Autobiography of a Maquoketa Boy-2.pdf - Microelectronics ...

Autobiography of a Maquoketa Boy
Richard B. Wells
trip so long as we got back to the bus on time, and Alan and I clambered around all over the place
drinking in the views. I had thought the desert had looked incredibly vast; it was nothing against the
splendor of the High View, from which the countryside receded endlessly, turning more and more blue
until finally it blended with the sky and the clouds on the far horizon. It was impossible to tell where in
the far distance the earth ended and the clouds began. In elementary school they had taught us ‘America
the Beautiful’ and I had sung the line ‘purple mountain’s majesty’ many times. I had always assumed that
was just poetry. No. In the distance they really are purple and they really are majestic. New Mexico
shared its enchantments with Alan and me one warm summer day in 1969 and for a few brief hours
banished the troubles of the world to somewhere far, far away. God had another special place. After
Kirtland I never saw New Mexico again and I never saw Alan again. They were summer friends. But
sometimes summer friends last a lifetime.
Bill was doing well with IBM and when he came home for a visit that summer he was driving
something new and exciting: an MGB sports car. I had my instruction permit by then, which allowed me
to drive provided an adult was with me. Good old Bill. It took him about two seconds to see I wanted to
get behind the wheel of that car pretty bad. We climbed in and off we went.
Driving an MGB feels like you’re sitting on the ground. I took it pretty easy at first, getting a feel for
the car and figuring out how to run through the gears. Then it was time to drive. An MGB isn’t meant to
sit still and look pretty. It’s meant to break the sound barrier. I suspect it didn’t take Bill too long to start
having second thoughts about how good an idea this had been. I’m not a reckless driver, you understand.
Never have been. But speed limits? Speed limits are for pussies and old men. Move over, Chuck Yeager.
The Wells brothers are coming. Somehow Bill forgot to let me drive his car again after that.
A couple days later I was stretched out on the couch in the living room reading something when Bill
came in and sat down. He asked me what I planned to study in college. I still didn’t know if I’d even be
able to go to college, but I knew what I wanted to learn about if I did get to go. “Computer science,” I
answered. The University of Iowa had a program in computer science; it was part of their math
department. Bill frowned at me. “Why do you want to study something so limited?” he asked.
Limited? How could computer science be limited? What I didn’t know was that at that time ‘computer
science’ really meant nothing more than ‘computer programming,’ which was not at all what I had in
mind. I wanted to know how these things worked and that’s what I told him.
“Then you should study electrical engineering,” Bill said. “Those are the guys who design computers.”
I hadn’t known that. Okay. Bill would know better than I would about this sort of thing. After all, he’d
already been to college. Electrical engineering at the University of Iowa it would be. But he shook his
head again. “The engineering school at Iowa City isn’t very good,” Bill said. “You should go to Iowa
State. That’s where the good engineering program is.” I hadn’t even known there was an Iowa State
University. The Hawkeyes ruled eastern Iowa. But, again, Bill would know better than I. He’d not only
already been to college. He worked for IBM, the biggest and best computer company in the world. If this
Iowa State place was good enough for IBM, it was good enough for me. Just like that, my college plans
were finalized.
But, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to go,” I said. He asked why not and I told him about how worried I was
we couldn’t afford for me to go to college. “You don’t worry about that,” he said. “You’re going.”
I felt like a giant weight had been lifted off my shoulders. My brother always kept his promises.
Since he had gotten out of the Army, Bill had started to put on a little extra weight and that really
bugged him. Secretly, I was very amused by this. When I’d been a Bubba, he’d ridden me mercilessly
about it, calling me “fat brother” in a pidgin Indian accent. I’d hated that. Now I was in the best physical
condition in my life and he was “fat brother.” The irony was so sweet I could taste it. And it got better.
“You know,” I said casually when he mentioned something about his own weight, “there’s a cinder
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