The Power of Innovation

It starts with an idea, one that comes in a flash or through years of trial and error, until eventually, we call it invention -- something that forever changes how we live our daily lives. Since the birth of manufacturing in the 1800s, Worcester's gained a reputation for innovation. No surprise, really, considering the region's diverse industrial base spawned creations like the monkey wrench, shredded wheat, and mass-produced valentines

You likely know that Robert Goddard, who pioneered space flight, launched the first liquid-fueled rocket in Auburn in 1926. Or that Worcester Foundation scientists invented the birth control pill in 1960.

But you may not know of the area's unassuming types who altered the way people worked and played. Like Louisa Blake, inventor of a "new and useful" snowplow in 1913. Or Peter Roberts, who devised the quick-release socket wrench while working at a Sears store in 1964.

Today, the innovative tradition continues with an eclectic, highly inquisitive group known as the Worcester Area Inventors.

Ever since its inception in 1978, WAI has served as many as 1000 local independent inventors, giving them a forum for "learning and sharing experiences," says Barbara Wyatt, one of its founders. Twenty or so active members now gather to swap stories of procuring patents, seeking investors, developing marketable products.

The group invites attorneys and consultants to speak on how to navigate America's increasingly convoluted patent system.

More important, though, WAI doles out the intangible support that keeps creativity flourishing here.

"It's human nature to think and create. We facilitate that [by providing] an environment that nurtures curious minds," Wyatt adds.

Although 100 similar associations exist across the nation, the Worcester group remains unique. It's the only one in New England, aside from United Inventors Association in Boston, that meets every month. And, by virtue of its grassroots nature, it's deeply committed to seeing the ingenious "little guy" get ahead.

No wonder then that WAI members appear dismayed by current congressional attempts to overhaul the federal patent system. Congress, in essence, is trying to align America's 206-year-old system with international standards through a bill that aims to broaden the rights to contest patents, recast the US Patent and Trademark Office as a quasi-private corporation, and require publication of patent applications after 18 months. (They're now kept secret until patents are issued, a process that takes about two years.)

Depending on who you talk to, the proposed changes will either bolster American industry's technological edge or kill off innovation.

Proponents, including corporate giants like IBM, argue that proposed changes will help inventors market ideas more quickly. And, since Europe and Japan already make patents public after 18 months, they say such a provision here will simply level the playing field.

But if an oddball alliance of conservatives, 27 Nobel Prize winners, and an army of independent inventors gets its way, reform won't happen. Opponents contend the changes will permit foreign firms to scour the PTO and steal US secrets. Privatizing the PTO, they add, will enable big companies to exert undue influence over patent decisions.

Ultimately, opponents say, the legislation will destroy the driving force behind the American economy -- independent inventors.

"Independent inventors are catalysts to get industry going, and for average inventors, the new changes are very discouraging," Wyatt says.

Despite the looming reform's threat to innovation, WAI members will undoubtedly keep tinkering with anything that needs improvement, because, as one member says, "We are curious people who just love to create."

To celebrate the inventive spirit, the Worcester Phoenix introduces you to four local independent inventors (starting on page 14) and their creations, from Bill Lyman and his delightfully simple bed-making system to B.T. Lingappa and his ecologically efficient methane-gas generator.

May the power of innovation never fade.

For more information about local inventions be sure to see "In Their Shirt Sleeves . . .," a new permanent exhibit at the Worcester Historical Museum that celebrates the city's manufacturing history.

-- by Kristen Lombardi

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Talking 'bout his generator

There's methane to B.T. Lingappa's madness

by Kristen Lombardi

If Banadakoppa (B.T.) Lingappa's predictions had come true, the country would now recognize his invention as the most efficient, economical origin of natural gas around. People would use it daily to light lamps, heat water, even fry their morning eggs.

This hasn't happened, though.

"It is very difficult in America to put my [methane-gas] generator into practice," Lingappa says. A small, sprightly man of 71, with a gentle, round face and thinning white hair, he explains that, because energy is cheap here, there's little interest in alternative fuel sources. "In 1974, people couldn't get gasoline due to an oil shortage. There was a crisis, so attention was paid to alternatives. Not anymore."

If Lingappa, a retired Holy Cross microbiology professor, is disappointed by this, he shrugs off the signs. And when he introduces you to his methane-gas generator, he speaks with such zeal, you sense that he could talk about the device for hours -- and never lose interest.

Of course, he's had plenty of time to perfect his presentation; in the past 20 years, he's delivered innumerable lectures to students, environmentalists, reporters -- anyone who wanted to understand "this very fascinating technology," he says. The monotony of offering so many demonstrations is lost on Lingappa, who describes the activity as highly rewarding since, he says, "The point is to show how everything can be reused. Waste is a misnomer; we just don't know how to use it."

To illustrate, he's set up a one-gallon, tabletop generator in his Worcester garage, where he and his 69-year-old wife, Yamuna, store the tools of their hobbies -- empty beehives, gardening shears, hoses, buckets, all arranged neatly, dangling by wire. Next to this stuff, the machine, made from Plexiglas cylinders, metal rods, and rubber tubing, isn't much to behold. There are no intricate gears or humming motors; but, because the generator has no moving parts, Lingappa notes, "it can be made very cheaply."

He soon talks about the biological process that yields methane gas, the portion of natural gas that burns as fuel. A byproduct of plant and animal waste, methane's produced in places like marshes, bogs, and in the bottom of lakes. As Lingappa outlines the generator's procedure -- which, in essence, replicates nature -- he freely tosses out words like "micro-organisms," "inner chambers," and "waste retainers."

For the unscientific mind, it gets a bit confusing. Here's a basic translation: Gather land or animal waste, preferably grass, twigs, leaves, apple peals, or cow manure. Place said materials into the generator's inner cylinder, then cover them with a thin, metal part that resembles a lid (the waste retainer). Pour water into the generator, then fasten the gas collector (the only piece with metal rods and a rubber tube) onto the top. Wait a few days.

In no time, bacteria, which is trapped in the airtight inner cylinder, causes the wet slurry to ferment, and this creates tiny, gas bubbles.

Simply put, organic matter goes in, energy comes out.

"Do not be afraid. Nothing bad will happen," Lingappa says in a mild, avuncular manner. He's now fiddling with a match, getting ready to test the gas flame. Before doing so, he cautions that the batch has been brewing for only five days -- perhaps not long enough for gas to accumulate.

Soon, though, his face lights up, as bright as the flame in front of him, and he exclaims: "See that! It's a beautiful, pure-blue flame."

Ever since the 1970s, when Americans anticipated rising costs of all forms of energy, Lingappa's worked to simplify a methane-gas generator that he discovered in his native country. In Mysore, India, a few of Lingappa's relatives, most of them farmers, have operated 400 cubic-foot generators that convert animal manure into gas for several decades.

To solve America's energy crisis, then, Lingappa turned to upgrading this "home-grown technology," and ended up building one of the first generators of its kind here. He and his wife, a retired microbiologist as well, eventually devised two, patented features: a retainer to keep the slurry under water, and rods to puncture coarse materials. The improvements are what makes Lingappa's generator more simple and cost-effective.

Even if most Americans have yet to appreciate the value of his innovation, Lingappa appears content with his accomplishment. After all, his "ecologically satisfactory" invention blends right in with his personal belief in a natural lifestyle. He and Yamuna, a sweet woman whose nose crinkles when she gets excited, raise 50,000 bees (one hive) for homemade honey, cultivate an expansive garden, even make granola.

And besides, as a scientist, he believes it his duty to introduce innovation.

"A scientific mind is, by definition, inventive. You need to keep experimenting [so as] not to lose the curiosity," he concludes.

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Health plan

George Gershman's secrets to long life

by Melissa Houston

It's an experience to step into George Gershman's world. Actually, you're literally guided there. It starts on the highway, little blue arrows summonsing you from Route 56 in Rutland. At most street corners and telephone poles, arrows: take a left, another left, and so on until you find the final arrow, on the mailbox at his modest home, a one-story cottage in a ramshackle neighborhood filled with once-seasonal cabins, now year-round rustic homes. Gershman's house sticks out: it's the largest (I later find out that it's completely fireproof to protect his inventions.), and the driveway is crammed with the tools of his ideas -- ham radios, gas tanks, and loads of rust.

I know I'm in for a treat. And when Gershman comes bounding down his front stairs, it's confirmed. He's a compact, spry 90-year-old, born in Russia, a retired engineer who has spent his life developing and patenting ways for people to live healthier lives. And, yes, he says, he's installed miles' worth of arrows across Rutland so his fans can find him.

He's got plenty of stories. Can I stay all day? He wants me to understand his philosophy: healthy living is the ultimate. To what does he credit his health? "George Gershman's Drink," naturally, a blend of honey, water, and apple-cider vinegar that he began marketing 12 years ago.

"People always say, `You never change; you're always full of energy. What the hell is going on with you?'" That, he says, is the impetus for producing his brew now sold in more than 100 stores across New England, including the Living Earth, in Worcester. It's an interesting drink, kinda like wine without the alcohol; at least, that's what I'm thinking as I timidly finish my first sip, while watching Gershman zoom around his living room at a breakneck pace, dodging computers, a fax machine, a copier, and coffee cans jammed with wrenches and other paraphernalia. All the while, he's talking, passionately explaining that he makes nearly 300 cases of his health drink a month in his back-yard "lab." He delivers them himself in his Lincoln Continental. It's a cure-all, he says, an ancient formula enjoyed by King Solomon. It prevents cancer, improves metabolism. He takes no prescription drugs, he says. He drinks his brew every day.

I gulp the rest of it down, absorbing all that he says, wondering if he'll give me a bottle. No, I don't care. I'll buy it.

Gershman's health drink is certainly a component of his life's work. But he's got about 30 patents for a slew of inventions that date back to his high-school days. He first invented a modified radio tube, which he later sold to RCA.

He came of age during the factory era and worked for Singer sewing-machine company in Worcester. Eventually, he bought the Northworks building on Grove Street, developed precision-measuring tools -- always looking for ways to innovate. After World War II, the government released technology that had been used strictly for military purposes; it was a hearing device to protect pilots' ears from being damaged by powerful, loud jet engines; it created what was called white noise.

With a group of dentists, Gershman adapted white noise, developing what would become his most successful patented equipment: a pain-relieving machine that could be used on patients allergic to Novocain. By superimposing white noise over music, a technology marketed under the name "Auralgesics," patients wouldn't feel pain during procedures. He patented and sold his device that looked much like headphones worldwide. Eventually regulation curbed the instrument's popularity in the US. But to this day, Gershman remains undeterred. He's currently researching ways surgeons can use the technology in lieu of anesthesia. "White noise reaches the bones where the threshold of pain exists," he says, explaining the basis for his research.

Why replace anesthesia? It's bad for you, he says. It remains in the body long after an operation; it causes premature gray and cataracts.

It's high-tech for sure, but Gershman too has delved into the low-tech, developing exercises that promote improved health. Actually, he says, his moves (lots of pelvic tilts and foot crossings which can be done on a bed using sandbags for weight resistance) increase blood flow to the brain, improve memory, ease prostate conditions, relieve us of PMS symptoms. He currently teaches his exercises, which he was all too glad to demonstrate, at senior centers.

But that's all old hat. Gershman looks ahead. He has ideas about a new septic system. He talks about adding on to his home, which he built himself; he wants to continue his hypnotism (he's a licensed practitioner), and -- he almost forgets -- he uses a divining rod. His newest zeal: food that heals. He energetically talks about natural healing, which he says is the last frontier for inventors (that and, of course, the fourth dimension, he says).

"Listen, I want to live for 15 or 16 years. I'm not talking about surviving. I'm talking about productive life."

If we could all be that committed.

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Simple solutions

Norman Anderson says practical makes perfect

by Melissa Houston

We all ponder a higher purpose. Why are we here? Was I meant to be a lawyer? It can go on forever, and for some people it does. So it's nice, maybe relaxing, to take solace in the things around us. A shoe is a shoe and a bagel a bagel. Once you start doubting your stuff, you're done for (Remember New Coke?). But what if someone found a way to rethink it all. Say, AA batteries? Jungle gyms? And refrigerators?

Norman Anderson, an 87-year-old Rochedale resident, has spent his life (He's a retired machinist now an organic farmer.), fooling around with the things in his house and in his garden. He's what you could call a classic tinkerer: no patents but loads of great ideas that he's turned into practical tools. And he recycled way before it was cool. Although he may not articulate it, there's a guiding principle in Anderson's life: everything has at least two uses. Only a fool would throw away a dead battery (excuse me, seemingly dead battery). Rub a dried-out ballpoint pen on it, and the ink will really start flowing. Finished with the daily paper? Shred it, wet it; and when it dries the mass is transformed into a strong brick that can be shaped for most any use. Anderson happens to dip his newspaper blocks into crankcase oil, shave them down into cylinders, and use them as plugs.

It goes on. He found an old jungle gym, so he wrapped plastic around it and voilà: a greenhouse. Hollow metal tubes are cut in a particular way so they can be used to clean the neck of an old spark plug -- squeezing just a little more life out of it. Old refrigerators -- he must have about six of them -- are tipped on their sides, left in his back yard, and used as compost containers. On and on and on . . .

These are simple, practical innovations. And Anderson was inspired early, as a child growing up on his father's poultry farm in Walpole, which had neither electricity nor plumbing. He first developed a piping system to provide the coops with water; and later he converted an automobile into a truck.

"When I was growing up, I was always interested in things, mainly in inventing things," Anderson relays. "But I never invented anything important."

Au contraire. Take his version of a mousetrap, for which he is best-known in the Worcester-area inventing circle. Anderson developed a particular coil that when twisted the right way allows you to bend back the weaponry and ready the bait without the threat of the arm snapping closed on your hand. The idea was so good, in fact, someone else beat him to the patent punch. Alas, lots of people come up with good ideas, Anderson included. Was he discouraged by his lack of marketing success? Not in the least, he says. He just keeps on inventing, strictly for his own benefit.

Anderson's latest vermin-unfriendly invention: a fly gun. Shaped like a thin revolver, this wooden gadget makes use of a rubber band, stretched from the front and hooked onto a trigger in the back. Just for kicks, we think, Anderson added a sight so you can line up the fly in your view. Pull the trigger, no more fly problem.

It's small devices like these, Anderson says, that revolutionized the world. Again, consider the mousetrap. "If there had been mousetraps in Europe during the Plague, there would have been no plague," he says.

People come in contact with revolutionary inventions each day and rarely do they know the "man behind the machine."

"Inventions are the most important thing there is. Every second of the day you come across something that is important to you. Something that was invented," he says. "But people don't realize a real inventor for who he is."

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Bedside matters

Bill Lyman's take on hospital corners

by Kristen Lombardi

Bill Lyman (a/k/a Bungee Bill) never considered himself inventive. Forget that he spent his childhood building bicycles out of discarded, spare parts. Or that he used to connect phones to radios so he could listen to sports broadcasts without bothering his mother.

If Lyman figured himself anything, it was a good problem-solver.

"I've always solved problems in unorthodox ways," he says. A tall, bespectacled man of 33, with lively blue eyes and ruffled blond hair, Lyman insists that his invention -- a bed-making system -- was merely inspired by his inclination to find answers. "When I'm in a situation, I ask myself, `How can I fix this?' Really, I'm a handyman."

Lyman sits in a rickety chair in his Millbury basement, a musty-smelling place where he does most of his thinking. Wooden shelves are stacked with books, folders, drawings, and 10 or so packages of "Bungee Bill's Snuggle-Tuckers, a Better BedMaking System." Chords of latex tubing, plastic washers, Velcro straps, wooden coins -- materials for Snuggle-Tuckers -- blanket his makeshift workbench, a pool table.

"I carry stuff in my pockets," he continues, but in a hurried, hushed manner, as if he were uttering a taboo. He shoves his hands into his black trousers, then pulls out a treasure chest of trinkets: fishing baubles, screws, bolts, brackets, pennies, and dimes fall to the floor. He grins with delight and adds, "A handyman carries lots of stuff. You never know what you might need to solve problems."

Lyman certainly had no idea the latex tubing he had lying around the house would soon alleviate his sleeping woes. A former mental-health counselor at the University of Massachusetts Medical Center, Lyman severely injured his back two years ago as he tried to help a 350-pound patient into a chair. The injury (several damaged disks) left him unable to fully bend over. So each morning, Lyman had difficulty making the bed. And each night, he ended up tossing and turning "like a chicken on a rotisserie," he says, because of unkempt blankets and sheets.

"I thought, `I'm so sick and tired of these messy blankets and sheets. It's cold. I'm freezing.'" Lyman recounts.

Then he remembered his latex tubing (He keeps a supply for homemade gifts like slingshots.), and it dawned on him: he could use the tubing to alter how blankets fit onto beds. He fastened the tubing to his bed frame with Velcro, then looped it around a small, wooden circle that he "trapped" inside the blanket. He did this to all four corners, basically anchoring the bedding to the bed frame.

In a matter of 20 minutes, he had fixed his sheets so they wouldn't budge at night. And in the morning, it took one tug and a smooth-over of wrinkles to make the bed again.

"It's just common sense," Lyman says, now standing beside a demonstration bed set up in his driveway. A red and yellow sign that announces "Snuggle-Tuckers" is perched above, along with his trademark character, Bungee Bill, a red, wily creature that Lyman's been drawing since he was five. ("It's my alter ego in cartoon form. He's wild, lovable, and doesn't stay between the lines all the time.") He attaches Snuggle-Tuckers to a blanket, talking the while about the system's simplicity; his work involves genius, he says, "but anyone can grasp the concept."

Lyman hops into bed, and soon rolls around as if a kid again. The blankets are pulled tightly, almost cocoon-like, and as he tumbles he calls out: "See how these blankets really aren't getting anywhere."

Lyman isn't the first person to think of securing blankets, of course. The US Patent and Trademark Office has registered 180 similar inventions, yet Snuggle-Tuckers, which is patent-pending, remains "absolutely revolutionary," he claims. Not only can it be used on futons, waterbeds, and any size mattress, but it's simpler and stronger than prior devices. (As evidence, Lyman's been known to hoist the demonstration bed atop his white Chevrolet and cruise around at 60 miles per hour.)

With a little coaxing and a lot of financial help from loved ones, Lyman introduced his product into the local market last Christmas. He did well for a newfound entrepreneur, selling 650 Snuggle-Tuckers (two per package for $19.95) at Goretti's Supermarket, in Millbury, as well as Baker's Department Store, in Whitinsville.

The experience of creating a product that people will buy appears to have altered how Lyman views himself. He now offers up business cards that announce "Inventor/CEO." He talks with animation about producing a line of Bungee Bill toys, even dabbles with new notions.

Although he's suffered setbacks (His flare for drama got him into trouble recently when he shook a bag of horse manure at a Department of Industrial Accidents judge who had denied Lyman workmen's compensation for his back injury.), there's little doubt that he has the drive it takes to solve the world's problems -- at least, some of them.

As he puts its, "Few people think about low-tech inventions, but you know, not everything has been invented yet."

Kristen Lombardi can be reached at klombardi[a]phx.com
Melissa Houston can be reached at mhouston[a]phx.com