Telephone systems predate the use of cheap computers and electronic switches. Yesterday’s phone system used lots of stepping relays in a box known as a “selector.” If you worked for the phone company around 1951, you might have seen the Bell System training film shown below that covers 197 selectors.
The relays are not all the normal ones we think of today. There are slow release relays and vertical shafts that are held by a “dog.” The shaft moves to match the customer’s rotary dial input.
For a lot of us, soldering just seems to come naturally. But if we’re being honest, none of us was born with a soldering iron in our hand — ouch! — and if we’re good at soldering now, it’s only thanks to good habits and long practice. But what if you’re a company that lives and dies by the quality of the solder joints your employees produce? How do you get them to embrace the dark art of soldering?
If you’re Tektronix in the late 1970s and early 1980s, the answer is simple: make in-depth training videos that teach people to solder the Tek way. The first video below, from 1977, is aimed at workers on the assembly line and as such concentrates mainly on the practical aspects of making solid solder joints on PCBs and mainly with through-hole components. The video does have a bit of theory on soldering chemistry and the difference between eutectic alloys and other tin-lead mixes, as well as a little about the proper use of silver-bearing solders. But most of the time is spent discussing the primary tool of the trade: the iron. Even though the film is dated and looks like a multi-generation dupe from VHS, it still has a lot of valuable tips; we’ve been soldering for decades and somehow never realized that cleaning a tip on a wet sponge is so effective because the sudden temperature change helps release oxides and burned flux. The more you know.
The second video below is aimed more at the Tek repair and rework technicians. It reiterates a lot of the material from the first video, but then veers off into repair-specific topics, like effective desoldering. Pro tip: Don’t use the “Heat and Shake” method of desoldering, and wear those safety glasses. There’s also a lot of detail on how to avoid damaging the PCB during repairs, and how to fix them if you do manage to lift a trace. They put a fair amount of emphasis on the importance of making repairs look good, especially with bodge wires, which should be placed on the back of the board so they’re not so obvious. It makes sense; Tek boards from the era are works of art, and you don’t want to mess with that.
To celebrate the twentieth anniversary of their Trinitron line of televisions, Sony launched the KX-45ED1. At forty three inches the screen on this particular model made it the largest tube television in the world, and it came with the kind of price tag that if you need to ask…you can’t afford it (likely around $100,000 USD today). Three decades later, only two of these mythical displays were thought to exist and [shank] chronicled his quest to acquire one of the last remaining “Big Boys” in the mini documentary below.
As it turns out, one of these gigantic tube televisions was located on the second floor of a restaurant in Japan still sitting in the same place it was installed in 1989. It hadn’t moved in the intervening decades, because the television and its specialized support stand weighed over 500 pounds. Having an object that heavy physically moved down a flight of stairs would seem to be the most formidable challenge for most, but compounding the issue for [shank] was that the building housing this colossal CRT was set to be permanently closed in less than a week.
With next to no time to arrange an international flight, [shank] utilized the power of internet to ask for help from anyone currently living near the “Big Boy” CRT’s soon-to-be final resting place. It just so happened that a fellow retro tech enthusiast based in Japan saw the post, and traveled over an hour by train at a moment’s notice to aid [shank]. The heartwarming story of total strangers united by a common interest of preserving a rare piece of tech history is certainly worth a watch. Let alone the goofy size comparison footage of the smallest CRT display sitting on top of the biggest one.
The cable car system of San Francisco is the last manually operated cable car system in the world, with three of the original twenty-three lines still operating today. With these systems being installed between 1873 and 1890, they were due major maintenance and upgrades by the time the 1980s and with it their 100th year of operation rolled around. This rebuilding and upgrading process was recorded in a documentary by a local SF television station, which makes for some fascinating viewing.
San Francisco cable car making its way through traffic. Early 20th century.
While the cars themselves were fairly straight-forward to restore, and the original grips that’d latch onto the cable didn’t need any changes. But there were upgrades to the lubrication used (originally pine tar), and the powerhouse (the ‘barn’) was completely gutted and rebuilt.
As opposed to a funicular system where the cars are permanently attached to the cable, a cable car system features a constantly moving cable that the cars can grip onto at will, with most of the wear and tear on the grip dies. Despite researchers at San Francisco State University (SFSU) investigating alternatives, the original metal grip dies were left in place, despite their 4-day replacement schedule.
Ultimately, the rails and related guides were all ripped out and replaced with new ones, with the rails thermite-welded in place, and the cars largely rebuilt from scratch. Although new technologies were used where available, the goal was to keep the look as close as possible to what it looked at the dawn of the 20th century. While more expensive than demolishing and scrapping the original buildings and rolling stock, this helped to keep the look that has made it a historical symbol when the upgraded system rolled back into action on June 21, 1984.
Decades later, this rebuilt cable car system is still running as smoothly as ever, thanks to these efforts. Although SF’s cable car system is reportedly mostly used by tourists, the technology has seen somewhat of a resurgence. Amidst a number of funicular systems, a true new cable car system can be found in the form of e.g. the MiniMetro system which fills the automated people mover niche.
During World War II, shipboard life in the United States Navy was a gamble. No matter which theater of operations you found yourself in, the enemy was all around on land, sea, and air, ready to deliver a fatal blow and send your ship to the bottom. Fast forward a couple of decades and Navy life was just as hazardous but in a different way, as this Navy training film on the shipboard hazards of low-voltage electricity makes amply clear.
With the suitably scary title “115 Volts: A Deadly Shipmate,” the 1960 film details the many and various ways sailors could meet an untimely end, most of which seemed to circle back to attempts to make shipboard life a little more tolerable. The film centers not on the risks of a ship’s high-voltage installations, but rather the more familiar AC sockets used for appliances and lighting around most ships. The “familiarity breeds contempt” argument rings a touch hollow; given that most of these sailors appear to be in their 20s and 30s and rural electrification in the US was still only partially complete through the 1970s, chances are good that at least some of these sailors came from farms that still used kerosene lamps. But the point stands that plugging an unauthorized appliance into an outlet on a metal ship in a saltwater environment is a recipe for being the subject of a telegram back home.
The film shows just how dangerous mains voltage can be through a series of vignettes, many of which seem contrived but which were probably all too real to sailors in 1960. Many of the scenarios are service-specific, but a few bear keeping in mind around the house. Of particular note is drilling through a bulkhead and into a conduit; we’ve come perilously close to meeting the same end as the hapless Electrician’s Mate in the film doing much the same thing at home. As for up-cycling a discarded electric fan, all we can say is even brand new, that thing looks remarkably deadly.
The fact that they kept killing the same fellow over and over for each of these demonstrations doesn’t detract much from the central message: follow orders and you’ll probably stay alive. In an environment like that, it’s probably not bad advice.
Anyone who was around for the various wars and conflicts of the early 2000s probably recalls the video clips showing guided bombs finding their targets. The black-and-white clips came from TV cameras mounted in the nose of the bomb, and were used by bombardiers to visually guide the warhead to the target — often providing for a level of precision amounting to a choice of “this window or that window?” It was scary stuff, especially when you thought about what was on the other side of the window.
Surprisingly, television-guide munitions aren’t exactly new, as this video on TV-guided glide bombs in WWII indicates. According to [WWII US Bombers], research on TV guidance by the US Army Air Force started in 1943, and consisted of a plywood airframe built around a standard 2000-pound class gravity bomb. The airframe had stubby wings for lift and steerable rudders and elevators for pitch and yaw control. Underneath the warhead was a boxy fairing containing a television camera based on an iconoscope or image orthicon, while all the radio gear rode behind the warhead in the empennage. A B-17 bomber could carry two GB-4s on external hardpoints, with a bulky TV receiver provided for the bombardier to watch the bomb’s terminal glide and make fine adjustments with a joystick.
In testing, the GB-4 performed remarkably well. In an era when a good bombardier was expected to drop a bomb in a circle with a radius of about 1,200′ (365 meters) from the aim point, GB-4 operators were hitting within 200′ (60 meters). With results like that, the USAAF had high hopes for the GB-4, and ordered it into production. Sadly, though, the testing results were not replicated in combat. The USAAF’s 388th Bomber Group dropped a total of six GB-4s against four targets in the European Theater in 1944 with terrible results. The main problem reported was not being able to see the target due to reception problems, leaving the bombardiers to fly blind. In other cases, the bomb’s camera returned a picture but the contrast in the picture was so poor that steering the weapon to the target was impossible. On one unfortunate attack on a steel factory in Duren, Germany, the only building with enough contrast to serve as an aiming point was a church six miles from the target.
The GB-4’s battlefield service was short and inglorious, with most of the 1,200 packages delivered never being used. TV-guided bombs would have to wait for another war, and ironically it would be the postwar boom in consumer electronics and the explosion of TV into popular culture would move the technology along enough to make it possible.
We have often wondered if people dreamed in black and white before the advent of photography. While color pictures eventually became the norm, black and white TV was common for many years. After all, a TV set was a big investment, so people didn’t run out and buy the latest TV every year. Even if you did buy a new or used TV, a black and white model was much less expensive and, for many years, some shows were in black and white anyway. RCA, of course, wanted you to buy a color set. [PeriscopeFilm] has a 1963 promotional film from RCA extolling the virtues of a color set. The video also shows something about how the sets were made, as you can see below.
We aren’t sure we’d have led with the idea that color could save your life in this context, but we have to salute the melodrama. There is a good bit of footage of picture tube manufacturing, although the technical detail is — understandably — aimed at the general public.
