...and next Wednesday is the Fourth of July

When I was a little kid, my Grandpa Nelson (my mother’s dad) would get up early every 4th (he’d get up early everyday) and go outside of his eastern North Dakota Red River farmhouse to set off one firecracker. After it exploded, he would scream in his thick Swedish accent…“hurrah for the Fourth of July!” That simple celebration was pretty much it for the holiday fireworks on the old Arthur T. Nelson farm…mostly because that’s all the struggling family could afford.

 For some odd reason, that ritual was one my own father copied in my boyhood home in Los Angeles. It was simple, perhaps even a little corny, but for some reason my dad, the son of German and Russian immigrants, just felt compelled to make note of this special American holiday. Just like my Grandfather had done, I remember my dad going out on the morning of the 4^th, lighting one firecracker and shouting “hurrah for the Fourth of July!” Later in the evening we would have more elaborate home firework shows, but that is usually how the holiday started.

 Not sure how you’re spending your July 4th, but in the hustle-and-bustle of today’s crazy world, there are probably more than a few of us that will barely slow down long enough this weekend to really think about the fact that we are celebrating our independence. Some of us will attend BBQs, go for boat rides, go on hikes, head to the lakes, watch baseball, go camping, go to the mountains or take in elaborate pyrotechnic shows with so much on our minds that we’ll give little or no thought to the real significance of the holiday. Even today, on the threshold of this festive weekend, many of us will be so busy doing such important work that we won’t take any time to smell the roses…let alone take 3 minutes and 9 seconds to listen to the Friday song.

 This is odd (at least it is to me), because so many of us have had a cavalcade of almost spiritually inspired signs lately literally screaming that life is way too short. For some, it’s come in the way of a challenging diagnosis, the illness of a friend or loved one, or the loss of a life that we know ended way, way too soon. For me, it is almost like some supernatural force is shaking a neon sign directly in front of my face that is literally pleading for me to slow down. For some set of reasons (none of which are flattering), I soon forget the messages…and almost within days…I allow the insanity of work and everyday life to erase any lesson offered by the otherwise crystal-clear warnings.

My Grandpa and Dad struggled in ways that I cannot even fathom, however despite their respective hardships, they genuinely loved this country at levels I don’t have the writing talent to covey. There is no doubt about the fact that we’ve got some work to do, but despite our nation’s relative young age and looming challenges…it's still a great place to call home. Let’s honor that fact by taking some time to appreciate all we have. At the very least, I’m going to try to think about that as I’m watching the fireworks show above the mall in our nation’s capital.

 Whatever you’re doing this weekend, I hope you put down the Blackberry or shut off the laptop long enough to think about the 4th and the true significance of our young nation’s birthday. Above all else, I hope you’re able to do it with the people you truly love.

 Few people probably actually do this, but if you start the day by closing your eyes and taking several minutes to listen to a song…you might just start the weekend with a smile.

BTW…in the unlikely event you’re one of the four people that regularly read these posts, this probably sounds somewhat familiar. It was posted at this time about 365 days ago…and despite a continued parade of signposts regarding the fragility of life…I’ve neither slowed down, turned off the laptop or put down the Blackberry. Actually…in fairness…that’s not true. Now I have an iPhone 4 that I never put down. I've ignored the sighposts. Have you?  

 Hurrah for the Fourth...

...and you're due for a really nice weekend

“Thank you for treating me well when so many others would not. Thank you for always being friend.”

There were probably one or two entries in my 1980 Hamilton High senior yearbook that made me feel better at the time, but with the passage of some thirty years, there isn’t one than means more now. I didn’t think about it much back then, but the scribbled lines by my quirky and often tormented friend Mike Earle* mean the world to me now. I suspect that’s true for a number of reasons, but sadly, the words are also yet another vivid example of how far I’d come…and how far I’ve since drifted off the rails.

Like too many of my peers back in elementary school,  I could be pretty darn mean…especially to kids that were perpetually picked on. Back in the early grades, god help the poor child that contracted cooties.  I could be merciless…however even early on, it never seemed right to me when the masses piled on. Once in a while I’d cruelly join in, and once in a blue moon I’d step in and stop it. Too much of the time there simply wasn’t the courage  to stand up, and simply by inaction, I’d condone it through silence. I don’t think about it all the time, but every once-in-awhile I’m haunted by the faces of the kids that were treated poorly. Even now, when walking by a schoolyard or a group of kids at some large group event, the punishing behavior exhibited by some children towards others can be heartbreaking. I often observe hoping some kid will step in…too often though…they react like I did…and nothing happens.

Thankfully, for reasons that are not quite clear, my bad behavior and inaction largely improved sometime during junior high school. Without explanation, my sensitivity to this issue was somehow heightened. As a result, I increasingly felt a calling to befriend those (that’s remembering it fondly…it was probably just being civil) that were often ostracized by others. Again…I have no explanation as to why. It could have been the consequence of listening to a litany of Sunday morning sermons by the Reverend Don Shelby while sitting in the first row of the balcony of Santa Monica’s First United Methodist Church, or perhaps it was just a growing aversion to meanness that progressively bothered me while inching toward adulthood. The responsibility of being nice was also part of my strict father’s code, who reminded almost daily of the duty to treat others better than you expect to be treated yourself. Sadly, though committed to this practice through a good portion of my 20s and 30s, there is mounting evidence of a long, and now accellerating abandoning of that noble standard.

It is tempting to blame this general deterioration on a litany of external factors, and while there may be some legitimate minor contributing forces that have precipitated the regrettable slide, the true cause of the de-evolution can be found right next to the source of most of my problems, squarely in the mirror. With this acknowledged culpability, it would be grand to declare it’s all going to change tomorrow (actually…today would be even better), but the fact-of-the-matter is the decline is still in progress…and it’s not particularly clear (at least to me), how to turn it around.

 Perhaps for starters…I’m just going to try to be a little nicer. It’s a heavy lift, because most of the time, that’s not what comes naturally. There’s a radio program every Sunday on WPFW at 2pm called the American Songbook hosted by the velvet voiced longtime DJ Donnie McKethan. Each Sunday for two hours, McKethan plays the likes of Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, Nat King Cole, Dean Martin, Johnny Hartman, Julie London, Frank Sinatra…and so many others. As a matter of fact, you can listen to an archived show right here by clicking American songbook (you may have to click around a bit but if you choose American Songbook…you’ll get the show). At 4pm each Sunday, the veteran vinyl spinner signs off by saying “Be very kind to one another…” Now…that actually doesn’t sound too hard…so starting today….I’m going to try. It’s been awhile…but maybe I can find that guy from Hamilton High School. I don’t see him anywhere in the mirror…but maybe he’ll show up if I’m just a little bit nicer.  

Have a great weekend…and if you can…start if off with the type of gem you can catch each Sunday from 2-4pm on WPFW FM.

You are too beautiful for one lucky fool...

*Name changed

...and if you can...try not to travel this weekend

Thanks to the Walmartization of the airline industry that has created a legion of consumers with readable brain waves that will stand in long lines to pay $4.25 for a latte only to be herded like cattle to save $50 on a four-hour cross country flight with flight attendants dressed in Khaki beachwear...traveling by air these days can be a real joy. For me, yesterday was one of those days.

The return flight from O’Hare to DCA was supposed to take off at 2:05pm, so when the wheels finally came up over two hours later at about 4:10pm, that really didn’t seem all that bad for the perpetually non-performing  United/Continental/who gives a rat’s ass about the customer airline. While the excruciating experience was bad enough, it was further enhanced by the fact that I wasn’t flying my beloved U.S. Airways, which also meant I wasn’t upgraded and was sitting with the rest of the lepers deep in coach, in seat 24D, a full three rows behind even the Economy Plus section. At least in that Coach purgatory, the airline can ream you for an extra $41 dollars so that you don’t have to rest your chin on your knee caps while you’re contracting the latest airborne virus and preparing to host a fresh herd of head lice. 

While hanging out with the unwashed has a whole bunch of ancillary benefits that extend well beyond those described above, there’s something about the horrific experience that also confirms any inkling one may have regarding our general de-evolution and that fact that we’re hurling straight to hell. Despite repeated pleas from the crew of flight attendants to shut off electronic devices, the clueless hipster to my immediate right sat with his tray table down and headphones on while playing some mind-numbing game on his iPad. I thought about demonstrating one of the real advantages of the slimmed down tablet by shoving it up his alimentary canal, but the dude was younger (and pretty big) so I reasoned that he might be the one doing the shoving…and even with the sleek new design and smooth hi-res screen, it seemed like it might hurt. Thankfully, the stewardess (Melissa) actually tugged on his ear-cord and told him he had to shut it off and put the tray table in the upright position so there wasn’t a need for either of us (it was going to be him) to have to see the proctologist. 

Through it all…the flight attendants kept their composure, and while many of the cabin’s frustrated professional wrestling fans were getting unruly and clearly wanted to get home to their trailers to see the latest episode of Moonshiners, the crew of professionals stayed cool. They were business-like, but also maintained a remarkable upbeat attitude while continuing to smile throughout the boarding ordeal and turbulent flight. As I sat there with my brethren in coach, feeling my already low IQ drop and a desire to stop going to the dentist and combing my hair, I suddenly longed for a cold can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I also couldn’t help but once again notice the perpetual smiles of the flight attendants. They were unflappable, and over time, their good moods actually wore me down and made me feel better. I was actually feeling pretty good by the time we landed…but that was well-before the hour-and-ten minute 8-mile commute home from DCA.

What’s the point of all this…heck if I know. Could be to avoid O’Hare, to fly U.S. Airways (actually, United is not all the bad…much better than Delta…who is more than ready to ruin your day whenever you are), to take the metro or to simply smile more. For some reason…I’m guessing it’s C. There are a lot of things I can’t control…but the expression I choose to wear is clearly up to me. Sadly…I don’t smile near enough. Usually, I walk around with the expression of a man that’s just learned he’s failed to receive a First Class upgrade or worse, like someone that’s about to walk into my fifth one-hour meeting of the day.  I don’t really know why I don’t look happier…because I’ve experienced firsthand the benefits of a smiling face…both as someone on the receiving end and as the beneficiary of the good that comes from wearing one myself. I’ve even had people comment that I look better when I smile (I know…low bar), but for some reason I’ve chosen to master the habit of looking perpetually pissed. So…go ahead…even if you think it’s stupid…just smile.

Just before pulling out of the lot for the 70-minute drive home from the airport, the parking booth gal smiled and wished me a Happy Father’s Day weekend.  I’m not a father, perhaps because I knew I could never live up to the standard set by my own dad. Whether you’re a father, married to one, looking to be one, happen to know one or simply if you just have a dad yourself (that should be almost everybody), have a great weekend. If you can, do something fun just for you…and when you do…smile. If you can…enjoy a little music…and if you do…close your eyes and think about your dad.  

My father was a good man

...so beware of that pebble in your shoe

There’s a room off the rear of the house at the top of steps by the back door that I’ve always referred to as a mud room. The roughly 5’x 7’ closed-off area could probably be better defined as something else, and compared to the mud rooms these days with 16-station shoe cubbies, closets, heated changing benches, showers, refrigerators, flat screens and bidets, this modest 1928 space probably doesn’t really qualify anymore as a bona fide mud room.  There are some improvements to the room though, as several years ago I piped in a mason jar light fixture and built some shelves on the north side where plastic bags, recycling trash, Duraflame logs and bottled water are stored. It’s also a good place for the broom, dust pan, the spurs from our horse days in California, an old sand-wedge golf club I use for intruding animals (different story for a different day), a couple of baseball mits and my old cowboy hat.

At the base of the old shelves are some shoes…the blue flip-flops I bought 20 years ago at an ABC store in Waikiki, my Redwing work boots, and a pair of old Asics 1100 running shoes I use for various lighter home improvement projects. The running shoes were originally off-white with oranges stripes, but after several recent roofing projects (house and garage), they’re covered with more silver emulsion reflective roof paint than anything else.

Last Saturday, I sat down on the wood steps in the back and put on the running shoes before a few hours of vegetable planting and general gardening. As soon as I started down the stairs, it was apparent there was some sort of annoying pebble or stone in the left shoe, but at 50, it hurts too much to bend over and remove the shoe, so I decided to just tough it out. Also, as a heralded Los Angeles high school athlete that still likely holds the record for most passed balls as a catcher in a baseball game (Hamilton vs. Gardena 1979), it just seemed more manly to suck it up and play through the pain.

The obstruction in my left shoe was indeed annoying, but it wasn’t long before I was immersed in transplanting tomatoes and basil, as well as couple of violet colored impatiens for some hanging potted plants below the wisteria on the brick wall on the back of the garage. Thankfully, I didn’t have to move around much so the damage to my left foot was pretty minimal. After a couple of hours of intense planting, I decided it was time to knock off for the afternoon and have a non-alcoholic beer and a cheap cigar.

As I climbed the rear stairs I became more aware of the pebble in my left shoe, and was looking forward to kicking of the shoes and trading them out for my blue ABC flip-flops. I used the toe of my right shoe to step on the heel of the left shoe (hurts less than bending down and doing it the right way) and quickly kicked off the left shoe. As I did, a small white pebble that had been stuck to the bottom of my sock broke away and bounce along the brown wood floor. Phew…what a relief. I then used the left stocking toes to press down on my right heel, and when I kicked off the right shoe…I noticed this horrific multi-colored stain on the right side of my right sock. It was gross…a kind of brown…yellow and blood-colored blotch that had soaked into a good part of the cotton material.

I tried to figure out what had happened, and as I kicked the right shoe right-side up (it had flipped over), the fresh carcass of a rather good sized mouse fell to the floor.  The mouse was flat as a pancake, and remarkably well-preserved. It was fairly clear that every drop of bodily fluid that had been in that mouse…was now soaked into my sock.

Now…I know that you’re thinking…you’re dying to give me a foot massage. But beyond that,  you’re also probably wondering how I could have a mouse in my shoe and not know it? Well, I don’t know either. I’ve always heard they’re very supple which allows them to get through small openings, and I suppose the combination of that and the fact that I’m losing the feeling in my feet conspired to create a condition where I could work for 3 hours in the yard with a mouse in my shoe…and not be aware it was there. However it also seemed like a gross metaphor for the fact that the things I often think are my largest issues, are not really my biggest problem. It also seemed like a good sign that I shouldn’t keep shoes in the mud room anymore.

Have a great weekend and try to do something fun. If you can take about 3 minutes, start is with a little music. This song played out the most recent episode of Mad Men.

I'm gone...

...and it's time to unplug

It wasn’t always this way, but it seems like there’s seldom a time anymore when I’m not connected to the internet. Whether it’s the countless hours in the office, the decreasing amount of time spent at home, or even when on the road or visiting my mom in California, the laptop is usually open and connected to the web. The other day it was open on the top of the upright piano, so I could monitor the Stanley Cup playoff hockey game as I played.  I don’t even watch trash TV anymore without the laptop open. That way, just like a crystal-meth addict, I can check my emails every few minutes. The messages can be monitored between surfing internet golf discount sites, checking out craigslist adds for motorcycles, or while reading various articles on subjects ranging from Dale Carnegie communication tips to quick weight loss tricks…or while watching videos on how to make the best beignets Cafe Du Monde. Best of all, this can all take place while enriching my brain by passively watching NASCAR, the New Jersey Housewives or shows about fishing in 35-foot waves during a blizzard on the Bering Sea. Using this model, I’m always connected…and I rarely miss an email…even one sent on the tail-end of a long 3-day weekend.

Just after 10pm EDT this past Memorial Day, I was sitting on the couch mainlining Cabernet and lamenting the return to work while watching Deadliest Catch (if couch sitting were an Olympic event, you’d see me on the podium regularly) when I heard the unmistakable ping of a new email in my Outlook Inbox. Suddenly, I lunged for the computer and noticed there was an message from the Business Manager of my old IBEW local union in Los Angeles. The email read simply:

mayor ledford (58) suffered a heart attack late afternoon/early eve yesterday.. Mitch got a call at 9pm, he then went in for angioplasty this morning.. We don't know much more, we'll update you as we do..

Thankfully, in the days that followed, reports from California indicate the mayor should be OK. This is important to me for several personal reasons, because he as much as anybody served as a mentor in both my personal and professional life. He has been the mayor of Palmdale, California for many years, and shepherded that city through prosperous boom years and several devastating real estate busts. In an often volatile and unforgiving political climate, his unwavering commitment to the residents of the south Antelope Valley and the manner in which he conducted his leadership charge provides valuable lessons which I feebly attempt to emulate almost daily.  

The starkest lesson from the email and its sobering content is one that has been a familiar theme in these rarely read and poorly written Friday posts. Though these paragraphs (or at least the closings) often attempt to highlight the fragility of life and the paramount importance of focusing on what really matters, I display the quintessential “don’t lead by example” model and routinely demonstrate the exact opposite set of priorities. Despite repeated and glaring reminders that our time on earth is precious, I waste too much time worrying about work-related stuff…ignoring all the vivid lessons regarding the consequence of losing perspective…and literally flipping the priority pyramid upside down. Sure…commitment to one’s job is important and noble, but if you think your deathbed is going to be circled by the same people that are sitting around the table in the conference room, you really are smoking way too much crack.

Given what seems like a plethora of daily signposts peppering my face like blowing sand from an Antelope Valley high desert dust storm, you’d think I’d adjust and get busy focusing on the things we know in our hearts matter most. Sadly though, my life is littered with repeated examples of the results that come from disregarding such warnings. I’m not sure what it will take for me, but someday, perhaps as they’re wheeling me into the cardiac care unit,  if I’m lucky the epiphany will hit me just before they get the stent in place. The good news for you is that you’re almost assuredly smarter than me, so please take notice of the signs all around you that literally scream the need to put the things that matter most first.

This weekend, close the lid on your laptop and put away the smart phone for a while and enjoy the people and pets that make life worth living.  Walk the dog, take in your kid’s T-Ball game, golf with some old friends, hold hands (but maybe not with your golfing buddies), have dinner with your family, paddle down a river, hug a grandkid, go for a bike ride with someone you care about, spend time with a nephew, sit by the pool,  have a chat with your sister, call a parent…and tell somebody (even your golfing buddies) you love them…maybe even twice. You can start all this by slowing down a bit, closing your eyes and listening to some music (Ironically...you'll need your computer to do it this way). You’ll have to set aside a full 3 and a half minutes, and despite your sense that you have way too much to do, you will have a better day if you start it like this. As an added bonus, it will also make you better at dealing with all that work you believe matters so much. It’s a guarantee…and you don’t receive many of them anymore. .  

Spring...

Have an enjoyable and well-deserved weekend.