A Night at the - Today's Machining World

the hideous roadside bombs.
I am grateful to our brave soldiers for their sacrifice to country,
but I am sick of politicians sending kids out to be killed in
another meaningless war we cannot win. Hell, we don’t even
know who’s on our team.
For the last nine years I have bought the
best dried apricots in the world from Gibson Farms of Hollister,
California. I met one of the owners, Mr. Gilbert Gibson, at
the Palo Alto Farmer’s Market and we have become business
friends. He asks me about my family; I ask him about the crop.
He suggests I buy some walnuts; I usually just want the sweetest
dried apricots I’ve ever tasted.
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I always seem to run out of this perfect treat before my
trips to the Bay Area, so I order them. No Web site. Just call
the house and some nice lady will say, “What can I get for
you, hon?” She’ll take the order and say, “We’ll ship Wednesday,
I know your address.” Credit cards are not taken. I once
asked Gilbert Gibson how often he had been stiffed. He said,
“Never.”
When I get the Gibson apricots, and the enclosed bill I pay it
immediately. He trusts me so I would never sit on the invoice
like I might with Comcast or ComEd. How could I look him in
the eye at the Market if I neglected his invoice?
I know piece parts aren’t apricots and Ford isn’t Snow
White, but wouldn’t it be nice?
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