Hardware-Pro.com

Hardware-Pro.com Since 2016 year

My Retro, Vintage, Old-School Hardware Museum

Introduction:

Allow me to introduce myself:

My name is Lyuben Lyubenov. I was born in the distant summer of 1972, in Sofia — the capital of Bulgaria.

Today, I am a certified Hardware Engineer, graduated in 1997.

Make a small mental connection between my name and my website:

Lyuben Lyubenov & Hardware-Pro.com

This website — which I build every day in my mind, and sometimes in reality — is created for you as well.

Dear young enthusiasts of electronics and technology,

and brave future professionals,

If I can pass on even a small part of my excitement, knowledge, ideas, and dreams,

I will consider my mission fulfilled.

To spark curiosity in the eyes of even one child, one young person, one human being —

that alone gives meaning to everything.

And why not 10, 100, or 1000?

Thank you!

Part One: In the Beginning (1976)

At the age of three, already aware of the world around me,

alongside summer walks and playground games with other children,

I discovered something else — something far more fascinating:

I had time for electronics.

As a little rascal of just three years old, I loved visiting my father in his laboratory —

a small room of about 7–8 square meters, with a tiny 60×80 cm window.

A true kingdom of gadgets and gizmos.

There were interesting things… many things… incredibly diverse and endlessly fascinating things!

I could watch him for hours as he created objects that, as if by magic, transformed into neatly shaped devices —

rectangular forms with knobs and switches, tiny lights and batteries,

some producing sound, others silent,

with wires and antennas, with meters and needles… or without.

Weekends were not for resting —

they were for creating, building, and experimenting at full speed.

Part Two: Cutters, Solder… and a Bit of Chaos

Creation and destruction often go hand in hand.

Here is how that played out in my case.

One day, while my father was wearing his headphones, making radio contacts —

probably during a contest —

I got hold of one of my favorite tools of his: a small pair of red cutters.

Unsupervised and fully focused,

I began cutting a shiny, soft wire from a spool…

Cutting… and cutting… and cutting…

Until I had reduced half the spool into a pile of tiny pieces —

just a few millimeters to a centimeter long. Completely unusable.

A few minutes later, my father turned around —

and I had already completed my “masterpiece.”

From what had been a spool of thick 2 mm solder — quite a valuable resource at the time —

only half remained.

He looked at me — not shouting —

just holding his head in disbelief.

“What have you done, son?”

He gently took the cutters away and explained that what I had done was a serious problem,

and that for a while, I wouldn’t be allowed in his workshop.

Of course, it all passed with just that remark…

and after an hour of mutual silence and frowning,

we had both already forgotten the incident.

Part Three: When the Dreamed Red Pico Drill Became Reality

It was many years ago… in 1976,

when I was almost four years old.

To a child like me, everything seemed calm on the surface —

yet inside, there were storms of excitement.

I was completely captivated by the vivid hardware world in my father’s laboratory.

Buttons glowing with tiny lamps beneath them,

devices with moving needles — but not clocks —

beautiful black-painted instruments with large, comfortable bakelite knobs…

Each one more fascinating than the last.

At the end of the solid wooden workbench,

next to a small blue vise,

there hung a charming little tool:

A miniature drill.

It was red.

And on it was written: Pico.

Yes — the same Pico, known for its model trains and voltage controllers.

And one day…

that drill was in my hands — under my father’s watchful eye.

Its power supply was adjustable.

I could change speed… direction…

With nothing in the chuck, I would start and stop it,

reverse it, vary the speed —

and play with it for hours.

The red Pico drill, with its white trigger and gray cable,

connected to the large Pico power supply…

Even now, when I close my eyes — I can see it.

And in fact, I still have it.

It still works beautifully.

At some point, its motor brushes wore out,

and my father replaced the motor —

now it is even more powerful than before.

We fitted it with a drill bit of about 1 mm,

and I could spend hours drilling hundreds of holes

into a soft pine board, firmly clamped to the table.

I had drawn a pattern —

and carefully drilled hole after hole along its contours.

After several days, working 1–2 hours per day,

there wasn’t a single millimeter left untouched.

And, Guess what? …

To be continued…