Me -- the new hire at Monolithic

I think I'm the oldest member of the Monolithic Family. I know I'm older than David B. South, our founder and president.

In 1997 when I responded to Monolithic's ad for a "part-time writer with experience in writing magazine articles," David and Dave South, Jr., our VP of Public Relations and Communications, interviewed me.

I especially remember Dave, who would oversee the efforts of the hired writer, asking: "Will you mind working with someone younger than you?" I suspect he really meant taking directions and supervision from someone younger, but he was too nice to put it that way.

In either case, my answer was "no." I didn't and don't mind working with and/or under anyone at Monolithic, and I better not since they're all younger than I am.

What I did mind and what really made me nervous was the idea of writing about something like Monolithic Domes that, at that point, I knew nothing about. I must have voiced my concern or maybe Dave just suspected it because he loaded me down with company literature and scheduled an in-depth tour of our entire facility, including Bruco, our Airform factory.

I hauled all that literature home, began reading and listing terms I didn't recognize or had questions about. "Rebar" topped my list. Before Monolithic, I did not know the world contained any such thing as rebar, nor did I know anything about its properties or uses.

Fortunately, only I found my list daunting. It was long -- so long that I feared I would be fired before I had a chance to write anything. But those fears were ungrounded. Dave, David and anyone else I questioned answered each query clearly and patiently.

So, eventually I got to the point where I really understood much of what Monolithic does. I won't say all because I still have questions, but I got over the fear of asking after my first query-filled day.

Before Monolithic

I'm using my writer's prerogative to be selective in this mini-biography, to skip the boring details and to amuse you -- I hope -- with the rest.

I grew up in Hamtramck, Michigan, a small, independent city almost totally surrounded by Detroit. Its history dates back to 1796 and Jean Francois Hamtramck, the first American commander of Fort Shelby in Detroit.

A government census states that in 1970 the ethnic background of 90% of Hamtramck's population was Polish. When I romped through the halls of Our Lady Queen of Apostles Grade School and St. Ladislaus High School, I believe it was even more Polish than that. In fact, I often tell folks that until I graduated from high school and really got out there, I thought the whole world was Polish and Catholic. While that's a bit of an exaggeration, I was naive.

First real job

But that naiveness contributed to a a kind of unsophisticated determination and persistence. I graduated from high school with no prospect of college, so I completed a trade school's requirements for an airline job. I hoped to become what we then called an "airline hostess."

That, however, was not something I could immediately attain. You had to be 21, and I was just eighteen. Well, no big deal. I would fill the interim with a ground job -- or so I thought.

I took the bus to Willow Run Airport, that was built during World War II, along with a factory where Ford Motor Company made B-24 bombers. It was a huge, ugly, hangar-like structure, that, in 1954, housed the ticket counters and gates for seven commercial, passenger carriers.

Those ticket counters all stood side-by-side. I strolled by each, inspecting them all and couldn't help but notice that the uniforms worn by female agents at American Airlines were exactly like those worn by AA's hostesses. That did it! I would get a job working at the AA ticket counter.

I painstakingly completed an application, attached my all-A report card and diploma from Central Airline School, delivered the envelope to the Personnel Director and was quickly told I was too young for a ticket counter position.

"But I graduated from airline school," I sputtered.

"You're just 18. You have got to be at least 19 -- and actually, we like people who are even older than that," said Miss Anne D., who did the ticket counter hiring and training.

"But you did say 19! I'll be 19 in four weeks. So I'm almost there!"

Miss Anne D. passed the application back to me. "Well, you keep this. I can't even consider you right now."

"I really, really want to work here," I said.

"I'm sure you'll find a very good job. You have very good grades. I wish you a lot of luck."

"I hope you won't mind when I come in to see you again," I said.

She didn't reply, but she did smile. So I called her once during each of the three weeks that followed -- just to remind her that I was out there, growing closer to that minimum 19 with every passing day.

That naive persistence paid off. On my fourth call -- which just happened to be my birthday -- Miss Anne D. asked me to come in for an interview. She said, "Anyone who wants to work here that bad deserves a chance." At that time, I was the youngest person ever hired for a ticket counter position with AA at Detroit's busiest airport.

AA trained and started me working as a Baggage Agent. I weighed and tagged the baggage of departing passengers, slung it onto the conveyor belt and collected the charges for luggage that exceeded the allowed, free limit.

This was a basic, beginning job -- no prestige and very little importance. But I loved every bit of it -- especially wearing that spiffy uniform. It made up for the aching feet we female agents endured. According to the dress requirements of that day, we stood and walked in high heels on a concrete floor during our eight-hour shifts.

There were other compensations as well. It was exciting. I got to talk with -- briefly, of course -- important people on their way to important tasks. Every once in a while, we even got to see a celebrity.

Hollywood stars passing through Willow Run always got the whole airport buzzing. About two months into my job, I reported for work one morning and learned that the movie hero Tyrone Power was booked on our First Class, DC-6 flight to Los Angeles.

"You have the best view of the front door," my supervisor said. "So, keep your eyes open and let the PSM (Passenger Service Manager) know the second he steps through."

"Okay," I gulped. I looked over at the five Ticket Sales Agents working further down our counter. They were all atwitter, wondering which one of them would be the lucky one -- the one who got to process Tyrone Power.

Suddenly, there he was -- strolling toward me. I grabbed the microphone and paged the PSM. But Tyrone was at my position, putting his bags on my scale and handing me his ticket before the PSM got there.

I was so nervous. I could barely get those bags tagged. I kind of just stared. Wearing the most beautiful cashmere overcoat I have ever seen, Tyrone appeared every bit as tall, dark, handsome, swashbuckling and romantic in person as he did on the screen -- and I got to check him in!

California here I come

In 1961 I moved to Hermosa Beach, California, met my late husband Jack Grones, fell in love, married and resigned from AA. By 1970, Jack was managing an airline ticket office, I was homemaking, and together we were raising a son and a daughter.

One day, I began leafing through a class schedule from our local community college. I had always wanted to go to college. The idea excited and fascinated me -- especially the blurb I read about a Child Psychology class. "Why that could make me a better parent," I thought and decided to broach the subject with Jack. He agreed.

But by the time my "beginning-student" status allowed me to enroll, that class was totally full. In fact, only two classes with an opening remained: Advanced Sewing and Creative Writing.

"I know all I want to know about sewing," I told the Registrar. "Sign me up for Creative Writing."

Ms. G, our professor, stressed writing non-fiction articles and fiction stories that magazines would buy. She wanted to turn us all into money-making freelancers. Amazingly, a few of us succeeded, including me.

I took to heart and practiced every bit of advice Ms. G offered. She told us to use our experiences and write about things we knew. I did. I wrote a girl-meets-boy, girl-meets-another-boy, girl-must-choose, girl-makes-right-choice kind of story, whose characters all worked for an airline at a busy, international airport. And it sold.

From then on, I continued writing and taking classes and 21 years later graduated with a double Bachelor of Arts Degree in English/Journalism.

Retirement -- sort of

In 1987, Jack retired, we sold our California home and moved to rural Nevada, ten miles south of Carson City, the state capital and site of four Nevada prisons. I got a part-time job teaching English through the University of Nevada's prison education program.

For two hours, once a week, I taught a writing or literature class at the women's prison or one of the three facilities for men, that ranged from minimum to maximum security.

Two feelings or memories experienced during that six-year stint remain clear. I will always remember the sound of those heavy, metal doors clanging shut behind you as you entered each individual, walled-off section of the prison. It gave me an eerie, totally helpless kind of feeling.

My second memorable recollection relates to an assignment I gave my Creative Writing class at the men's maximum security prison. I asked them to write a short story of 2000 to 3000 words. My only other restriction was: NO porn! In other words, except for pornography, they could have written about anything they wanted to.

What they choose to write really surprised me. My students -- murderers, rapists, thieves -- almost without exception, created idyllic scenes, happy characters, and Leave-It-To-Beaver kinds of stories. Almost all described young boys waking to the smell of sizzling bacon and perking coffee, or playing ball with a smiling dad, or baking cookies with an ever-present, attentive mom.

Another move

In July 1993 Jack was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. He died a short, painful four months later.

I sold our Nevada home and bought one in Carrollton, Texas where my daughter, son-in-law and three grandkids lived.

Determined to keep busy, I joined several volunteer groups at local senior centers. Through those activities, I met James Parker who was also widowed in 1993. We became best friends. Eventually that relationship matured into love and marriage and a move into a new home in Midlothian, Texas.

During Monolithic

Challenges -- assignments that challenge me as a writer -- that's what Monolithic has brought to my life.

Writing for the Roundup

When I first started in December 1997, we were producing the Roundup: Journal of the Monolithic Dome Institute. It was a sleek quarterly magazine with thirty pages of colorfully illustrated, feature articles about completed Monolithic Dome projects, how-to pieces, and columns by David.

For a writer, that constituted no big deal. I had a whole three months in which to receive my assignment, interview the subjects and write the story for each issue.

Dave, Jr. as head of the media department, often told me, "I don't have to worry about you. You always get your stuff in way ahead of deadline." Well, no wonder. I didn't have that much stuff to get in. But that soon changed.

A book in six weeks!

I came back from a two-week vacation in Germany, ready to share my pictures and stories of strudels and noodles, when Dave surprises me with, "We have a special project to do."

"Great! What is it?" I innocently asked.

"A book on Monolithic Dome homes," he replied. "We want to get it done in six weeks."

Six weeks -- for a book with meaningful text, illustrations, plans and diagrams! Fortunately, I was sitting down.

But as impossible as it sounded, we got our first edition of Dome Living: A Creative Guide For Planning Your Monolithic Dream Home done following our own, self-imposed, stingy schedule.

The big switch

In 2001, we abandoned the hard copy Roundup and switched to www.monolithic.com as our primary information medium. That was both painful and exciting. We loved the Roundup and hated giving it up. At the same time, we could see the growing potential and strength of the Internet. So we made the switch.

For me, at that point, the Internet was some mysterious, possibly dangerous entity lurking somewhere in outer space. I knew how to get and send email -- that was about all. I still went to the library to do my research. Well, that soon changed.

Not only did I have to learn about the Internet and how to research on the Internet, I had to learn how to write for a website. It differed from writing something to be printed on paper. But the more I do it, the more I like it.

Think Round

My biggest, most surprising, most exciting, Monolithic challenge -- so far -- came in 2002. At a luncheon meeting, Dave, Jr. -- the challenge-bearer -- announced, "We want to do a biography of David. Freda, we want you to write it."

A biography! I immediately thought of Dome Living and the harried six weeks we had for it. Dave must have read my mind because he immediately added, "You will have a year to do it in."

Wow! What a relief! A whole year!

It took two. During those two years David answered hundreds of my questions about his professional and personal life, his wife and family, and the evolution of the Monolithic Dome. And during those two years, I reviewed boxes and boxes of documents, talked with David, his co-workers and relatives, transcribed notes and taped interviews, wrote and rewrote.

Result: Think Round: The Story of David B. South and The Monolithic Dome

Those kinds of challenges always make a job interesting. But they're not the only thing that keeps me at Monolithic. Our clients are interesting people who are not afraid of doing something different. I like talking with and writing about them and their dome projects.

Moreover, I like working with all the other members of the Monolithic Family. So, I'll keep plugging along as its oldest member.

Related Links:

• We're launching a New Series: The Monolithic Family
• Nanette South -- Newest Member of the Monolithic Family
• The Monolithic Dome
  
• Mapping It Out-- Monolithic Domes Cover the World
• Self Guided Tour (PDF) of the Monolithic Dome Institute's Headquarters in Italy, TX
• Map and Directions from DFW Airport

177 Dome Park Place - Italy, TX 76651
Tel (972)483-7423 - Fax (972)483-6662
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