...and don't look now, but 2014 is right around the corner

Unlike probably most of you, my record with respect to New Year’s resolutions isn’t very good. Though I’ve never really made a big deal about them, I seem to conjure up a few about this time every year.

Most of them aren’t too exciting…and include all of the usual stuff like dropping a few pounds, saving a little more money, assimilating a little more in the office, dropping a few less f-bombs and improving on my Italian. Seems to me I had all those on the list for 2013, but after almost 360 days to accomplish any of those, my bench-press totals are down along with my net worth. I’m weighing in at a 2013 high which is appropriate because I fit in even less with the culture in the office.  Mein Deutsch ist immer viel besser che il mio italiano and as if that wasn’t failure enough, my effing cussing could still make most sailors blush. Too bad my 2013 resolution wasn’t to fail at resolutions…I’d have hit it out of the park.

Seems to me I also promised to try to treat people better too…but sadly, I’d have to go back and check to see whether that goal was set on the threshold of 2013 or even 2012. Doesn’t really matter though, because as with everything else on the list above, I already know full-well that is yet another area where I haven’t measured up.

One late December I set the bar so low I couldn’t fail. All I wanted to do is drink two 16 ounce bottles of water a day and take the metro to work at least once a month. The water thing lasted until about late March as I recall and seems to me I managed a metro ride a month until about July. At that point, the steamy 90 degree late-summer walks (with 107% humidity) were more than I (or my colleagues) could handle.

Back in 2009 I did make one resolution stick. I resolved to take the stairs (10 floors) up from the parking structure to my office every day when I arrived at work. Amazingly I’ve managed to do that every, single stinking work day for four freaking years (presuming I stick with it next Monday and Tuesday). While chest-pounding on this is probably more than a bit self-aggrandizing (I need to resolve to use less five dollar words where a 25 cent one would work just fine), this is really no small achievement. You see, I’ve taking the stairs no matter what…kind of like those cats that deliver mail. Doesn’t matter if I’m carrying a Uke, my guitar, and small holiday tree or even if I have the flu…I still schlep up the steps come rain or shine. Even when I’ve arrived the exact same time as the boss and ride the elevator up to suck up, I still grab the next elevator down just so I can walk up the damn stairs.

So…for 2014 I’ve again the bar low but for whatever reason, it doesn’t seem like it’s going to be all that automatic. Every December, as I’m tidying up my holiday card endeavor, I lament the fact that there are a few less people around to receive cards. Some years are worse than others, but almost without fail, at least one or two relatives, friends or former colleagues pass away. As I get older, and face undeniable reality that I have many more days in the review mirror than on the road ahead, I think about all the good folks that are no longer here. I’m also more keenly aware of the devastating toll that stress is taking on people in general and particularly on me (it’s not hard when 9 out of 10 people you talk to care enough to tell you when “you look tired.”).  

Now…I can’t control who will be around on January 1^st, 2015, and to be honest, I probably don’t hold the wheel on road to my own future either. But despite that reality, all I’m going to resolve to do in 2014 is survive until 2015. Pretty simple eh? Well that and I might try to shed some weight, save a little more dough, hit the speed bag longer and treat people a little better too. Actually, if I can just do that last one…it will be a good year.

And I’m still going to take the stairs.

Happy New Year!

Drink a cup of kindness

...and another holiday season just passed by in a blur

There were high-expectations for a relaxing and chilled holiday season this year, but despite those best of intentions, a quick glance at the calendar this Friday morning confirms that like every recent year, that holiday dream was simply pure fantasy. Sadly, though the feeling is probably exacerbated by the real-time experience, I’m pretty sure 2013’s hustle-and-bustle is the worst I’ve experienced to date. I so wanted a nice, slow, festive, and rejuvenating December...but once again…an indefensibly insane work schedule, everyday life, and my pitiful inability to plan conspired to mean it just wouldn’t happen. Again.

Like every year, I had visions of early shopping and being prepared to the point that I could take in the holiday season and just sort of stroll from one holiday party to the other humming carols in the crisp air while truly wallowing in the magic of the season. There was supposed to be chestnuts on open fires, sleigh bells, yuletide carols and frosted window panes. Instead, it’s been peperoni pizza, depressing meetings, honking horns and the chilling temperature in the nation’s capital this coming Sunday is supposed to be a frosty 74 Fahrenheit . Hell…most times this summer, my front lawn wasn’t as green as it is right now. I hope Santa delivers his toys on a red riding mower this year.

This year there was going to be relaxing nights by the fire, glistening trees, sipping red-wine and visiting with friends while Frank and Bing softly serenaded us with holiday favorites. In fairness, there’s been some of that, but the truth is I’ve spent more time perusing internet gift sites and stressing about all my undone shopping than hanging mistletoe or sipping egg nog. Sure, I’ve numbed my brain by guzzling wine (pretty skipping the whole glass nonsense) straight from the bottle most nights in December just to cope, but in summary, despite the best laid plans, the season’s just been a complete bust. Perhaps I should take comfort in numbers, as I cannot tell you the number of people that I’ve heard say something like “this year…the holiday season just got away from me.”

It’s not like I wasn’t aware of the compressed nature of the holidays this time around. I’d heard Hanukkah was around Halloween this year and that Thanksgiving was going to be in December, but somehow I just didn’t adjust (for about the fifth year in a row, I didn’t even get my wife anything for Hanukkah). At the end of the day, all that came my way this holiday season was more stress…and for the record, that is the one thing that I already possess in complete abundance.

Needless to say I was feeling pretty disgusted with and sorry for myself. Even the little bit of holiday cheer I receive each year from the 40 or so cards I receive (real cards…with a handwritten message) weren’t providing the usual holiday boost.  For one thing, there’s been less of them (must be the Thanksgiving compression thing)…and most of notes just didn’t seem as uplifting as usual. This past Tuesday I noticed a smaller card that at first glance I didn’t recognize. It was from an old friend that usual doesn’t send me a card. He was a guy I used to work with, and was one of the best I’d ever had the privilege to be around. Though he probably never knew it, I respected his grit, honesty and courage as much as anyone I’ve ever met.

The perfectly written cursive note shared that he’d received my card…but that it had made him “sad.” He revealed that it made him think if all the good times we’d had working together and referenced the camaraderie we and the others in our crew had shared. He wrote about all the memories, and  much he missed being around the gang. Then, in his last line, he wrote this. “I miss you and all the great people I worked with. Life has changed so much since my stroke.” At the bottom of the card, it was clear he had struggled to sign the card (written by someone else), with the printed letters of his name.

As so often happens in my self-centered life, here I was feeling sorry for myself and my otherwise care-free existence when an old mentor with much bigger challenges had to show me…well…you get the point.

We’ve all got our crosses to bear, but if your biggest concerns this holiday season are unwrapped presents and the A-Hole that just cut you off on the express way, then pop in a Dean Martin CD, kick back by the fire (actually if you live in the eastern U.S., you can put your bathing suit on this weekend and head to the beach), and just chill. Whatever you’re dealing with, there are hoards of people that probably have it worse so if you can, try to think for a minute about those with bigger struggles. If you know somebody that’s having a tough time, you might want to even give them a hug…or do at least something to make them know you care. Don’t really know what that would be, but I don’t have much time to think about it. I need to call an old work buddy.

Instead...

and if you're faced with a moral dilemna, picture the Wall Street Journal

This past Wednesday was only the second time that I’d presented on the topic, and that’s probably a good thing since I’m certainly no authority on the actual subject matter. The exact name of the segment, which was presented as part of leadership training at a session in San Diego, was “Leading with Integrity; Building Power Through Ethics and Transparency.”

Now, if it had been a session on cutting in a ground fault interrupter outlet above your kitchen counter then I would probably have been qualified to deliver the content, but on the subject of leading with integrity, my only real credential would probably be to serve as an example of what not to do. In the spirit of the total transparency that I was advocating as part of the presentation, I candidly acknowledged that at the outset of the class.

Thankfully though I work for somebody that models that behavior every day. While I’m inclined to be a bit more cautious when disseminating information, she, as overseer of the finances for a large organization, instinctively puts all the information out there. It never matters if it’s good or bad news either, she just believes by default that honesty and total transparency is the best way to establish credibility and trust. Over time, I have begrudgingly witnessed the value of this approach, and I’ve seen the practice turn some of what once were the harshest of critics into robust supporters.

So, I guess by virtue of this experience and association, I do after all possess at least some small credential to lead this type of discussion. While I can’t profess to being an example of model ethical and transparent behavior in my own professional career, having the benefit of working for others that have and do allows me to present through the lens of somebody that’s lived the upside of working along-side others lead by doing the right thing.

All this got me to thinking about an experience I had while going through a MPA program some years ago at the University of Baltimore. There was an ethics class taught by seasoned chap named Louis Gawthrop, who remains a legend in Public Administration circles. He was the son on a union electrician from Baltimore and given my IBEW roots, he liked me from the start. At least to me, he had almost a god-like appearance, and with this advanced years, white locks and non-threatening all-knowing demeanor, he just seemed to me to be the quintessential knower of wisdom.

Since the class included a fair amount of theoretical academic mumbo-jumbo that I couldn’t understand, I implored him in my typical impatient manner to share some nugget of wisdom that would provide a practical beacon to help future public administrators to navigate the ethical and moral minefields that lay ahead. The wise old professor routinely resisted, but by the end of class, I must of worn him down. After asking for about the tenth time if he could provide some simple instruction to help my fellow students and me avoid the pitfalls of bad behavior, he stopped and reluctantly said “well…here’s what I do.”

He then went on to explain that some old teacher of his, from seminary school as I recall, gave him this advice. The next time you’re faced with some moral dilemma, before acting, take at least 30 seconds to think. Use the time to create a clear picture of an above-the-fold headline in tomorrow’s New York Times, Cleveland Plain Dealer or Wall Street Journal of what you’re about to do. If you’d be proud of the headline continue. If not…you’re probably making a bad decision.

Damn…that was way too easy and it instantly resonated with me. Since hearing it, I’ve deployed that strategy time and time again and I’d say it actually works for me about 85% of the time. There are still times when I picture a god-awful headline and make the wrong decision anyway, but most of the time it’s served as a pretty good guide. Times I neglect to think about the headline at all, I usually make the wrong call.

Ironically that happened on the morning of my ethics presentation. After running the afternoon  I arrived at the hotel and again the following morning, I was particularly parched as I walked around the hotel room preparing for the class. In the room, the hotel had provided a couple of bottles of water that were $3.25 each as denoted by the paper collars that hung around the bottle caps.

Now…I wanted water, but as the son of a Depression  era father, I’m not paying more for water than I do for gasoline. So, I carefully removed the paper collar and twisted open the bottle and downed the entire contents in almost one gulp. Then, I walked into the bathroom and refilled the bottle in the sink and carefully twisted the cap back on before gingerly placing the collar back in place as well. Once I put the bottle back in its original location next to the flat screen TV, there was little evidence that I’d sinned. I never pictured the headline, and if I had, it would have been almost as ugly as charging over three bucks for 16 ounces of water that most studies show is no better than what comes out of the tap.

See…I am the wrong person to teach the class.

Have a great weekend.

The lights are turned way down low...

 

 

...and if you're having a bad day, be glad you're not giving a speech

You’ve probably heard it said before that most human’s fear public speaking. Well, if there’s anything to the top 10 fears listed in the “Book of Lists,” it appears that is certainly the case.

The Book of Lists reports the Top Ten Human Fears as:

1. Speaking before a Group
2. Heights
3. Insects and bugs
4. Financial problems
5. Deep water
6. Sickness
7. Death
8. Flying
9. Loneliness
10. Dogs

Comedian Jay Leno looked at this list and quipped that most people “would apparently rather be in the casket…than giving the eulogy.”

Like you, I’ve heard references to surveys of humans that cite a fear of public speaking ahead of dying. I’ve never checked the accuracy of this list (found this one after googling “human fears”) but I’m guessing this is pretty typical. Not really sure about the order of this list either, but the bottom line is if you search a bit, you’ll find plenty of data that list the fear of having to speak before a group well-ahead of the fear of death.

Not really sure about you, but this statistic has always puzzled me. I actually love to speak in front of large groups, but I’m MUCH more comfortable in front of 1,000 than I am at a conference table with ten work peers or giving a toast to a dinner table of very close friends. For me, being in front of a large group is like crystal-meth (I mean…as I’ve imagined the drug would be), but it’s obviously not that way for most people. And maybe that’s why I really don’t feel comfortable at all talking in the intimacy of small groups.   

If there’s anything to the cited statistic, I suspect most folks perceive they’re more fearful of having to deliver a speech in front of any size group.  However I’ve always guessed that priority would instantly flip with just one challenging diagnosis. Heck, I’m betting one word from your family doctor or a referred specialist might suddenly cause one to instantly worry less about a fear of public speaking...or at least to reorder your list.  However in any event the fear is real, and it was confirmed yet again for me after spending the majority of this week co-teaching a communication’s and public speaking course.

The group was smaller than usual for this class (probably the holidays) but the more intimate setting allowed for more than several of the otherwise hardened professionals to reveal that they were really sort of “shy,” or at the very least, not inclined to want to speak in front of others. The closeness of the small class size also made it harder on me…as it was much more like the conference table setting than being in front of the normally larger class…which must for me, provides a greater degree of insulation.  

As part of the class, participants had to prepare remarks to be delivered in front of a mock public body (City Council Meeting, School Board, Utility public agency). Most people despise role-plays (including me), but without question, all of the speakers did markedly better than they predicted they would do. This is no minor accomplishment by the way…especially because they pulled in off in front a group of industry peers that were scrutinizing their every move and critiquing them when they finished. Several of the students admitted they felt “like they were going to pass out…” but they all did very well…especially considering that for many of them, it was their maiden voyage (that does mean first...right?).

What’s the point of all this? Not really sure…but just off the top of my head at 4:33am EST, three things jump out at me. First, despite our fears, we can probably all do better at something we're scared of if we just face it. In essence, we can all be better than we think we can be. Second, there must be something wrong with me…because this thing about being more comfortable around many than a few is troubling...and I'm pretty sure any explanation for it isn't very flattering. Lastly, there really is something you can learn here each Friday about that important communication’s rule. If you don’t have something worthwhile to say…don’t. This is especially true when you’re sitting at the keyboard before dawn trying to figure out what to write.

 
There are less than 20 days until Christmas, and despite what I thought were sincere pledges to exhale and enjoy the magic of the season, the consequence of work-related procrastination, the inability to say “no,” and generally poor holiday planning are conspiring to make this December the most hurried and stressful of my adult life. Worst part is, as with most messes I find myself at the center of, I've had almost complete control of the wheel the whole way in.

So, as is too often the case, please ignore my abysmal personal example and instead heed what is arrogantly offered here each Friday as sage advice  that is given but ashamedly almost never modeled. Slow down, pour yourself a glass of something soothing, sit by the fire and put on some relaxing music. Spend some actual time with the people and pets that matter most.  It is after all, the holidays.

...each one is giving his all

...well actually it's Wednesday...and tomorrow is Thanksgiving

For a variety of reasons this short week has been a strange one, and as often happens this time of year, I cannot help but notice that people in general just seem to be in a better overall mood. I never really thought about it much before, but as I’ve gotten older, it really does feel like people are generally happier during Thanksgiving week…and over the course of the last few days, I’ve heard more than a few people say “Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.”

Perhaps it has something to do with the simplicity of the holiday. Christmas isn’t for everyone…and for those that do celebrate it’s often marred by the hustle-and-bustle and overall pressure associated with all the commercial craziness. Thanksgiving on the other hand, is ideally about getting together with the people you care about…and hopefully feeling some sense of gratitude for the people you have in your life.  I guess that is what makes it so appealing, and throughout the week I’ve eavesdropped on numerous conversations that include something like “my 88 year-old mother is coming into town” or “I’m picking up my son this afternoon at the airport” or “I’m headed to my parents by the beach.” I’ve even witnessed otherwise stressed folks change their entire demeanor when they cheerfully share that their “youngest is home from college” or “the entire clan is coming to the country home.” Almost every conversation I hear is about cooking, travel…and people. Sure, there’s the occasional reference to “my annoying uncle” or “extremist alcoholic sister-in law,” but for the most part the references are pretty positive. At the very least…I’m convinced people seem to be smiling more.

The emails and phone calls I receive during Thanksgiving week are typically nicer too. Invariably, some old friend or former colleague will send an unsolicited electronic message that says something like “Hey Bro…just want to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving” or I’ll get an email entitled simply “Thinking of You.” Almost without fail some old friend will call “just to say hello.”  I don’t know about you…but I don’t get many messages or calls like that in April or August. There is a lot of magic about the holiday season, but there is something about watching the big balloons float over Manhattan, a touch football game, taking in the aroma of a roasting bird and seeing the perpetually pitiful Lion’s play on a Thursday in late November that just makes everything better.

When I first arrived in DC in 2005 after moving completely across country…it was hard. My wife, family and friends were all back in Los Angeles, and as I’ve mentioned here before, I remember driving to the gym at 5am on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving feeling very alone. It was dark and unseasonably cold, and as I headed southbound down Connecticut Ave from Cleveland Park over the bridge that spans Rock Creek, I remember being struck at how deserted the streets all seemed. Typically it was much busier, but I drove my way around the Washington Hilton and down toward Dupont Circle, the streets were absolutely empty. I remember feeling almost an ache…and sensing that I could actually start to cry. The darkness and solitude were downright eerie…and then it dawned on me like an epiphany why is all seemed so deserted. Everybody else was home. Then…like the script of some corny movie…this morning’s song started playing on WASH FM.

I’m not sure what you’re doing this Thanksgiving…but I sure hope it has something to do with the people and family you care about the most. Enjoy the simplicity of a truly special holiday. Watch a parade, have some turkey, catch some football and if you can, hug a few of the people that matter most to you and think about at least some of the reasons you should feel genuinely thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving

...and the weather outside is frightful

It doesn’t really seem possible that it’s time to do this yet again…but tomorrow I’ve got to get started decorating the house for Christmas. In a perfect world  you should be able to wait until after Thanksgiving before messing with garland, red bows and wreaths, but with the late Thanksgiving and the early Chanukah this year, it just seems like everything in 2013 is hyper-compressed.  Actually, aside of increased short-term memory loss, deepening wrinkles, body aches, and the need to keep a bag of adult diapers handy, one of the real trips about getting older is the way one is affected by the passage of time. With each added year…the days, months and year’s themselves just seem to go by in a flash.

Sometime in the late 1960’s, I remember sprinting out of Overland Elementary School in West Los Angeles on the last day of the school year euphoric about the coming summer vacation. At that young age, the three months without school seemed like an eternity…and I really couldn’t even envision the eventual coming of Fall…and the inevitable return to school. As a kid summer seemed to last forever…but now as a greying adult, the seasons pass by in the blink of an eye.

For me, the typical year is a handful of milestones that come-and-go with what often seems like only days in between. We ring in the New Year at a wonderful party each year with dear friends. Blink once and it’s March and time my wife’s birthday. Pretty soon we’re lighting a couple of sparklers and after what seems like only days, it’s time to hop on the Harley for the annual  early August trip to the Black Hills. Before I know it we’re watching the College Pigskin Kickoff Classic, carving pumpkins, stuffing turkeys, spinning dreidels and decking the halls.

As I got older this accelerated passage of time never really made sense to me. Then one day, when I was working at the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers main office in DC, my boss at the time and I were talking about this very subject. He seemed perplexed regarding my lack of understanding on this phenomenon, and asked sincerely if I really didn’t know why time speeds up as you get older. I assured him I didn’t know, at which point he said simply this… “well it’s not that complicated…just think about it.”

He then proceeded to reach into his desk and pull out a 25’ tape measurer while asking “how old are you right now?” “Forty three” I responded at the time. He then started SLOWLY working the yellow tape out from the metal casing counting (“10, 20, 30, 40, 41, 42, 43”) as he extended out to the 43 inch mark. [Just a side note…if you’re over forty and you haven’t done this…try it. You’ll recognize quickly you have a lot of life in the rearview mirror]. I remember being struck at how much yellow measuring tape extended from the housing. Then he said, “how long do you think you’re going to live?” “Well” I responded, “the way I feel now maybe seventy.” He said “I’m going to give you five years…let’s make it 75.” Then while keeping the 43 inch mark pinched between his thumb and index finger, he moved the tape out to 75 and said, “looks like you got less ahead of you then you do behind you. Now…think of it from my perspective…” he continued while moving his fingers up the tape from 43… “I’m 62.”

He went on to explain that when you’re young…like maybe 10, you have your entire life ahead of you. The three months of summer not only seems like an eternity when you’re in grade school, but with the limited frame of reference at that point in our young life… summer vacation represents a big part of your life and really is a long time. As you get older, that type of span gets shorter and shorter. Eventually, the years seem to go by as rapidly as seasons, which seem to go by as quickly a months, which seem to go by as fast as weeks, that often appear to go by in little more than a day.

The first week of every October I have to start writing my holiday cards. Seems insane I know, but the list has swelled to over 330 and if I’m going to write something meaningful in all of them, I have to start early. I keep this big Excel spreadsheet with all the card recipients, and one of the rituals each Fall just before I begin is to scrutinize the list for address changes and accuracy. Every year though I have to do something else, and that involves the somber and reflective practice of highlighting in yellow the rows of addressees who passed away in the course of the year. There gets to be more of that as you get older too…so whatever you’re doing this weekend, see if you can’t keep that in mind and focus a little bit more on the people and pets that really matter most to you. If you can…take a little time to do something you enjoy too.

Have a great weekend.

Close your eyes. Somewhere, nestled in the Latin Quarter of Paris, there is a quaint little café with the sooth haze of cigarette smoke, the distant hum of conversation, the warmth of laughter, and the unmistakable soothing clinking wine glasses. In the corner of the bar is a 3-person combo…and they’re playing this… 

 Listen...

 

...and this past Monday was Veterans Day

Like many of you, I have my fair share of day-to-day challenges. Though I try not to think about them too much, there are times amidst the grind of daily life when I cannot help but lament such hurdles and dwell on the many external ingredients that helped create them. While this kind of whining has become an-all- too-frequent pastime in my relatively pain-free existence, it’s something my father never seemed to do at all.

Though my dad hadn’t finished high-school when he joined the Navy in 1936, he returned from WWII and the Korean War with an almost unexplainable appreciation for what often seemed to me like an excruciatingly average life. Becoming a master electrician with training he acquired largely in the Navy, he possessed a deep love for his skilled trade and the good life provided through that important and honest work.

Like many blue-collar construction vets of his time, my father was deeply patriotic and quite socially conservative. I believe the last democrat he voted for was LBJ (feeling Goldwater was just too extreme), but he loved his union (the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers) and despite his individualism he believed to the core that he had a far better existence because of wages and benefits provided through collective bargaining than anything he would have attained on his own. In many ways, I think he embodied the principles of a lot of his generation, and at least to me, he was a man’s man who loved his wife, his family, his work, his union, and his country at levels I don’t have the talent to convey. Though it probably seems corny, I think he saw himself as a truly rich man.

One of the traits that always tripped me out about my father, was the fact that he had almost zero tolerance for complaining or self-pity. Since his life had been far more difficult than mine would likely ever be, he didn’t have much patience for general bellyaching, and he certainly had little sympathy for my all-too-frequent references to personal hardship. Though he never said so, given his experiences living through the Depression and taking multiple Kamikaze hits on the USS Ticondaroga, I suspect my life must of looked like a cakewalk to him. That was one of the problems with his old-school rigidity…he just didn’t appreciate all that I had to deal with in the modern era.

                                              

The U.S. Navy aircraft carrier USS Ticonderoga (CV-14) lists to port in the aftermath of a kamikaze attack in which four suicide planes hit the ship, 21 January 1945.

When I was a teenager, and felt quite certain there was empirical evidence to indisputably prove I was truly all-knowing, I had the unflattering habit of blaming any perceived trouble or crisis I might be having on just about anyone or anything but me. Thinking back, it is amazing how much I knew from about 13 to 30, and how much clarity I had when it came to identifying the flaws of others. Though I had experienced little in the way of real life, I had developed this uncanny ability to have the answers to just about everything.

As those of you know that are blessed with this gift, this type of supreme knowledge comes at a price. Since I indeed knew so much, I was always aware when the world was conspiring against me. Thankfully, knowing my father had little patience for my insights, I wisely muted much of my crying about my problems…especially when he was around.

One afternoon, while I was working out in the gym he had constructed for me in the huge garage of our comfortable West Los Angeles home, I remember my father was puttering around as he loved to do and on this day he seemed to be working on the pool heater. In an all-too-frequent lapse of judgment, I forgot who I was with and launched into a longwinded diatribe about my latest dilemma. As I remember it, it was likely about an idiotic teacher, some stupid former friend, an incompetent coach or worst of all, some shortsighted girl that didn’t truly appreciate the attributes of a gifted young man. To be honest...I'm guessing it was probably a little about all of those things.

Despite my father’s clear lack of understanding and insight into problems brought on by others, he continued to putter around and patiently listened without interrupting. When I finally finished, he asked a couple of questions for clarification and it seemed  clear by his line of questioning that he had been listening intently. It also seemed clear that he was uncharacteristically beginning to get an appreciation for both my problems and my justifiable status as the victim.

Then, after some delay…he asked how bad I wanted to truly understand the root of the problem. Because these substanitive exchanges with my father were rare, I was yearning for any insight he might have into how I was wronged…or what external force deserved the blame for my latest dilemma.

Then, he stopped what he was doing, walked over to me, and asked me one more time if I wanted to know the source of the problem. Once I assured him I did, he tugged on my sleeve and gently guided me over so I was looking directly into the mirror that covered the west wall of the gym area...just below the speed bag.  As we stood there gazing at our reflections in the glass, he pointed at me and said the following. “Now…if you really want to find the problem, stand here long enough and it should become clear to you. If you stand here long enough, you’ll probably find the solution too.”

My father has been gone for almost seven years now, but there are times when I wish he was still around to point me into that glass. Even now, when I’m perplexed at how I ended up at the center of an unpleasant situation, I am amazed how often I reluctantly recognize I had complete control of the wheel all along the way.

Not sure what you’re doing this weekend, but whatever it is, I hope it’s good. You’ve probably been working pretty hard, so please take some time to recharge these two days with the people (and pets) that you love. Most of the work stuff you're stressing about now won't even be on the radar screen when you fade away at the end.

My wife and I were sitting in the lobby of an upscale hotel in downtown Denver this past Veterans Day enjoying $5 dollar cups of flavored coffee while we looked out at the picture window at a developing holiday street scene framed by the snowcapped Rocky Mountains in the distance. The plushness of the atmosphere only highlighted the chasm between the struggles of my Depression era/World War II veteran father and my comparatively privileged life of leisure as a result of his generation’s noteworthy sacrifice. As we sat there in the sunlight, this catchy tune was playing in the background. The song seemed eerily familiar…but somehow I knew it was relatively new. I thought the singer sounded like Tammy Wynette or some such…but when I googled the lyrics later in the day…it appears this musician might even be a dude. You never know.

Close your eyes and see...

 

 

 

 

...and yesterday was Halloween

Just off old 81 about 40 miles south of Fargo, North Dakota sits a quintessential mid-western small town of Fort Abercrombie that my grandparents called home after moving off the family farm in about 1967. I’ve talked about that town of about 300 here before, and while so many other small towns across the Plains have slowly died, this particular little trade center has managed to keep going. The town is not exactly thriving…the bank, the hotel, the hardware store, the small Ford dealership, a couple of filing stations, the butcher, and the café have all shut down since I started visiting, but there is still a grocer, a town hall, one Standard gas station, a truss factory, a fire house, a grain elevator, an elementary school, a Lutheran church and a thriving bar. Even if everyone were to leave…I have a feeling the bar would still do enough trade to stay open. Note: I have seen towns in Minnesota…where every single of the town’s businesses have closed…except the saloon.

For many years (15 in a row) I would drive from Los Angeles back to that North Dakota town to visit my Grandfather and family each summer. I would stay in his old house, which had served as the area hospital back in the late 1800s and early 1900. My mother was born in that house…and my cousin Annie owns the brass bed that was used to deliver my mother on that faithful day (I know…TMI). I always loved visiting my grandfather. As he got into his early 90s,  we would spend hours and hours driving around the country as he told stories about the old days on the prairie.

My grandpa was pretty old when (in his 80s) when I started visiting him each year, and he was a devoutly religious man that attended the Evangelical Free Church in neighboring Wolverton, Minnesota. Any kind of extracurricular activity was usually off-limits, and drinking alcohol was a sin that doomed you to an eternal future that included a shovel and a whole lot of coal. Thankfully I was pretty straight-laced at that point in my life, and he used to love to introduce me to folks by telling them that I didn’t drink…and that I didn’t even like coffee.

In the evenings he would “hike of to bed” pretty early (sometimes around 7 or 7:30, at which point I’d sneak down the stairs and hop into my car and head up old 81 into Fargo. They had just passed a gaming initiative about the time I started to visit each year, and in Fargo you could walk into a bar and play blackjack. Sounds better than it was…as at that point there was a two-dollar limit on the bets. I would sit there for hours…drinking diet pop and playing blackjack. Usually around 11pm, I would leave and head back to my car and make the drive back south on old 81.

One of the things I love about the Plains is the hellacious thunderstorms that come across the prairie in the warm summer months. One particular night…you could just feel it was shaping up to be a good one. I was driving my red 72’ Ford Pinto (whatever cool image you have in your head…I looked even groovier than you’re imagining) with the window rolled down and you could literally feel the hair on your arms standing in anticipation of the pending electrical storm.

As I drove southward by towns like Oxbow, Hickson and then Christine, you could see bolts of lightning striking the wheat and soybean fields. I stepped on the accelerator hoping to get to my grandpa’s house before any heavy rain fell…or worse…a whole bunch of hail. Thankfully, I could see the lights of town on the horizon and the security of the blinking yellow caution light that swayed in the building wind above of the intersection of County Road 81 and Broadway.

Just on the left side of that intersection is the cemetery that hugs the Lutheran church on the west end of town. I used to see an old woman that lived in town walking her dog along the road there sometimes late at night, but after not seeing her for some time, I was surprised to see her outline illuminated by my headlights…particularly on this stormy summer night…and especially with the nasty weather closing in fast. To make matters worse, she was walking directly through the cemetery…and I remember thinking as I made the left turn into town that it’s true what they said about North Dakotans…they are a hearty group indeed. There is no way I’d walk through a cemetery at night…in pitch dark, with an electric storm about to break. I surmised that she too must have felt the storm approaching…and decided to take a short cut back to her house to avoid the rain.

The next morning I walked up town to have coffee with the boys (my grandpa never came…couldn’t see “giving” 35 cents for coffee when you could boil it up at home for next to nothing) at the town hall. I’ve referenced this group of mostly older farmers before, and I had become a welcome yearly regular with these guys…many of whom I was related to in some way (if you listen carefully you can hear the banjo music). They reveled in my often exaggerated rough-an-tumble “life in the hood” stories of LA, and they also enjoyed my animated recaps of my nightly gambling excursions into Fargo. Often times, if I’d hit it big, I take my 10 bucks in winnings and cover coffee for everyone at the table…I was a popular guy.

On this morning I was telling them about my previous night’s winnings and one of them asked me if I’d driven back in the heavy storm. I told them yes, and almost as an afterthought, I mentioned that I’d seen crazy old Mrs. Erickson* out walking at midnight again…directly through the cemetery on the west-end of town. Some of them laughed a bit nervously, and I continued to go on about how odd it was that she’d be out in weather like that. I noticed my uncle looking at me kind of strange…but before long we moved on to the usually bad Norwegian  jokes, stories about the latest auction sale, or guys talking about how much they had in their respective rain gages.

When we walked outside to hop into his dark blue GMC pickup to drive over to the Post Office to get the mail (it was literally across the street),  my uncle asked me why I told the story about seeing Mrs. Erickson. I told him I didn’t really know…it just seemed interesting that she’d be out on a night like that. He responded by asking if I was sure it was her. I told him yes…it was her…I have no doubt…I’ve seen her 100 times.  I inquired as to what the big deal was…at which point he told me that she had passed away the winter before last.

I know what you’re thinking…but it’s a true story…and the only thing I was drinking up in Fargo that night was diet pop. It was her…but don’t ask…I don’t know either.

One of the trippy things about moving from Los Angeles to the east is the amount of fervor folks have here connected to Halloween. Sure, kids went trick-or-treating in the west, but it was a one-day deal and there certainly wasn’t the fascination with the holiday that there is here. I’ve had some people here tell me it’s their favorite holiday…and it’s clear that even grownups really get into it.  So, I hope you had a fabulous and festive Halloween. It’s going to be a great Fall weekend…so make the best of the changing season doing the things you enjoy with someone you love.  

 

...we run through the streets of town so silent and still

...and we learn, by what we see...

There are a lot of conventions in this town, but there was one that occurred last weekend hat was of particular interest to me. It was the annual gathering of an association of electrical contractors in the unionized electrical construction industry, and for me, their choice to come to the nation’s capital and the  large contingent that attended from Los Angeles meant it was like old-home week.

While the government shutdown probably curtailed their sight-seeing a bit, the idiotic behavior and lack of leadership by some of our fringe elected officials wasn’t going to ruin the trip these self-made business men and women. Most of them went through the same apprenticeship I did before hanging a shingle, and the same qualities that have made them successful in contracting meant they were going to make the most of the trip no matter what.  

They invited me to join them for a get-together downtown on Sunday afternoon, and because I arrived at the event early, I was able to watch as so many people that had a profound influence on my professional and personal life filed through the door. There was one cat I probably hadn’t seen in 15 years named Dan Henrich who ran work for Amelco Electric where I had served my apprenticeship in Los Angeles. He, along with his wife own their own very successful company now, and there are lessons he imparted on me in my late teens and 20s about how to run work and treat people that still stick with me today. Perhaps most importantly of all, he also showed me it's OK to laugh along the way while doing it too.

Stan Lazarian was there too, and though I worked for his great company for only a very short time in my early thirties, I remember the experience well because of the way he treated me over the course of what was a very compressed and high-stress upgrade project. He too taught me a lot about management in that short period (and in the years that followed working in another capacity) that I continue to try to replicate today.

Ralph Woods was also in attendance…and though I didn’t work directly for him, there were lessons to be learned in my association with him working in a labor management capacity through the way he was able to retain his competent and loyal workforce.  He always smiled and seemed to be in a good mood too…and though he was always busy, I never forgot the fact he attended my going away party.

Steve and Cathy O’Bryant, who along with local chapter president Eric Cartier were serving as gracious hosts. I never worked for their company, but I did work a lot with them in a labor/management capacity. They as much as  anybody taught me about how to treat people and about the need to be nimble in a very competitive environment.  I remain forever grateful for the things I observed about their style that I still try to emulate today.

Rick Jarvis  was a superintendent at the time for the last contractor I ever worked for before switching gigs…and he was there too.  I remember standing by the Los Angeles river talking over a host of issues on one of the largest construction projects in Los Angeles in the 90’s. Like all the people above, he taught me lasting lessons about how to run work and treat people that I continue to use every, single day.  

The Local Chapter Manager Jim Willson and my former boss and union business manager Marvin Kropke. It would take three days to read all I could write about these two cats…but in summary, these two folks as much as anybody demonstrated what can be accomplished when labor and management work together for the betterment of the greater good.

I was feeling awfully good after visiting with all these mentors over the course of a couple of days, but other than the normal nostalgia that is common when seeing old friends, I wasn’t exactly sure why. Then yesterday, I was reading a tidbit in the book “How to Win Friends and Influence People in the Digital Age.” Somewhere deep in the book, was a paragraph that made it all clear. I’d give it to you word for word, but that would mean I’d have to go upstairs and fetch it…so instead I’ll just paraphrase. In essence, it said that leaders have the single most effective tool available to them when managing people…and that is to demonstrate through their own actions the behavior they are trying to encourage. People learn through what they see…so if you want to get people to behave in a certain manner, you need to lead by example. That’s what sticks with the folks that are listed above and so many others I spent time with this past week…and that is why it was so special. Even after the passage of all this time, these unknowing mentors, along with so many others I've worked with since and now, all demonstrated behavior I still try miserably to emulate every single day.

Have a fabulous weekend, and if you can, see if you can’t remember and then deploy some great lesson someone once taught you. If I had to guess, it’s probably going to have something to do with the way you treat other people. Over time, that is the type of thing that is going to matter more than the stuff we can all get tricked into thinking matters more now.

This morning’s song might be offensive…but if so…I wouldn’t know. Heard it this week on Pandora and thought it had kind of a catchy beat.

I'm more like a dog...a teardrop in a poem...

...and I'm going to try to complain a little less today

There are probably years that go by in between the times I recall the experience, but I do think about it from time and time and it always rushes back every time I climb into the garage attic of my parent’s home in Santa Paula, California. As you ascend the pull-down ladder that provides access to the space above my 84 year-old mom’s light blue full-sized 8 cylinder Mercury Grand Marquis, there’s a well-preserved wooden chest with a white, blue, and yellow Los Angeles Rams bumper sticker on the lid. The large American made wooden box sat in the southwest corner of my room in West Los Angeles when I was a child, and for a good part of my early life it was filled with a bounty of toys.

Sometime in the late 1960’s when I was somewhere about 7 or 8 years old, I’d received a gift from a relative in the days leading up to the Christmas holiday. To be honest I don’t even remember what it was...but I do vaguely recall not expressing near enough appreciation to satisfy my no-nonsense Depression era father. Like many of his hard knocks generational peers, I suspect even my hard-assed dad was content to spoil his child and spare me much of the suffering he’d experienced growing up in rural Washington state (outside Tacoma) with next to nothing, but whatever bellyaching I was doing that conveyed the lack of gratitude for what I’d received had obviously been overdone in my father’s mind…and on this particular morning in mid-December…he’d clearly had enough.

After listening to another round of my complaining, my dad abruptly told me go into my room and empty out my toy chest. He said I could keep three of my favorite things (there had to be at least 30 items in there), but that all of the other less-desirable stuff should be removed. I could tell he was not happy, but didn’t know at all why I was being asked to remove the items. I suspect for a minute I wondered if with Christmas just days away it was to make room for more good stuff, but I remembering having no real clue. My parents almost never argued, but I remember hearing them heatedly discussing something in the den as I sorted through my toys…but I really couldn’t catch the content or pick up the meaning of their spirited exchange.

I remember kneeling down by the chest with the lid open, pulling out bags of little green army men, my red “hot potato” with a timer on the back, a slinky, my Matchbox cars and some games like Operation (I can still picture the face of the guy on the front). There were Hot Wheels, a Wheelo, some Flippy the Frogmen, a couple of GI Joes, cowboy cap guns, a couple of nice footballs and even an “official” plastic blue and white Rams’ helmet like my heroes Deacon Jones and Merlin Olsen wore. There was also this huge read and white metal Texaco gasoline truck that was so big you could actually sit on it. I’m actually not even sure General Motors uses that much real metal in the Cadillacs they build these days.

As I sifted through all my toys, I remember struggling to find the best three…and the truth is this would be a better story if I could recall what I actually chose to keep. As I was working my through my things my father came in with some empty cardboard boxes, and told me to pack the stuff I’d removed. As each box was filled, my father picked them up and carried them down to our black ’65 Pontiac. Then, he told me to put on a coat and that we’d be going for a drive. I still had no clue what was happening, but I knew enough to know that I’d apparently screwed something up and that asking a whole lot of questions probably wasn’t in my best interest.

My dad didn’t say much as we drove away from the house, and I remember vividly how he drove with purpose and having no sense that he needed any directions. As I looked out the window in silence, it become obvious that we were headed into a neighborhood where the homes weren’t near as nice as mine. After what seemed like about a 20 minute drive, my dad pulled off of a main avenue and onto a residential street. As we came up to the first house…there were some young kids (even younger than me) playing out in the front yard of the very old and modest home. My father instructed me to get out of the car, and he jumped out and opened the trunk. Then, to my disbelief, he told me to remove the boxes of my toys from the trunk and give them to the kids playing in the yard. When I hesitated, he picked up the first box and walked over to the disbelieving children.

They were pretty tentative at first…but within seconds, they recognized that Santa had come to town early and began screaming with jubilation at their unplanned good fortune. Within what seemed like seconds, several other kids streamed out of neighboring houses and my father handed them toys as well. I distinctly remember him telling me…  “go get a box…start handing them out.” When we were done several of the parents came outside and with a mix of disbelief, caution and genuine gratitude…offered their bewildered thanks. I remember looking at the mother standing on the rotting wooden steps of the house where we’d distributed the toys…holding her hands over her face with a white handkerchief and crying. She kept mouthing the words…thank you, thank you, thank you.

When we got back to the car my father seemed to be in a better mood. I don’t remember how long we stayed there, but I do recall that he didn’t start the car immediately. He just sat there and watched the elated kids playing with all my old stuff. Then…as he looked out the window….he said something close to the following. “Your mother thought it was cruel to make you give away your toys, and though it’s tough for you to see now…you’ll probably have more stuff soon than you know what to do with before too long. In the meantime, recognize that so much of the things you never had time to play with are like gold to those kids that have less…so when we get back home…see if you can’t be a little more grateful for what you do have. I don’t want to hear any more of your complaining.”

End of story.

It’s Friday, and as we slide into Fall and prepare for the fast-approaching holiday season, make these next few days really count for something.  Most of us want more, but if you're reading this on something that plugs into the wall or is powered by a battery, you're probably living more comfortably than a huge part of the population that lives on less than $1.25 a day or that has never heard a dial tone. Whatever you end up doing these next few days, see if you can’t approach the time away with a sense of gratitude for all that you actually do have.

The Wonder...

...so think twice before you hit the send button.

A colleague much smarter than me (that’s not a stretch…they’re all smarter than me) sent me and another co-worker an email earlier in the week that they were proposing to send to someone else. In essence, they sent it along as a draft…in hopes that the two of us might essentially check it for tone (just by reading this you should know they weren’t seeking my expertise around spelling, grammar or appropriate apostrophe placement).  In typical fashion the overflowing nature of my inbox coupled with my pitiful inability to keep up with the insane email volume conspired to result in my reading the message long after it was sent, and many hours after any input I might provide would be of any benefit.  

I did however send along a late evening reply though…thanking the sender for being confident enough to have others check the message and just a general confession that my best days are probably those when I leave the office with at least three unsent messages in my Drafts folder. It’s always those special three…where I’ve really let it rip…and given the potential recipient everything they deserved and managed to do it in a sarcastic way that would have provided me unmatched temporary satisfaction. Conversely, my worst days, or at least my most regrettable, are often the ones when the Drafts folder is completely empty and I’ve managed to hit the send button on every composed email.  The exchange got me to thinking how the workplace and generally the world would probably be a lot happier place if people periodically had their emails proofed before hitting send. That got me to thinking about how much happier my life might be if I could apply that same practice to the words that come out of my mouth.

A couple of days later I was leaving the house about 6:30 when I realized I’d walked outside and jumped into my crappy old car without my smartphone. It’s not like I’d forgotten my  wallet, driver’s license or heart medication…so I got out of the car and walked up the steps into the house to retrieve my electronic equivalent of crystal meth. When I grabbed my phone I noticed there was a message from a coworker, and when I read it, my blood began to simmer. I actually started driving up the street, but stopped to compose the snarkiest and most acidic yet gratifying response I could muster. I suspect I was smiling as I plucked way…angrily typing everything the potential recipient clearly deserved. Then, after a couple of very satisfying paragraphs, I stopped and thought about the old Dale Carnegie adage. Trust your emotions…listen keenly to what they are telling you…then…put them aside and essentially do the opposite. For me, that has been a lifesaver…and pretty much the only reason I’m still employable. So…I wisely heeded Dale’s sage advice and deleted the email. I responded instead in a professional and kind manner that was the polar opposite of my emotional instinct. Now… if the story only stopped there.

About an hour later I was sitting in the office when the person that sent me the morning email that boiled my blood walked into the office. Initially, I was candidate for the Carnegie hall of fame. I may have actually even forced a smile. That actually worked for about 15 seconds, but before long I was verbally letting it rip and managed to share all my unsent email thoughts and then some. Much of what I said wasn’t even really germane (not really sure what that means…but I’ve always loved that word), but man, it was nice to get it off my chest. It really did feel good…at least it felt that way for about eight seconds. Then, after the glee of letting it all out passed, I wished I’d hadn’t hit the verbal send button.

A long time ago a strange and still unexplained set of circumstances plunged me into a situation where I was serving as a “rater” in a big time interview process for a very large employer. I’d never done it before and was in way over my head. Essentially, me and another rater colleague would sit in a padded room (seriously) and interview a potential job applicant. My rating partner was a much older chap that smacked of wisdom and success. He had graying hair…a crisp ironed white shirt with a red bow tie (I still don’t even know how to tie a two tie) and a blue blazer. To me…he looked like a Supreme Court Justice or someone that would be President of Harvard. The session was recorded, and we’d each ask a prescribed set of question. One of the candidates, ironically the most impressive by far to this point, responded horribly to one of the last questions that was obviously designed to check their ethical inclinations. Amazed…I reworded the question and the respondent stunningly provided the same bad answer. After the candidate left, my much older and wiser colleague turned to me and said something like this… “you know…as I look back on my life, the things I really regret the most are some of the bad things I’ve said…not some of the good things I’ve left unsaid.”

Hopefully you’re not…but in the regrettable case you’re anything like me, think for a minute before you hit the send button. Actually, if you really are anything like me…try to change…but in the meantime, you may even want to apply that same restraint principle to more than your keyboard.  Have a wonderful weekend and do something fun that matters with the people you love. Over the long haul, that will dwarf anything you might be thinking is more important that happens at work.

Sorry for all the errors and the horrific writing. I violated every rule today…and time only allowed for one draft and zero proofing.

 

With rails of steel...that reach the soul...

...and the older I get, the more I understand Thomas Wolfe

On the heels of spending about 14 days out in California (10 of which were in downtown Los Angeles at a work-related event), I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s a lot to the old Thomas Wolfe title “You Can’t Go Home Again.” I mean, I suspect you can always go back to your hometown, the question is how much of it is going to resemble the place you grew up and more importantly, how many of the people are going to still be around once you get there.

 

Though there are certainly some things that appeared to remain the same, the fact is that an awful lot has changed since I left Los Angeles about 9 years ago…especially in the downtown area where the event was held. Sure there were some things that were the same…but for the most part…it just didn’t’ seem like the place I spent the first four decades of my life. Perhaps even more striking is the fact that many of the people…just aren't there anymore.

The host hotel (the JW Marriott) where we stayed wasn’t there when I moved back east in early 2005…but it certainly was a pretty nice place to hold up for 10 days in the unfortunate event that you have to spend that much time in downtown Los Angeles.  My corner perch on the 18^th floor offered a bird’s eye view that was like a snapshot of my life…or at least part of it. Out the window to the left was the Good Samaritan hospital where I was born in 1961 (it was also where several of my North Dakota ancestors worked when they first migrated to California in the 1940s). Through the glass in the distance straight east were the lights of Dodger Stadium…where I spent so many days and nights rooting for my beloved Dodgers. Looking down to the right on the east side of the 110 freeway, I could see many high rise buildings where I worked for so many years as an IBEW electrician. So…at least at first glance…there were thankfully a couple of things that reminded me of home. But there were many more things that didn’t,  and while it was a memorable trip, and though there is little argument that the downtown redevelopment has made for a better city, I guess it just didn’t seem much like my city.

The convention center where we held the event brought back some old memories. Walking down the cavernous halls on my daily 20 mile (OK…it was really only about 18 miles) morning treks from the hotel to the South convention hall made it hard not to reminisce about the many nights I spent at big union meetings in the West Hall of that complex. Man…there were some wild nights in there.

The old 24-hour Pantry restaurant where I used to eat breakfast when I was working with the tools is  still there too…and I even managed to make it over there for two artery clogging breakfasts before the insanity of the convention made off-site dining next to impossible. That was kind of sad, because had I been able to eat there all 10 days, I’m convinced I could gotten my diastolic blood pressure up well north of 200 (not a big lift when it’s already at 190). But  again, while there were certainly some things that triggered old memories, there seemed to be so many more newer places that had me wondering where the old town, and many of the old people had gone.

Once the convention was over, I was yearning for more familiar turf so I met my old buddy Chuck for breakfast over on the Westside in the old neighborhood. I was supposed to meet him at 8:00am, but after leaving the hotel at 7:10am, it took me 90 minutes to travel the five miles down the westbound 10. It made me fondly recall the old freeway shooting craze that gripped the area many years ago, and had my Enterprise rental Yukon come with a gun rack and a Winchester 30/30 lever action, I would have resurrected the practice and happily rid the world of a few more idiots while making my way past the Western, Arlington, Crenshaw, La Brea, Fairfax and La Cienega off ramps before reaching my destination on Robertson.  

I hadn’t allotted that much travel time to go five miles, because when I was a kid, traveling west towards Santa Monica on the 10 (west of downtown) was against the rush hour traffic pouring east into the city. Now…with the construction of new piece of the metro rail system (they call it “Expo” something I think) serving the westside, Chuck informed me that traffic heading the opposite direction of the old commuting flow is a nightmare almost all the time.  

Even Chuck isn’t the same, having dropped something like 44lbs on Weight Watchers. He probably noticed I’ve changed too, as I’ve been doing Weight Watchers as well. Recently, I’ve watched my weight climb from about 195 up to 215. We met at a place called “Old Goats” (or something like that) and though it’s apparently been there for a while…I didn’t remember it either. Though the diner sat in the middle of the old hood...I didn't recognize a soul in the place. 

 

Once outside  I glanced around the businesses on Pico Blvd and while the Conroy’s open air flow shop and Stanley Holden dance studio (no…I didn’t dance...I only know that because my wife took ballet lessons there) seemed to have vanished…I was glad to see the Kentucky Fried Chicken was still on the northwest corner of Patricia Ave across from St. Timothy’s.  The Rancho Park golf course was still there too…but they’ve put a fence around it that makes it look quite different than the inviting entrance I remember it as a youngster.

I cruised by the old house at 10635 Esther Ave too, but they’ve added a second story to the 1929 Tudor so it doesn’t look much like the place I grew up. Most of the neighborhood is different now as well.  My childhood buddies Jeffrey Russell, Clayton Riddle, Keith Sylber, Michael Cooper and Billy Horning have long since moved away…and many of the older folks (Mrs. Burns, Mr & Mrs. Beerhouse, Mr. and Mrs. Ramie, Mr. Robinson, and my old Piano Teacher Mrs. Lee) passed away decades ago. Most of the houses look different as well…although there are a couple that still look pretty much the same.

Overland Avenue Elementary still looks pretty much like the public school where I attended grades 1 through 6 (over the span of 8 years) and I think the old “No Trespassing” sign on the front gate we used to climb over everything afternoon in the summer to play stickball might be the same one that was there in the 60’s and 70’s. It was weird driving by it though…as I couldn’t help but notice that the whole campus just looked smaller. I drove by my old High School on Robertson too…and thankfully…Hamilton High looked pretty much the same.

After visiting the westside, the last few days of the trip were spent up at my mom’s place in Santa Paula. My dad passed in 2006 shortly after I moved east, so I try to get up to her retirement place periodically to help her with some basic chores. I stayed pretty busy changing light bulbs, power-washing the exterior of her house, cleaning the outside windows, waxing her car (she’s 84 and still drives), fixing and oiling the garage door hinges, repairing the sliding closet doors and working on the automatic sprinklers. But even with all that work, it was always nice to wrap up about 3:30 each afternoon with a cigar on the patio before heading in to shower so I could drive her to dinner by 4:30 in the afternoon (we ate at 3 different nice restaurants and were the first ones seated).  

My mom would come outside and sit while I decompressed and exhaled carcinogens into the pacific breeze.  As we sat there visiting, much of our afternoon conversation was about all the people and relatives that aren’t here anymore. When I was a kid, these folks seemed like giants, and after surviving the Depression and at least one world war, I was certain they would be around forever. Uncle Ted (he was at Pearl when the bombs dropped), aunt Helen,  aunts Nanny and Selma, uncle George and aunt Marie, Grandpa Nelson, aunt Mary and uncle Fred, uncle Donald, cousins; Alice, Pam, Martin (was a tailgunner on a bomber over France), Paul, Helen, Roy, Bob, Bill have all passed on…and that is only naming a few.

After supper in the evenings my mom and I would sit around signing old hymns while I strummed the Tenor Uke. She still sings a pretty good alto, and we’d  harmonize many of her favorites like “How Great Thou Art," "Amazing Grace and “The Old Rugged Cross,” and usually even a chorus or two of “Home on the Range” or “The Red River Valley.”  When we finished we’d usually spend a few minutes talking about how good we sounded…but often the conversation would drift back to more reminiscing about old times and additional friends and family in California and North Dakota that aren’t here anymore. That topic got my mom to speculating about heaven, and her hope that there really is something to the promise of seeing loved ones in a mansion on a hilltop with streets paved of gold.

What’s the point of all this? Well, if you’ve visited this site or read this blog before, you probably already know there isn’t much in the way of a well-organized thought. More than anything, it’s really all I could muster up in the four o’clock hour on an early Friday morning in mid-September.  

But perhaps if you’re younger, let’s say under age forty, you might just want to think for 10 seconds about all places and people around you that you presume will be here forever.  Some of the places will undoubtedly stand the test of time, but unless something changes, most of the people probably won’t and ultimately neither will you. I never thought about that at all when I was younger, and you probably don’t want to think about it either. But sometime around age 50, when I realized more was behind me than ahead,  it hit me like a ton of bricks.

There’s no doubt it’s at least somewhat depressing, but if I was you I wouldn’t avoid it because you’re counting on some big reunion in the clouds (or in my case, a coal shoveling party in the furnaces down below). If nothing else, maybe this will cause you to reflect on the inevitability of your own mortality a bit, and if that encourages you to email an uncle or text an old friend, it will have all been worth the otherwise directionless keystrokes. Heck…if you still can, you might even end up picking up the cell and calling your mom or dad.

Have a great weekend…and if at all possible, have the clarity to push aside the stuff that belongs at the bottom of the pile and do something that matters with the people and pets that you love. If you can, spend the time like you know things will eventually change…and treat each interaction like you understand the people you care about (and you) are only on this planet for a finite amount of time. 

Like a blind dog without a bone...