Ted Sager

Ted Sager


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Edward (Ted) Sager was born in Moorends on 7th February 1910. After leaving school he worked as a coalminer at Thorne Colliery. A talented goalkeeper he joined Everton in March 1929.

Sager made his debut for the club against Derby County in January 1930. That season the club was relegated to the Second Division. The star of the team at the time was Dixie Dean.

Everton easily won the Second Division championship in the 1930-31 season. Dixie Dean scored in 12 consecutive league games and once again was the club's leading scorer.

Everton won the First Division championship in 1931-32. Sager only missed one game that season. Tony Matthews in Who's Who of Everton points out that Sager "became famous for his headlong dives towards the ball, regardless of how many players were blocking his path." Matthews added: "He was a fine shot-stopper and had the uncanny ability to pluck high, looping balls out of the air with timely precision."

Everton also reached the 1933 FA Cup Final. The team that lined up against Manchester City included Sager, Dixie Dean, Cliff Britton and Albert Geldard. Everton won the game 3-0.

In December, 1936, Everton signed Tommy Lawton for a fee of £6,500. The team at this time included Joe Mercer, Dixie Dean, Cliff Britton, Albert Geldard, Alex Stevenson and Jack Jones. In the 1938-39 season Everton won the First Division league title, by beating Wolverhampton Wanderers by four points.

Sager's football career was interupted by the Second World War. He joined the British Army and served in Denmark, Italy and Iraq.

After the war Sager returned to Everton. In September 1948 Cliff Britton, Sager's former teammate, was appointed manager of the club. Sager retained his place in the side but unfortunately the club was relegated in the 1950-51 season.

Sager played his final game for Everton in November 1952. He was 42 years, 281 days old, and was the oldest player ever to appear in a first-class game for the club. Over a 23 year period, Sager played 497 games for Everton.

Edward Sager, who became a Liverpool licensee, died on 16th October 1986.


Our History

Fort Vale Engineering was established in Colne, Lancashire, UK.
The first component made was a 2 1/2” cast iron, 3-way valve for fuel oil delivery tankers supplying heating oil to residential properties.

Parkfield Works

In 1975 Fort Vale purchased larger premises in Nelson, Lancashire, UK.
With a workforce that was growing in experience and skillsets, Fort Vale expanded and improved its product range.

Ian Wilson

Ian Wilson joins Fort Vale and introduces the company's first computer - an 8k Commodore PET.

Queen’s Award

Awarded the Queen’s Award for Export Achievement.

Fort Vale Inc

Fort Vale Inc was established in Houston, USA.

UK Expansion

Nelson's manufacturing facility was expanded by the acquisition of the Valley Mills complex.

Queen's Award

Awarded the Queen’s Award for Export Achievement for the second time.

E. S. Fort - OBE

Ted Fort, Founder and Chairman, receives an O.B.E. for services to industry.

Fort Vale BV

Fort Vale BV was established in Rotterdam, Netherlands.

Fort Vale Russian Federation

Fort Vale Russian Federation was established in Moscow.

South Valley Foundry

South Valley Foundry was constructed and commissioned.

Fort Vale Shanghai Ltd

Fort Vale Shanghai Ltd manufacturing plant was established in China.

Fort Vale Singapore

Fort Vale Pte Ltd was established in Singapore.

UK expansion

Fort Vale moves its head office and manufacturing facility to new state-of-the-art premises in Simonstone, Lancashire, UK.

Queen's Award

Awarded the Queen’s Award For Enterprise: International Trade: 2008, Fort Vale's 3rd award.

Queen's Award

Awarded the Queen’s Award For Enterprise: International Trade: 2013, Fort Vale's 4th award.

Research and Development Facility

A new Research & Development facility was opened by HRH the Duke of Kent KG.

50th Anniversary

Fort Vale celebrates its golden 50th anniversary!
In 2017, the number of employees is over 350 people.

Fort Vale Australia

Fort Vale Australia Pty Ltd was established in Queensland.

UK Foundry expansion

The foundry was re-located to a larger, purpose-built premises in the same location as the head office and manufacturing facility.

Wilson Fort Sports Centre

In June 2018, Fort Vale UK opened the on-site Wilson Fort Sports Centre, a leisure facility for the health and well-being of employees. The centre includes a state-of-the-art gym, sports hall and climbing wall.


Contents

Seager was born in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, and is Jewish. [2] [12] [13] Her father, David Seager, who lost his own hair when he was 19 years old, was a pioneer and one of the world's leaders in hair transplantation and the founder of the Seager Hair Transplant Center in Toronto. [14] [15]

She earned her BSc degree in Mathematics and Physics from the University of Toronto in 1994, assisted by a NSERC University Undergraduate Student Research Award, and a PhD in astronomy from Harvard University in 1999. Her doctoral thesis developed theoretical models of atmospheres on extrasolar planets and was supervised by Dimitar Sasselov. [3] [4] [16]

She held a postdoctoral research fellow position at the Institute for Advanced Study between 1999 and 2002 and a senior research staff member at the Carnegie Institution of Washington until 2006. She joined the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in January 2007 as an associate professor in both physics and planetary science, was granted tenure in July 2007, [17] and was elevated to full professor in July 2010. [18] She currently holds the "Class of 1941" chair. [1]

She was elected a Legacy Fellow of the American Astronomical Society in 2020. [19]

She is married to Charles Darrow and they have two sons from her first marriage. Her first spouse, Michael Wevrick, died of cancer in 2011. [20] [21]

Seager's research has been primarily directed toward the discovery and analysis of exoplanets in particular her work is centered around ostensibly rare earth analogs, leading NASA to dub her "an astronomical Indiana Jones." [22] Seager used the term "gas dwarf" for a high-mass super-Earth-type planet composed mainly of hydrogen and helium in an animation of one model of the exoplanet Gliese 581 c. The term "gas dwarf" has also been used to refer to planets smaller than gas giants, with thick hydrogen and helium atmospheres. [23] [24]

Seager was awarded the 2012 Sackler Prize for "analysis of the atmospheres and internal compositions of extra-solar planets," [25] the Helen B. Warner Prize from the American Astronomical Society in 2007 for developing "fundamental techniques for understanding, analyzing, and finding the atmospheres of extrasolar planets," [26] and the 2004 Harvard Book Prize in Astronomy. [27] She was appointed as a fellow to the American Association for the Advancement of Science in 2012 and elected to the Royal Astronomical Society of Canada as an honorary member in 2013. [1] In September 2013 she became a MacArthur Fellow. [28] She was elected to the American Philosophical Society in 2018. [29] She was the Elizabeth R. Laird Lecturer at the Memorial University of Newfoundland in 2018. [30] On 19 August 2020 Seager appeared on the Lex Fridman Podcast (#116). [31]

In 2020, she was appointed as an Officer of the Order of Canada. [32] She won the 2020 Los Angeles Times Book Science and Technology Prize for The Smallest Lights in the Universe. [33]

Seager equation Edit

Seager developed a parallel version of the Drake equation to estimate the number of habitable planets in the galaxy. [34] Instead of aliens with radio technology, Seager has revised the Drake equation to focus on simply the presence of any alien life detectable from Earth. The equation focuses on the search for planets with biosignature gases, gases produced by life that can accumulate in a planet atmosphere to levels that can be detected with remote space telescopes. [34]


HIMYM Needed To Differentiate Between Ted & Future Ted

More than anything, How I Met Your Mother needed a narrator to act as a storytelling device. Future Ted's tale steered the events of the series while also providing more insight into memorable moments. By not using Radnor's voice for the narration, viewers could differentiate when Future Ted was doing the voice-over. Granted, the narration usually occurred at the beginning and ends of episodes, but that wasn't always the case. When Saget's voice jumped into a scene, it was established that the voice was coming from Future Ted. This method lessened confusion when it came to the presence of the same character from different timelines.

Oddly enough, Saget was never credited for his work on How I Met Your Mother, even though his narrating remained a key aspect of the show's entire run. When Future Ted was finally shown in the series finale, Radnor took over with an aged appearance. Viewers quickly pointed out the inconsistency with Radnor's voice not sounding anything like Future Ted's narration. There was, however, a belief that Saget's version was more like the voice of Ted's subconscious. In reality, the series most likely wanted the Radnor to finish Ted's journey in the future timeline.


Legends of America

The Sager family on the Oregon Trail

Henry and Naomi Sager, along with their six children joined a wagon train led by Captain William Shaw at the end of April 1844 in a quest for a better life. The parents wouldn’t survive the trip and the children would suffer more tragedy before their ordeal was complete.

Years later, Catherine Sager would describe her father, Henry Sager, as “a restless one.” Before 1844, he had moved his growing family three times. They started in Virginia before moving to Ohio and then Indiana before finally arriving in Platte County, Missouri in the Autumn of 1843. There, he engaged in farming and blacksmithing. Temporarily settling in St. Joseph, Missouri, a jumping-off point for the Oregon Trail, Henry almost immediately began to make plans to travel to Oregon. His wife, Naomi, was reluctant to go at first, but eventually agreed.

In March 1844 Henry joined a group of pioneers who called themselves The Independent Colony. A month later, the family, including their six children: John 14, Frank 12, Catherine 9, Elizabeth 7, Matilda 5, and Louisa 3 years old, crossed the Missouri River and started out on the 2,000-mile journey along the Oregon Trail. The wagon train included 300 people in 72 covered wagons.

After five weeks on the trail, Naomi would give birth to their seventh child on May 30, 1844, in present-day Kansas. They named her Henrietta. Catherine recounted

“The first encampments were a great pleasure to us children. We were five girls and two boys, ranging from the girl baby to be born on the way to the oldest boy, hardly old enough to be any help.”

On July 4, 1844, the wagon train celebrated Independence Day on the banks of the Platte River in Nebraska. A couple of days later, they forded the South Platte River, where Henry Sager lost control of his oxen. The wagon overturned in the shallow waters along the bank and Naomi was injured, but the pioneers pressed on.

Chimney Rock in Nebraska, by Kathy Weiser-Alexander. A number of other trails followed the Oregon Trail for part of its length. These include the Mormon Trail from Illinois to Utah and the California Trail to the goldfields of California.

In late July, they passed Chimney Rock and Scotts Bluff in western Nebraska. It was the reminder that the Great Plains were almost crossed and the Rocky Mountains lay ahead.

Not too far from the north bank of the Platter River, near Fort Laramie, Wyoming, Catherine, age 9, tried to jump out of the wagon while it was in motion. Unfortunately, she caught her dress on an ax handle and she was thrown under the wagon. Lucky for her, a doctor who was on the journey saved her leg but she would be confined to the wagon for the rest of the journey. They pushed on that same night until they reached Fort Laramie.

A couple of days later the Independent Colony reached Independence Rock, and on August 23, 1844, the wagon train reached South Pass on the Continental Divide. During the descent into the Green River Valley some of the travelers, including Henry Sager, fell ill due to an outbreak of camp fever.

After crossing the Green River, two women and a child had died of the fever and Henry was very ill. Knowing that death was imminent, he asked Captain Shaw to take care of his family. The next day, he was buried on the banks of the river in an improvised coffin and the wagon train traveled on.

Naomi was torn with grief and was still weakened from childbirth. Although Captain Shaw and the doctor did everything possible to assist her, the exertions were too much and she too soon fell ill with the fever. After reaching Fort Bridger, Naomi had become delirious and asked the doctor to deliver the children to the Whitman Mission in the Walla Walla Valley in present-day southeastern Washington. She died near present-day Twin Falls, Idaho. In 26 days the Sager children had lost both parents and were left orphaned.

The children were cared for by other families in the wagon train and the caravan pressed on. In early October, word was sent ahead to the Mission to let them know that a needy wagon train was approaching and to talk with them about adopting the Sager children.

Dr. Marcus Whitman and his wife, Narcissa, sent word back to the wagon train that they would take all seven. A few days later, after six months and 2,000 miles, Henry and Naomi Sager’s children finally reached their new home in Oregon.

In July 1845 Dr. Whitman obtained a court order giving him legal custody the children, but, tragedy would continue to follow them. The Whitman Mission ministered to the Cayuse Indians and had maintained peaceful relations with them. However, as more and more settlers passed through on wagon trains, disease came with them, striking distrust and animosity among the Indians.

The peaceful coexistence of the local Cayuse and the white missionaries was in a delicate balance, and in 1847, the balance began to shift to distrust and animosity.

In 1847, three years after the arrival of the Sager orphans, an outbreak of measles decimated the Indian tribes of the area and the Cayuse held white settlers responsible. As a result, the Cayuse attacked the Whitman Mission in November. Known as the Whitman Massacre, the attack claimed 14 lives at the mission including Marcus and Narcissa Whitman and the two Sager boys, John and Frank. The 54 women and children were taken captive and held for ransom. Several of the prisoners died in captivity, mostly from illnesses such as measles, including Louisa Sager.

A month after the massacre, Peter Ogden of the Hudson’s Bay Company arranged for the release of the women and children by trading blankets, clothing, rifles, and ammunition. They were then brought to Fort Vancouver and released into freedom.

Catherine, Elizabeth, and Matilda Sager, 1897

The four remaining Sager girls were split up and sent to different families. Henrietta died young at age 26, supposedly mistakenly killed by an outlaw. The other three girls, Catherine, Matilda, and Elizabeth all married, had children and lived well into old age.

About 1860 Catherine, the oldest girl, wrote a first-hand account of their journey across the plains and their life with the Whitmans. Today it is regarded as one of the most authentic accounts of the American westward migration.


What Margaret Sanger Really Said About Eugenics and Race

I t was 100 years ago&mdashon Oct. 16, 1916&mdashthat Margaret Sanger opened the first birth-control clinic in the United States. An advocate for women&rsquos reproductive rights who was also a vocal eugenics enthusiast, Margaret Sanger leaves a complicated legacy &mdash and one that conservatives have periodically leveraged into sweeping attacks on the organization she helped found: Planned Parenthood.

Last year, 25 House Republicans campaigned to have a bust of the pioneering family planner removed from the Smithsonian&rsquos National Portrait Gallery, where it has been included in an exhibit featuring American civil rights leaders, called &ldquoThe Struggle for Justice,&rdquo with Ted Cruz&rsquos office issuing a press release explaining that she didn&rsquot belong there for a number of reasons, the most damning of which is that as part of her &ldquoinhumane life&rsquos work&rdquo she &ldquoadvocated for the extermination of African-Americans.&rdquo It&rsquos not the first time Sanger has faced this accusation. During this past primary season, Ben Carson proclaimed that Sanger &ldquobelieved that people like me should be eliminated&rdquo &mdashlater clarifying, per PolitiFact, that he was &ldquotalking about the black race&rdquo&mdashand in 2011, Herman Cain alleged that Sanger&rsquos original goal for Planned Parenthood was to &ldquohelp kill black babies before they came into the world.&rdquo

Historians and scholars who’ve examined Sanger’s correspondence, as Salon reported in 2011, challenge those who call the activist racist.

Much of the controversy stems from a 1939 letter in which Sanger outlined her plan to reach out to black leaders &mdash specifically ministers &mdash to help dispel community suspicions about the family planning clinics she was opening in the South.

&ldquoWe do not want word to go out that we want to exterminate the Negro population, and the minister is the man who can straighten out that idea if it ever occurs to any of their more rebellious members,&rdquo she wrote. It was, as the Washington Post called it, an &ldquoinartfully written&rdquo sentence, but one that, in context, describes the sort of preposterous allegations she feared &mdash not her actual mission. The irony is that it has been used to propagate those very allegations. Cruz&rsquos letter to the director of the National Portrait Gallery, for example, quotes only the first half of the sentence.

Sanger&rsquos stated mission was to empower women to make their own reproductive choices. She did focus her efforts on minority communities, because that was where, due to poverty and limited access to health care, women were especially vulnerable to the effects of unplanned pregnancy. As she framed it, birth control was the fundamental women&rsquos rights issue. &ldquoEnforced motherhood,&rdquo she wrote in 1914, &ldquois the most complete denial of a woman&rsquos right to life and liberty.&rdquo

That&rsquos not to say that Sanger didn&rsquot also make some deeply disturbing statements in support of eugenics, the now-discredited movement to improve the overall health and fitness of humankind through selective breeding. She did, and very publicly. In a 1921 article, she wrote that, &ldquothe most urgent problem today is how to limit and discourage the over-fertility of the mentally and physically defective.&rdquo

She was, of course, not alone in this viewpoint: In the 1920s and 1930s, eugenics enjoyed widespread support from mainstream doctors, scientists and the general public. Planned Parenthood officials are quick to note that, despite her thoughts on the idea in general, Sanger &ldquouniformly repudiated the racist exploitation of eugenics principles.&rdquo

In 1966, Martin Luther King Jr. made clear that he agreed that Sanger&rsquos life&rsquos work was anything but inhumane. In 1966, when King received Planned Parenthood&rsquos Margaret Sanger Award in Human Rights, he praised her contributions to the black community. &ldquoThere is a striking kinship between our movement and Margaret Sanger&rsquos early efforts,&rdquo he said. &ldquo&hellipMargaret Sanger had to commit what was then called a crime in order to enrich humanity, and today we honor her courage and vision.&rdquo

As Gloria Steinem pointed out in a 1998 essay for TIME, Sanger&rsquos embrace of the eugenics rhetoric may have been less a heartfelt belief than a political ploy to broaden birth control&rsquos appeal. But even speaking the language of eugenics could be insidious. Steinem writes:

[Sanger] adopted the mainstream eugenics language of the day, partly as a tactic, since many eugenicists opposed birth control on the grounds that the educated would use it more. Though her own work was directed toward voluntary birth control and public health programs, her use of eugenics language probably helped justify sterilization abuse. Her misjudgments should cause us to wonder what parallel errors we are making now and to question any tactics that fail to embody the ends we hope to achieve.

Read Gloria Steinem’s full essay, here in the TIME archives: Margaret Sanger


1949 Chevy 3600

I've always had an interest in restoring old vehicles. Being in the Army for the last 14 years, it's been difficult to put down too solid of roots and have a shop that makes the restoration process somewhat easier -- but I've made it work.

My new project, this 1949 Chevy 3600, has quite the sentimental value and story for our family so I intend to get her back on the road until I retire. Then I will begin a frame off restoration after I settle down to my final home back in the hills of West Virginia.

This truck has been in my Wife's family ever since I have known her. Originally, it was a local farmer's truck (in Hardy County, West Virginia). My Wife's cousin bought the truck in the late 80's after the original owner had passed. He gave her a rough going over. The fenders were beat in from cows beating up against it, but she was all there. After he was finished with the truck, he put it up for sale. My Father-in-law Elvin loved the truck and his daughter (now my Wife) bought the truck for him as a surprise one year for his birthday (we're in the early 90's at this point).

Elvin drove this truck everyday for years (up until about 2000). He had two daughters and as they got older and went off to school and needed the newer vehicles, he drove this ole girl everyday back and forth to work. When I met my wife in '97, I took her for a ride in this old truck and she broke down on us (fuel pump). That was the last time I drove it for years.

Elvin parked the truck in 2000 and she has been sitting since. He was meticulous with maintaining the originality of the truck. I was after him to swap it to 12 volt, update the brakes, etc. but he'd have none of it. If the generator went out, he sent it off to be rebuilt at the local NAPA. Same with the starter. She's still 6 volt, vacuum wipers, Huck brakes, and 100% there.

After I joined the U.S. Army and we left the area in 2000, we'd come home as often as we could. One of the first things I would do is go out and coax the ole girl back to life and get her running again. I would always get after my Elvin to run her down the road once in a while to keep everything working. He worked a lot driving a truck and it just never seemed to happen.

As my Elvin got older and the truck sat longer, I think he got overwhelmed a little. About a year ago, he told me to take the truck back down with me and do something with it. He was adamant that I keep it original and not make a hot rod out of it.

As we loaded her up on a trailer and made the trek from Hardy County, WV to Ft. Campbell, KY, I realized even more that we were hauling a piece of history. We had people taking pictures of the truck as we traveled down the highway. At every gas stop (which was often), someone wanted to buy the truck.

The first thing I did when I got her down here was to get it running again. After a carb and a good tune up, she fired right up. I had to pull the gas tank and clean it (I pulled three dustpans worth of rust out of it). In the end, I ordered a new tank because I kept stopping up fuel filters.

Elvin passed suddenly a few months ago, so I have jumped on the truck with a renewed effort. I found the original wheels with period correct tires, and am going through the brakes right now. As soon as I get all of that rounded up and together, she should be able to get back on the road after all these years.

My boys help me work on it and this ole girl will always be "Pappy's truck." I'm hoping to have her road ready in the next couple of weeks and then I'll do the same thing he did -- drive it.

As I said, when I retire, I'll pass my time by taking her down to the frame and giving her a complete restoration. This truck will be preserved and I'll pass her down to my boys.

As today's vehicles get more technology and are put together with maximizing profits in mind rather than quality, I am mindful of better times . when a quality product is what mattered. A time when the driver did the thinking and driving, rather than the vehicle. A time when good values and hard work were the norm and political correctness wasn't a term even thought about.

I'll get more and better pictures as soon as the weather breaks . we ready for spring here in Kentucky! I'll keep you all posted on my progress in my DITY thread and load pictures to the album! Please feel free to check back and comment!

Great story Ted! We have a sweet spot for Kentucky and 1949's Chevy trucks! So, your's was a double-delight! When spring arrives in North America (??), we'll look forward to seeing more pictures and checking your updates! Driving an old Bolt -- it don't get much better than that!


Understanding the Ted Spread

The TED spread was originally calculated as the price difference between three-month futures contracts on U.S. Treasuries and three-month contracts for Eurodollars with identical expiration months. After futures on Treasury bills (T-bills) were dropped by the Chicago Mercantile Exchange (CME) following the 1987 stock market crash, the TED spread was amended. It is calculated as the difference between the interest rate banks can lend to each other over a three-month time frame and the interest rate at which the government is able to borrow money for a three-month period.

The TED spread is used as an indicator of credit risk. This is because U.S. T-bills are considered risk free and measure an ultra-safe bet—the U.S. government’s creditworthiness. In addition, the LIBOR is a dollar-denominated gauge used to reflect the credit ratings of corporate borrowers or the credit risk that large international banks assume when they lend money to each other. By comparing the risk-free rate to any other interest rate, an analyst can determine the perceived difference in risk. Following this construct, the TED spread can be understood as the difference between the interest rate that investors demand from the government for investing in short-term Treasuries and the interest rate that investors charge large banks.

According to an announcement by the Federal Reserve on November 30, 2020, banks should stop writing contracts using LIBOR by the end of 2021. The Intercontinental Exchange, the authority responsible for LIBOR, will stop publishing one week and two month LIBOR after December 31, 2021. All contracts using LIBOR must be wrapped up by June 30, 2023.  

As the TED spread increases, the default risk on interbank loans is considered to be increasing. Interbank lenders will demand a higher rate of interest or will be willing to accept lower returns on safe investments such as T-bills. In other words, the higher the liquidity or solvency risk posed by one or more banks, the higher the rate lenders or investors will require on their loans to other banks compared to loans to the government. As the spread decreases, the default risk is considered to be decreasing. In this case, investors will sell T-bills and reinvest the proceeds in the stock market which is perceived to offer a better rate of return on investments.


Ted Sager - History

Only by relying on the latest manufacturing techniques can Ted Hatfield's company re-create the craftsmanship of his great-great-grandfather

After a youth that it would be kind to call misspent, Ted Hatfield decided it was time to make something of himself. He had been around the world twice, driven a bus through the Khyber Pass, been run over by a bull in Pamplona, and worked as a hunting guide in Alaska. He was nearly 30 years old and sensed that it was about time to settle down and assume some adult responsibilities. So, typically, Hatfield chose to go into a nearly impossible business. He would become a gunmaker.

Hatfield came to that conclusion at a time when the once-proud U.S. firearms industry was in a depression from which it did not seem likely to emerge. This was in the late 1970s, when just about all American manufacturing was in decline. The arms industry was a victim of the usual problems -- old plants, entrenched unions, intense foreign competition, tired methods -- and of a few problems that were either unique to or especially acute in gunmaking. Product liability, for one, and an increasingly negative image with the public, for another.

Hatfield was bright enough to be aware of all that and innocent enough to have virtually no idea of how formidable the entrepreneurial route can be. Otherwise, he says, "I might have just gone back to sea." He had decided to seek his fortune ashore after somebody had emptied an old military Colt .45 at him outside a Houston bar one night . . . but that is another story.

Hatfield did have some things going for him. First, he is one of those Hatfields, the ones who skirmished with generations of McCoys. Some of the mountain tenacity had bred true and, just as important, there was a gunmaking tradition in his family. In fact, he owned a Pennsylvania long rifle that had been made by his great-great-grandfather sometime before the Civil War.

Hatfield knew in 1979 that there was a growing, almost cultish interest in traditional firearms. Both sportsmen and collectors were eagerly buying black-powder rifles. They were handsome to look at and satisfying to hold. They fairly breathed tradition and were fun to shoot.

Most of those rifles were custom-made by artisans who worked alone and might turn out one gun a month. They were often highly skilled, but they didn't know much about business, and neither, for that matter, did Hatfield. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. Temperamentally, he is about as unsuited for the world of offices, meetings, management seminars, and ruthless attention to the numbers as anyone could be. His strengths are his vast supply of energy and his appetite for risk. He is most comfortable in the world of improbables. And he grew up with guns and loved them he had taught himself how to take apart, repair, and rebuild the guns he loved best. A gun was not a mute, inanimate object to him but something that would respond to his touch.

So he had the talent necessary to become a good craftsman, but he also had something else. "I didn't want to just make guns," he says. "I wanted to make some money." He thought there might be a crease in the market somewhere between the custom-made guns and those that were mass-produced and looked it. He had in mind to produce guns that would not be custom-made, but would have custom quality and looks. Something the black-powder enthusiasts would want to own. He wasn't sure, but he thought he could sell several hundred a year.

He spent a couple of months in his hometown, St. Joseph, Mo., building a strikingly faithful replica of the gun his great-great-grandfather had built. He packed it and a few hundred brochures that he'd had printed locally and drove to a gathering in Indiana, where black-powder enthusiasts met to dress in the old buckskin clothes engage in shooting contests and buy, sell, and trade various items, especially muzzle-loading rifles.

Hatfield let enthusiasts handle the gun so they could get the feel of it and admire the richness of its striped maple stock. When he left Indiana, he had orders for 20 guns and no idea how he was going to produce them.

That did not deter Hatfield, who had some money from the deposits he had collected in Indiana and a friendly source at the local bank. The good relationship was due not to his own financial history -- not even a modern savings and loan would be that reckless -- but to his father's long and successful run at a sporting-goods establishment in town.

Hatfield rented space in an old garage and set out to discover what it took to produce guns in the 1980s.

The U.S. firearms industry -- located for the most part in the Connecticut River Valley, where it had been a vital part of the Industrial Revolution -- consisted of large factories full of machine tools that were run by skilled workers. They took billets of steel and, by cutting and drilling in scores of different operations, changed them into firearm components. The process was expensive both in capital and in the wages paid. Profits depended on scale. Winchester, Remington, and the others needed to sell thousands of guns a year.

A small operation was, by the nature of the industrial process, almost impossible. The logic of economies of scale ruled. Someone could, of course, buy a gun or the components and then assemble, fit, and customize until the end product was unique.

During World War II, however, engineers began to experiment with a process called investment casting, and developed it in a tentative fashion for arms making. Poured steel replaced cut steel. Capital costs were reduced to a fraction of what they would have been with the old machine-tool, drill-press factory system.

The man who recognized investment casting's civilian implications and exploited them is William Ruger, one of the most able gunmakers since the legendary John Browning. Ruger's company has been the one happy story in U.S. large-scale arms manufacturing since World War II.

Ted Hatfield is, in some sense, the spiritual heir of Ruger on a smaller scale. For Ruger, everything begins with the product. When he brought out a single-shot rifle in the 1960s, it was against all the wisdom of the trade. Americans, the line went, wanted their guns to have lots of firepower. They wouldn't buy anything but a repeating rifle. But Ruger's simple, elegant single-shot has been a tremendous success.

"I built it because I'd always been fascinated by the old drop-block buffalo rifles, and I figured if I liked those rifles, then a lot of other American shooters would too," Ruger says. That is his market test.

Hatfield, too, began with a product he trusted and his intuition proved correct in the market. But he had to find a way to get the gun into production. He quickly discovered that, thanks to Ruger's pioneering work, he didn't need to buy any machine tools or, for that matter, pay to have any steel cut. All the parts could be cast in small foundries. He merely needed to find a supplier, make the necessary forms, and put in an order. He was able to subcontract the work.

"Ruger," he says, "revolutionized the whole business and some of the big boys never realized it or admitted it. They were stuck with those huge factories and all those machine tools and unions, and they went broke. And if they didn't go broke, they are struggling. They just got left behind. They're right there on the cutting edge of technology -- about 50 years ago."

With the money he had taken in deposits and some additional liquidity supplied by the bank, Hatfield ordered the metal parts that he needed. He could order in quantity and do the assembly himself in the garage. But he still had to make the stocks, the wooden portions of the guns, and they had to be made right, since the stock is an integral part of a muzzle-loader. "Without the wood," Hatfield says, "all you have is a pile of parts. And if the wood isn't cut just right, you've got a gun that won't shoot straight."

Since there is no way to cast wood, Hatfield bought an old lathe and began turning stocks. "That thing probably made stocks for rifles that were used in the Spanish-American War," he says. Besides being obsolete, the machine was limited. Once the stock had been turned to shape, there were still another 10 cuts that had to be made for the barrel well, the ramrod sleeve, the barrel tang, and the rest. Hatfield improvised some jigs and, using some handyman tools, was able to make all the necessary cuts. But it was a slow process. "We were looking at a limit of 200 guns a year, and I wasn't going to make any money at that level. I wanted to make 200 a month. I knew I could sell them. I just had to figure out how to make them."

Hatfield made as many guns as he could and set out to educate himself about the available technology. For a while, it seemed that everything was either too big and expensive or too small and specialized. Then he learned about computer numerically controlled milling.

"That's what broke it open for me. Before that, I didn't know the first thing about computers -- still don't know much -- but I learned to love those rascals."

Traditional machine tools are designed to perform one task -- one cut, say, across the face of a block of wood or steel. To make the 10 cuts in a Hatfield stock, a production line would require 10 machines -- an assembly line. The cost of the machines would make such an assembly line prohibitive unless Hatfield could use thousands of stocks. A CNC milling machine can perform all 10 functions with no physical adjustments. Each function is controlled by a program that is run on an ordinary personal computer. The tool is adapted to the product, and limited runs are possible. Hatfield found a CNC operation in South Dakota that could turn out a stock in seven minutes on one machine and would handle any order, no matter how small. The main capital outlays were for a set of engineering diagrams and the writing of a computer program. "I jobbed that out," Hatfield says, "and was happy to do it.

"I wanted to be a businessman, and I wanted to make guns," he says. "No way I could have done both 20 years ago. Not making the kind of guns I make. I would have had to own a factory and, at the kind of numbers I'm dealing in, that would have been out of the question. I wouldn't make enough in 50 years to pay off what it would cost me to tool up.

"I'll tell you the way I see what I'm doing," Hatfield continues. "I'm trying to make a product according to the standards of the old American craftsmen, who were perfectionists and also liked to put a little personality into their work. And I'm trying to do it with the very latest technology. It seems like kind of a strange mix, but it works."

Once he had located the subcontractors and ordered the necessary parts, Hatfield began delivering guns and taking orders, working out of the basement of a liquor store and relying on receivables and borrowed money for cash. Sales of his first model have grown by 100% annually in spite of the fact that the black-powder craze peaked and then crashed in the early '80s.

According to Sam Fadala, an expert in the field of muzzle-loaders who is widely published on the subject, the reasons can be found in both the product and the producer. "In the first place, the gun is genuine. There really was a gun like it, made more than 150 years ago. I looked it up and compared them. Hatfield went to some pains to make a true replica.

"And then," Fadala goes on, "he does real good work. The materials and the workmanship are first class. I had a gun editor out here at my house, in Wyoming, and I showed him my Hatfield and we took it out and shot it 30 times without a misfire. In today's flintlocks, that's extraordinary."

Fadala says that Hatfield's personality has also contributed to the success of the gun. "This is a small world, and people know Ted Hatfield and his reputation. They know he is more interested in making a quality piece than in gouging his customer."

But Hatfield is also a businessman, and it was always his ambition to be more than a small gunmaker. The black-powder market, he knew, was limited. He could make and sell only so many guns. What he needed was another product. So Hatfield again followed the example of Bill Ruger -- he made a gun that pleased him.

"Actually," he says, "I'm not much of a black-powder enthusiast. I like the guns and I like to make them, but I don't get all carried away with shooting them. When I was growing up here in Missouri, what I liked to do was hunt birds with a side-by-side double."

Perhaps because it has no military ancestry, the side-by-side shotgun is widely considered the most refined expression of the pure gunmaking art. It is a gun that English gentlemen used on their estates at the lavish driven shoots. At these shoots, a gentleman went into the field with a brace of fine doubles, and while his loader broke and reloaded one, he fired the other. English craftsmanship made these guns as light and clean and elegant as possible.

The great English guns with names like Purdey, Boss, and Holland & Holland have become collectibles and, often priced at $50,000 and more, are almost too valuable to shoot. One expert estimates that there are probably fewer than 100 side-by-sides made annually in England, and that number will almost certainly not increase. The death of the old system of long, impoverished apprenticeships ensures that.

The classic American side-by-side was never as elegant. Many of the Parkers were mass-produced and sold off the rack. They were made -- and made well -- for ordinary American hunters. But after World War II, the average American hunter became enchanted with repeaters. The old side-by-side faded from the scene.

At the same time, sport in America had taken an upscale turn. The vaguely Anglican sensibility for fly-fishing and of upland bird shooting with classic guns had begun to spread, owing, perhaps, to increased affluence and promotion by retailers like The Orvis Co., whose image was -- and still is -- saturated with the old sporting virtues.

Hatfield sensed there was a market for a good American side-by-side. Orvis was selling Spanish-made guns. The few English guns available sold for astounding prices. (That holds true today. You can order a Purdey now for $40,000 and put down half of that price but when the gun is delivered, a year and a half later, the balance due will almost certainly be more than $20,000.) The Italians were making good side-by-sides. Browning had a gun that was made in Korea and Japan. Winchester still made a few of its top-of-the-line guns. But there was no readily available American side-by-side.

Hatfield, who had rebuilt a Parker just for the fun of it and was familiar with the workings of the classic American guns, went to work, applying the new technology with which he was now so familiar. In 1985 he came out with his prototype, a 20-gauge with short barrels and the same striped maple stock found on his muzzle-loader.

He made the rounds with the gun, displaying it at shows, lending it to sporting writers, and generally making sure the word got out. The response was cautious interest. Many side-by-side enthusiasts had become convinced that Americans could no longer produce a quality side-by-side. They were troubled by the maple stock -- in their minds, a side-by-side required a walnut stock. The gun was not as slender as a Purdey either.

Hatfield had answers for the critics. Maple, he said, had been used for stocks before walnut and by any measure was better wood. "People started using walnut when curly maple got too expensive. Besides, I like the way it looks." As for the less than imperial lines, Hatfield says: "Well, it is a little tubbier than a Purdey. And a Jeep looks a little burly sitting next to a Jaguar. Hell, it's an American gun. That's the heritage I was looking at when I designed it. I wasn't trying to build a Purdey."

Hatfield sold his first shotgun in 1986 and had orders for all he could make: some 40 guns. This year he will sell 600, in five grades. The lowest-grade gun sells for around $2,500, the highest for $6,900. The differences between them are in small touches and custom engraving. It is, of course, at the top of the line that he sees the potential for growth.

"We're getting people who want to own this gun for the right reasons. Last year there was a vice-president from Westinghouse whose associates flew him down here by executive jet when he retired, so we could measure him and fit him for a gun and he could pick out the blank we'd use to make his stock and he could talk to the engraver."

Last summer, Hatfield finished work on an elaborately customized gun commissioned by a personal friend as a gift for George Bush, complete with the Presidential seal in gold inlay on the floor plate.

Lionel Atwill, a contributing editor at Field and Stream magazine, remembers meeting Hatfield five years ago, when he was showing the prototype of the side-by-side. "Back then, we all thought it was great that Ted was willing to try. But we didn't give him much chance of making it. What's so admirable about the story is that Ted knew there was a market there, even if it was small, and found a way to sell to that market by innovation and hard work. He didn't try to cheat on the product or the market. He used the most modern technology available to produce something that earlier technology had made obsolete or economically impractical."

In the process, Hatfield's company remained a privately held corporation. He experienced early problems with quality control, staggered orders, untrained labor, long hours, and all the other agonies of an infant business. He kept working, kept borrowing, laid people off when he had to, and at one time or another did everything that needed to be done himself.

Hatfield's estimated sales last year were close to $2.5 million. (He doesn't like to say how much his business grosses.) By early this year he had back orders for almost 2,000 guns and had gone to two shifts. His biggest problem was the old perennial -- lack of capital. "I talk to my banker more than I'd like to," he confesses.

By then he was in a large old brick building in the middle of St. Joseph. One side of the building housed a bar and hamburger restaurant. "Seems like it is just my destiny to be in alcohol and firearms," Hatfield says. "Moonshine and muzzle-loaders are my life."

He is wearing blue jeans and a faded chamois shirt when I meet him at his new quarters, and he wipes his hands on a rag before shaking my hand. "Caught me working," he says, as he leads me out back, to where the guns are assembled.

Muzzle-loaders and side-by-sides rest upright in racks. They are in various stages of completion. Some stocks are dry and rough, others have been sanded, and a few have been oiled and rubbed down with steel wool until they gleam.

The guns' barrels and actions are a dull shade between silver and gray before they have been dipped in the bluing solution. The blued steel parts, which are ready to be fitted on the stocks, have the slightly ominous cast one associates with arms.

The work is done almost entirely by young women. They are unskilled, hourly employees and are trained in one or two basic tasks -- sanding, oiling, rubbing.

Hatfield oversees everything and does the final assembly and fitting of the side-by-sides himself, working at a bench that is littered with the tools of his trade -- hollow-ground screwdrivers, taps, punches, files, and soldering irons. He works with studied patience, taking a micron off with the file, then trying the metal-to-metal fit two or three times before he picks up the file and makes another soft stroke. The tools and the gun, the pace of the work, and the smell of linseed oil. . . it is all satisfyingly redolent of a different time.

A man is bent over a bench, carefully engraving the image of a quail in gold on the floor plate of a finished gun. The engraver, Danny Pitts, wears wire-rimmed spectacles and has long, wild hair. Hatfield has known him "oh, just about forever." He sent Pitts to Italy to perfect his technique. "But what he does," Hatfield says, "is more in the American tradition. Bolder and broader than the European style."

Hatfield works for an hour to get the fit just right. When the gun is ready, he carries it to a rack where the finished guns rest, waiting for a final inspection and then shipment.

"Man in Illinois bought that one for his wife. She liked his so much that he never got to shoot it."

He wipes his hands on the rag again and says, "How about a beer and some lunch?"

At a table next door, he talks about his plans. "Well, I've never had a business plan, you know. It was just make as many guns as I could, sell them, and take more orders. But now I've got a financial adviser, and we're working up a three-year plan. The way he sees it, I can go one of three ways: I can go public, I can sell to someone bigger and keep running the company, or I can buy some machinery -- investment casting and CNC -- and start making components for myself and taking orders from other businesses."

"I don't know," he says. "Whichever way makes the most sense economically, I suppose." He doesn't say this with much enthusiasm, and one senses that he might already miss the days when he was on the road with one of his prototypes, taking orders and immersing himself in the details of the technology that enabled him to succeed. The stability of a three-year plan probably does not stir his blood much.

Hatfield has recently made a prototype of a double rifle, like the old safari guns. He believes he can sell it to Americans who want to hunt in Africa the way Teddy Roosevelt and Hemingway did. Hatfield especially enjoys describing how he called an English gunmaker to price an African gun.

"Told him I was Billy Bob Brewer from Midland-Odessa and I was thinking about going over to Africa to shoot something. 'So tell me now, boy,' I said, 'how much you going to charge me for one of them guns?'

" 'That will be 50,000, sir,' he said.

"I told him that sounded fair, when could I pick it up? He said, 'Three years,' and I said, 'Hell, boy, I'm supposed to leave in a month's time. What's the big holdup?'

"He explained how the gun had to be fitted and handmade and all that. Got right snooty about it. All the time I was thinking how I could make that same gun and see a profit selling that thing for $15,000.

"And you know what?" he says. "I believe I'll make a better gun, too. Better looking and better shooting."

He has begun producing a half-stock muzzle-loader, a replica of the guns carried by the mountain men as they roamed the American West. It is an odd, and oddly satisfying, juxtaposition. The old guns and the new tools -- especially computers. Workbench and workstation. A niche where the Hatfields of the world can thrive. "It's been a lot of fun," Hatfield says, "and it beats hell out of going back to sea."

Geoffrey W. Norman has written widely about outdoor sports and is the author of four books, including the recently published Bouncing Back (Houghton Mifflin).


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