...and getting your haircut ain't what it used to be

I’m 50 (sorry…I started to cry)…so I’m guessing for at least the first 35 years I had my hair cut at an old school barber shop with one of those classic twirling red, white and blue barber poles out front. For most of that period it was at Darrell’s Barber Shop in West LA at 2450 Overland Blvd just south of Pico Blvd. It was adjacent to the old May Company (now the east end of the Westside Pavilion) and the old California Federal bank (now Citi I think). The Owner Darrell was an older Jewish fellow that had the chair closest to the door, and his wife, who had a classic white/blond beehive hairdo that must have extended a solid 8 or 9 inches above the top of her skull had a manicure table on the east end of the shop by the bathroom in the corner.

I don’t recall for sure, but it seems to me there were about four barber chairs along the south wall, all with mirrors behind them and cheap frame with a black and white picture of the barber along with a license showing they’d had some level of training to practice their craft. Most of the guys seemed ancient to me as a kid, and it was almost like they’d actually died years ago…but their bodies continued to give haircuts. When I was real young, it wasn’t uncommon to see somebody getting shaved with  some cream whipped up and applied by one of those old-style brushes, and then shaved with a straight blade that at the time looked like a small machete.  It also  wasn’t unusual to walk in there on a Saturday and see the place full of men getting haircuts, drinking coffee and talking about sports…and no man EVER had to have his hair washed before it was cut. You just walked in, sat down, and got a your hair cut.

I suspect there may have been a woman getting a manicure in there a time or two…but other than the occasional brave mother that accompanied a weak young son into the joint, I don’t even really recall seeing another female in the place. To be honest, I don’t ever recall seeing a dude at the manicuring table either. I suspect it may have happened a time or two, but I’m guessing it was at a slow time during the week or later in the evening when there were fewer witnesses.

The north wall of Darrell’s was lined with windows, and about five or six metal and leather chairs where folks could sit and wait, or just kick back and chat with the barbers or other customers. There was usually sections of the day’s LA Times or Herald Examiner spread around the waiting chairs, and a magazine rack on the west end by the door that even had a couple of Playboy magazines. As a young church going boy solidly on the straight-and-narrow, I was repulsed by the filthy periodicals and steadfastly refused to even step into that shop for a haircut more than a couple of times a week. Darrell’s was a classic place…and there was little doubt that it was a sanctuary for men.

In later the years after Darrell and his wife retired, the shop was purchased and run by Rueben (he still operates it today). Rueben was a cool cat, who actually boxed as a welterweight (under the name Ray Rueben I believe) at the old Olympic Auditorium on Grand Avenue in downtown Los Angeles. He had old black-and-white 8x10s on the wall of old fighters…including several of him wearing some belts that looked like you would had to have won fights to own.  Rueben was an enigma…because he was also the quintessential 60’s hippy that drove a green and white VW Bus and actually started shampooing hair before he cut it.  The signs of the looming de-evolution were not obvious to me at the time, but a smarter young man would have recognized that this pre-cut hair washing was just a slippery slope towards the general degeneration of manhood…and unchecked it wouldn’t long before men were getting their hair blow dried or worse…making appointments for a mani-pedi.  

 

 

When I moved north of Los Angeles to the High Desert, I started going to a Super Cuts and having a girl cut my hair. I  didn’t really know that women cut men’s hair, but that seemed to be the trend and she seemed to do a pretty decent job. They’d wash your hair at Super Cuts which was a tough adjustment, but things just started to seem different.  Plus…a lot of things were changing. People were starting to carry around wireless pagers in case someone was trying to get ahold of them, you could now put a document into a machine and have a copy go through the wire and come out the other end, and there were a bunch of black stealth jets that couldn’t be detected by radar flying all over the Antelope Valley. It just seemed like the world was changing.  

When we moved to Washington, DC, I tried to upgrade yet again and after a few  local Super Cuts debacles, I started going to a Hair Cuttery (or is it cutlery) up in Kensington. I thought the woman that cut my hair there was decent (think it was $14 bucks with a shampoo), but I noticed my wife would always walk several paces behind me in public. Actually, her pretending she’s not actually with me is not all that strange…but this seemed worse than normal…especially after a recent haircut. When I inquired why, she mentioned I needed to get away from the standard bowl-cut and start going to a real salon. As I always do when she talks, I listened and started going to a place in Downtown DC called Piaf. At this joint, a man’s haircut costs about 30 bones (by the time you’re done tipping everyone it’s closer to 50)…and sometimes they wash your hair twice. The woman that cuts my hair there always tries to talk me into getting a manicure, and when she does I can almost hear my German and Swedish ancestors literally spinning in their graves. This past Wednesday she started in again…but this time, she went over the line.

 

As she moved about styling my hair, she suggested I get a “man’s” facial. I told her I thought that sounded like a great idea, and asked if they could also perform castrations in the back. She started busting up, and asked if I really thought facials were only for women. So here we are, it’s 2012, John Wayne is dead and my female stylist is telling me (while blow-drying my hair) that I should get a man’s facial. I’d tell you what I really think about that, but this is a family blog. Plus…I need to run out and  get my eyebrows done (kind of a cut and color thing).

Have a great early fall weekend and try to do something fun. If you can, spend some time with the people that matter most.

 

You may want to start it with a little music too.

 

I got a thing about doors...

...and running a construction crew is a genuine skill I still don't have

An industry mentor of mine emailed me the other day about a new book he is writing and astonishingly, he asked me if I thought there was anything he might be leaving out. The guy has been a monumental success promoting excellence in the construction industry, and I’ve had the good fortune to speak and teach to different audiences essentially mimicking his themes and promoting his cutting-edge ideas (with his permission).  In light of the way he’s helped my career, it struck me as a bad sign for the fortunes of his new book that he was actually asking me for input…so I was reluctant to weigh in. I’m also reminded multiple times a week about the pitfalls of talking just for the sake of doing so (usually by my own failure to keep my trap closed), and as I get older I try to be better about NOT contributing to the conversation when there’s little of value left to be said. Unfortunately, and as increasingly happens of late,  such evolution too often evades me so I responded to my friend with something I hoped would be helpful though knowing full-well his draft stood fine on its own without help from me. The exchange did however get me to thinking about my old days running work in Los Angeles as an electrical foreman back in the 1980s…and it brought to mind a lesson about work and managing people I’ve never fully learned.

The construction economy was booming in Southern California in the 1980s, and there were literally thousands of electricians working in the area from all over the United States and for that matter…all over the world. There was such a shortage of skilled manpower, some larger projects like the Budweiser Brewery in the San Fernando Valley were distributing “Bud Points” based on attendance which could be redeemed for prizes (like big-screen TVs). Other jobs were paying bonuses for “ringers,” which meant folks got extra money simply for showing up five days in a row in the course of a week. Several of the construction sites were massive, and manning them with the appropriate number of trained craftsman was essential to meeting scheduling milestones and critical completion deadlines.

Needless to say, such a robust construction climate made it difficult for those of us tasked with running run-of-the-mill electrical projects. Job opportunities were a dime and dozen, and keeping quality men and women electricians tempted almost daily by more overtime, better conditions, more interesting work or just a shorter commute was a genuine challenge. Thankfully, I had vials of cocaine to pass out on the job…so I was able to keep people around…and more importantly, keep them working productively. Actually, that’s not even close to true…but it is fun to test to see if anyone is still actually reading. So while I didn’t have the benefit of mind-altering substances in our drug-free work environment,  I did have a worn out copy of Dale Carnegie’s “How to Win Friends and Influence People”  given to me by my IBEW dad and some awfully good lessons passed down from journeymen and foremen when I was working as a cub.

The job included several office buildings just west of Beverly Hills in Century City on a street appropriately named “Avenue of the Stars.” It was only a few miles from my boyhood home (and my former paper route in two top-end 28-story condo high rises).  This particular week, the crescendo of looming construction deadlines made things especially stressful. To make matters worse, I was facing several important electrical inspections and the call I’d put in for extra manpower hadn’t been filled for days. There simply was too much work and not enough people to do it.

One morning amidst the growing pressure and chaos, I was particularly disgusted as I arrived at the building only to notice that some derelict that wandered into the lobby from the street. Later that morning as the crew was gathering around the gang box before the weekly safety meeting, one of the wireman joked about the lagging building security saying he’d seen the same homeless guy hanging out in the lobby. Another guy cracked that the fellow was probably one of the new electricians…but I wasn’t much in the mood for lame attempts at humor. Sometime later, the elevator opened on one of the floors we were remodeling and the shabbily dressed degenerate I’d spotted in the lobby walked off the elevator car with the security guard and handed me a pink dispatch receipt indicating he was one of the folks answering my call for additional help.

My instinct was to refuse the guy and send him back immediately, but I had waited four days to get somebody and I desperately needed a warm body to install down lights in the 10^th floor lobby. Getting something less than impeccably trained journeymen electricians was somewhat unusual but not unheard of when work was booming…as most all-stars were already working steadily at the project of their choice. However this chap seemed particularly bad, and worse, his dress and general demeanor literally made him look (at least to me) as though he’d spent the last few evenings on a bus bench. Desperate for help I decided to give him a try, however it dawned on me almost immediately that he didn’t speak or understand any English. I tried a little German and Spanish on him (all I knew at the time…I know less now) but that didn’t work. It turned out the guy’s name was Victor and he was from Yugoslavia, but other than him smiling when I said “Tito,” we could not communicate at all.

To say I was frustrated was an understatement, and after trying to work with him for an hour or so and realizing I couldn’t even communicate with him, I decided to essentially fire him on the spot (wasn’t sure how I’d explain it to him, but was confident he’d get the picture). Exasperated, I pushed the button for the elevator and when it arrived, I motioned for him to get on and planned to walk him out the front door. On the way down the door opened on the 8^th floor and there was a guy that answered my last call (some Polish guy named Jakub) on a ladder installing light fixtures in the elevator lobby. Despite the language challenges Jakub was a good hand, and thankfully he could speak very limited English and a little more German. I waved at him, the doors closed and Victor and I continued our ride down. When the car stopped on the first floor I was hit with an epiphany…and I held my hand across the door to prevent Victor from walking off the elevator. I then pushed 8, and we rode back up to where Jakub was diligently working. I introduced Victor to him, told him Victor was from Yugoslavia, and asked him if he could communicate with someone from that country. I’ll never forget his reply as he responded in broken English “maybe.”

Jakub proceeded to say something to Victor (I think in Polish…but it just sounded like a bunch of hard consonants and more like cussing than anything meaningful), and immediately Victor’s face lit up. Touchdown! I paired the two communists up immediately, and though they had limited electrical skills, they did some basic tasks (like install light fixtures) as well as anybody…probably better than me. Victor had actually worked as an electrician back home, and except for the language barrier with me, he worked well with Jakub and the two were adequate hands and better than average fixture installers on the 50-plus person crew. As it turned out, they wired the lion’s share of the elevator lobby lights in that entire high-rise building.

What’s the point of all this…not sure really. It’s probably mostly about feeling the obligation to provide content at 4am on a Friday morning when you’ve committed yourself to some stupid blog, but it might also have something to do with not judging a book by its cover. I suppose it could also demonstrate something about exercising the patience to get the most of people, and to learn a bit more about a person’s potential as an electrician…and as a person…before rushing to any unwarranted judgment.  As it turned out Victor was really a pretty good guy, a decent electrician…and to be honest, he probably dressed better than me (he actually would wear old black slacks, dark socks and worn dress shoes to work…until I bought him a pair of work boots). Aside from the fact that we couldn’t talk much, he turned out to be a pretty good hand, and as tool buddies, Victor and Jakub were tough to beat by any measure. They ended up staying on for the duration of the job, and ultimately getting transferred to another project where they worked as a productive team for quite some time.

Anybody can manage people when times are bad, but doing so in a good climate when workers have options is a rare talent I still don’t possess. Such an environment highlights the need to convey genuine appreciation, to motivate, and the necessity to demonstrate patience when evaluating the best use of all resources…including human.

Have a wonderful weekend. Football is back, the days are getting shorter, the conventions are over and the race is on.

I bought a new Ukulele this week and have been working on this song. If you take the time to listen…you’ll have a better day…guaranteed. But if you don’t like this…I can’t help you.

 

Sorry for the typos and mispellings.  

Lemon drops...

So get ready for some football...and some other stuff too

Most Mondays during the Coastal Conference football season at Fairfax High School in inner-city Los Angeles were pretty much the same. After working all day as an IBEW electrician in downtown LA, I’d jump into the Amelco Electric company service truck and dash down 8^th Street toward the West Hollywood campus on Fairfax and Melrose. As a young rookie defensive coordinator, I looked forward to getting started with the defensive scheme for the week. As a weak X and O guy, I wasn’t particularly adept at putting together effective defensive plans, but I was blessed with two talented fellow assistants (Steve and Chuck Price) who were among the best in the business at analyzing opposing offenses and developing strategies to stop them. What I could do fairly well is implement their often complicated (at least for the high school level) game plans…and after devoting my weekend to watching hours of opponent’s game film…I always looked forward to Monday afternoons and breaking it all down on the chalk board for the kids.

We’d often hold the Monday pre-practice chalk sessions in a classroom near the field, and I relished walking into the room full of expectant players to explain our game plan for the week.  Though I was only an unproven assistant to Los Angeles football coaching legends Ron Price and Earl Smith, their often permissive approach required me to be the resident hard-ass, and for whatever reason, the disciplinary role seemed to suit me well. I often think back to that crazy environment, and recall fondly how many of those kids literally craved the rigid discipline.

One particular Monday in 1990, we held the meeting in an old vocational woodworking shop…filled with mothballed tarp-covered machines like old lathes and drill presses that were holdovers from the days when the LA Unified School District prepared at least some kids for the inevitability of a job or career that didn’t automatically presume a college education. The room just looked tired, and it had also become the destination to store several items that were no longer or seldom in use. For some reason on this day there was an old upright piano in the room, and as the team made up of tough inner-city kids sauntered in for the afternoon meeting, I walked over to the piano, pulled up a folded chair, and lifted the lid to expose the keys.

 It must have been quite a scene, seeing their often profane, construction-working, cigar chomping, old-school coach sit down at the piano in Levi jeans, cowboy boots and a cutoff sweatshirt (I’d change into coaching attire after the meeting) because it didn’t take long for the rambunctious streetwise teens to start heckling with things like… “check out coach thinking he’s Elton John and shit” or “coach Billy Joel  is running the defense this week.” Unsure how the piano would sound but convinced the kids would think it was a trip, I decided to play and launched into a medley of 40s, 50s and 60s standards… none of which many of the kids had probably ever heard.

As expected the piano needed to be tuned, but I remember being struck by how good it sounded. Though the kids were merciless with their caustic but admittedly humorous caps when I began, they pretty much quieted down the more I played…if nothing else probably somewhat surprised by what they were seeing and hearing. As I continued working through my limited unimpressive repertoire, my defensive mentor Earl Smith strolled over and stood by the right side of the piano. Coach Smith still seemed like a giant of a man to me, and though well-into his 60s at the time,  as a former UCLA tight end he still possessed a rare combination of athletic prowess, good looks and a smoothness that most people only dream about. As I segued into a rendition of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” Coach Smith caught me, and the entire room off guard when he began to sing the lyrics with a deep velvet tone  that would have made Nat King Cole blush…and Johnny Hartman smile. As I struggled to accompany Earl continued to croon, and as the two football coaches worked through the classic number, I had a hard time actually playing because Earl sounded so darn good. Quite uncharacteristically the kids were almost silent, no doubt astonished at the surprising spectacle that was unfolding in this otherwise conventional football setting.

I didn’t know it until that day, but coach Smith had actually sung quite a bit as a youngster…and even put some time in with Johnny Mathis as I recall the story. As we wrapped up the tune the room broke into thunderous applause (and some additional insults…not the least of which was an Ebony and Ivory reference that still cracks me up). Always the educator, Coach Smith used the setting as a teachable moment, and as the applause and laughter died down, he reverted to his coaching role quickly with some profanity laden admonition that went something like… “let that be a lesson to all you narrow-minded dumbass jocks…just because you’re an athlete…it doesn’t mean you can’t learn to do other things.” Well, to be honest, I don’t have the talent or the words to adequately convey the magic of that moment. In all honesty, Coach Smith’s impromptu and memorable rendition of that Platters’ classic was unlike anything I’d experienced up until that time…or for that matter…any time since.

When I was a kid, I HATED taking piano lessons, but my unrelenting union electrician and WWII vet dad  forced me to sit there every day and practice for at least 30 minutes. Under the supervision of my mother’s watchful eye, I’d work through scales, exercises and various pieces for a torturous thirty minutes. Often, the excruciating practice sessions were made worse by the fact that the piano was in the front of the house…and I could usually hear my friends playing football out in the street. Some days there’d even be the added agony of some kid like Billy Horning coming to the door and asking if I could come out and join the game, only to be told that I wouldn’t be out until I was done “practicing piano” (you can imagine the reception I received when I finally made it to the huddle). On those especially painful days I could sulk with the best of ‘em, and I recall my father would say something like “someday you’ll be glad you’re the guy that can play football…and play the piano.” Well, the football player thing never worked out very well (search this blog for UCLA…it was ugly), but for a few years in the early 90s, Fairfax High’s football team was undefeated in the Coastal Conference and we contented each year for the coveted Los Angeles city title. As it turns out we were awfully good on the gridiron, and thanks to my dad (and Coach Smith), we weren’t bad on the woodshop piano either.  Dad was right again.

Have a great weekend and if you can, try to take the time to do something fun. If you need some evidence that there is indeed a god, college football begins in earnest this Saturday so there is no longer any reason to be a skeptic. Come to think of it, there may even be a good Michael Feinstein Sinatra Legacy special on PBS you can take in after a game.

Never ending love for you...

...and the last few days of summer are fading away

Well we're still in the midst of the Summer rerun series so the post below is one that first appeared just under one year ago.  It's been adjusted a little, but for the most part it remains largely same. It's not supposed to be a good blog practice to repeat content, but the Friday story didn't appear in any form two weeks ago and not one person complained...so given the paltry readership...there shouldn't be much risk in a little stale content. Anyhow, as the last few days of the summer season tick away, you might want to take a few minutes to read about the consequence of going at work too hard...and the need to restore at least some level of balance to your busy life.

There are a lot of cool things about my current job, but one of aspects that offers the most tangible sense of accomplishment comes from the opportunity to teach as an adjunct about 8 times a year in classes for union construction organizer (If you're interested, here's a Training Video Example). For me, it’s almost like smoking crack (I mean…so I’m told), and the therapy I get from spending an afternoon outside of the office with the people doing the real work in the organizing trenches is beyond my feeble ability to describe. Usually, I am privileged to do a communication’s piece around skills needed when talking to unrepresented workers and open shop employers, however this last time around I was asked to do a new segment for advanced organizers on avoiding burnout.

Now, like just about every other subject, I have zero academic expertise in the area of burnout. As the former head of a large contingent of construction organizers, and having been one for many years myself, I did feel as though I had some practical knowledge on the subject...just no textbook expertise. So…as I always do when I need to find out how to repair the belt on the clothes dryer, or get the name of a buttery Chardonnay, or to diagnose shortness of breath and a sharp pain in my lower back, I began surfing the internet.

While perusing the online material on the subject of burnout, it was tantamount to what happens to me just about every morning these days (OK…every morning). It was, for lack of a better analogy, like the horror that accompanies my first morning glance into the bathroom mirror (I have to put a dimmer on that light switch). Despite the fact that it happens every single day, I am still shocked and disappointed each and every morning…and I cannot fathom how things went so wrong so fast (actually…that’s the problem…it took a long time to get this bad).

As I read through the differences between stress and burnout, and the consequences of letting both go untreated, I recognized immediately that I was reading about me. Sadly, it was apparent that years of mounting stress and my failure to deal with it was resulting in my own burnout, and it was a difficult and sobering recognition that I had let things get way out of hand. I won’t bore you with all the details, but perhaps the best analogy I came across is this. If you feel like you’re an eight-ounce glance and someone is trying to pour one-gallon of water into you…you’re under stress. If you feel like your glass is completely empty…you might be burned out. My glass is too often bone dry. If you feel like every day is a bad day, if you’re often exhausted, or if you feel like nothing you do makes a difference or is the least bit appreciated, you may be beyond stress and well into burnout.

Unlike the misery I experience each morning in the mirror, the good news is that burnout is reversible. I've treated it by plunging headlong into increased tobacco consumption, heavy drinking and copious amounts of trash TV. OK…truth be told, I’m not sure that is the best medicine but I haven’t surfed the net yet on fixes and cures.

I have a feeling one of the remedies is taking it easy, and because no one of us is going to turn this labor slide thing around by ourselves, there really is no reason to drive ourselves into the ground trying to do it alone. We are all reminded repeatedly of the fragility of life, and in recognition of those many signs, we owe it to ourselves and our families to just chill a bit. Who knows, if we were actually refreshed, clear-headed and better rested, we may actually be sharp enough to strategize about how to this thing around. Just think about it...if all the talented people working on behalf of working families were at their very best and truly rowing in unison in the same direction...just think about what could be accomplished. If nothing else, if we were actually at our best, maybe we could spend some time figuring out if there is a way to get everyone in labor working together. That alone would be a worthwhile accomplishment.

So take notice of the signs and cool your jets. Get some hobbies outside of work, eat right, sleep, exercise and find something fun to do that takes your mind of your inbox. For me, working out, playing the guitar or piano, reading and writing and consuming red wine by the gallon seem to do the trick. Now...if I could only stop checking my smartphone while I'm doing them.

Speaking of signs...this past Saturday I attend another funeral for a friend that left the world way too soon. The service was a touching tribute, where friends and family spoke eloquently about the enduring legacy of a man that truly accomplished many great things. At the beginning of the service, the overflow crowd sang this notable gospel hymn. It was the third time I've heard it in 2012...all at funerals for people I thought would be here forever.  

Have a wonderful summer weekend. The weather is supposed to be decent, with occasional showers and moderating temperatures in the low 80s. Go do something fun…recharge your batteries, step away from the chaos, laugh, crack a smile…and feel appreciated.

Through the storm...through the night

 

...and this past Wednesday was not a good day

After spending the previous 8 straight workdays out of the office doing a combination of things I love (including riding a bike in the Black Hills and teaching a construction organizing class for a couple of days), I wasn’t relishing the thought of returning to work this past Wednesday and the shock of office re-entry. Despite my well-placed reluctance I returned to the building nonetheless and was greeted by accumulated paperwork and a predictable hurricane of heavy issues.

It all started with an uncomfortable early morning meeting, followed by another couple of related follow-up conversations. Before long it was 10am and I’d already been through the gauntlet. On top of all that I'd managed to disapoint a couple of good people that I admire, so after being back for only a couple of hours, it felt awfully good to be back from vacation and squarely back in the saddle.

At about 10:30 I was discussing some pressing work-related stuff with some colleagues when I, as I normally do, rudely looked at my iPhone to check email. As is too often the case this days, the pressure mounted as there were already about 20 unopened message in the queue. But one in particular caught my eye. It was probably because it was from a dear friend that doesn’t send me a whole lot of email…but the daunting subject line also grabbed my attention. It read simply…Very Sad News. While pretending feebly to continue the conversation with my workmates, I opened the email and read the following message:

I’m very sorry to put this in an e-mail, but I just heard that ***** ******** died last night.  I am in complete shock. It sounds as if this was sudden, but to be honest I don’t know.

I let you know of any arrangements when I hear.  Too much of this lately

Now I don’t possess the talent to convey how short the period of time was that actually elapsed after reading that email before everything that conspired to complicate my morning instaneously became unimportant.  Though trying to continue the conversation with my colleagues, I was suddenly trying to process the fact that yet another friend and mentor (not much older than me), had passed away unexpectedly. Like the friend that sent the news…I was genuinely blindsided. Just about three weeks ago I’d spent an epic afternoon with him and a couple of other friends at a beautiful riverside home in Virginia. We laughed, drank, told jokes, lied, played music, spent time on the water, enjoyed great food, lied again and drank some more. He was right there in the middle of it…having a fabulous time…and now…he was gone.

Like too many of the friends that have left this world of late, he taught me a good deal. Most importantly, he treated me better than I deserved…and always made it a priority to get together. He also made it a point to introduce me to his circle of business associates…all of them at a level well-above me…all for the betterment of my career. I never understood why he was so good to me…he just was. He was also the quintessential professional that did better than good work for the organization he served…and the byproduct of his accomplishments provided a mountain of financial security for his organization and the hundreds of thousands of people dependent on his decisions and expertise.

I'll never understand any explanation for why good people are plucked from the living well-before their time…at least it will never make sense while I’m walking this earth. Perhaps someday when I’m shoveling coal for eternity the need for good people to check out too soon while so many others are left behind will make some sense, but there certainly doesn’t seem to be any logic behind it right now. If there needs to be some population thinning I can happily provide a list…but the need to keep taking so many good ones prematurely is really starting to drag me down.

Later on Wednesday a few of us were reflecting on the day’s events, and the fact that in a virtual nanosecond, the fragility of life can flip priorities upside down and render seemingly significant problems almost instantly meaningless. I was thinking how helpful it would be if the lessons learned from these painful losses would stick, and truly influence my dealings with people, or work, or just about anything I face over the long haul. Sadly though, if the failure to read the many signposts of late is any real indicator, I already know that won’t happen. As it always does, little more than a few days will pass before I’m sweating the things that should be kept in perspective, especially juxtaposed to another life extinguished well before its time.

As noted above there were a lot of great things about Terry…but one of the best was that he was a great conversationalist. He always asked a lot of questions…and one of the ones he once put to me was about my favorite vocal standard song. When I told him without hesitation he was shocked…and claimed it was also one of his true favorites as well. This morning's song is that very number...performed by the shared favorite artist.

Have a good weekend…take it easy…do the things that count…and do them with the people that matter most to you. Everything can change in one heartbeat. Everything.


For Terry

...and there's a magical place in South Dakota

This is the second week in a row where the Friday offering is a rework of a previous post. While it's probably risky to drive away the few remaining blog followers with old work, as was mentioned last week, it really is difficult to come up with fresh content every seven days. Perhaps you could consider it a little like summer reruns, or just cut me some slack recognizing that the demands of work and life have conspired to rob me of my creative thoughts...and more importantly, the time to put any thoughts I do have to paper.

In any event, the blog below appeared just about one year ago...in the aftermath of my yearly motorcycle sojourn to South Dakota. As I sit at National Airport in these early hours ready to board the plane for Rapid City, it seems only right to share it again. It's not exactly the same...as a matter-of-fact it's been freshened up quite a bit. So, if you can spare the time, please take a little time to visit a special spot on the southern end of the beautiful Black Hills.

About 60 miles straight south or Rapid City, in the southwest corner of South Dakota, is the southern Black Hills town of Hot Springs. It’s only about 25 minutes east of the Wyoming line, and roughly the same distance just north of the Nebraska boarder. To me, it is the classic Black Hills town…a regular trip back in time with a main street lined with sandstone buildings that look like something out of an 1800’s movie set. The Fall River runs next to the main road, and the city’s warm springs were the impetus for the several late 19^th century health spa resorts that once lined the river.

When I was younger, I would make an annual summer drive from Los Angeles to Abercrombie, North Dakota, and on the morning of the second day (driving straight through), I would head north from Lusk, Wyoming before turning east on Highway 18 toward  the South Dakota line and into Hot Springs. Just west of the climb into Hot Springs, there is an incredible valley, and as I would make that eastward trek in the morning light, it usually struck me as among the most beautiful spots on earth.

Amazingly, my first cousin Brent purchased about 3,000 acres about ten years ago just south of that very highway…in pretty much the the exact same spot. He still lives in Fergus Falls, Minnesota, but he flies several times a month (especially in the summer) to spend time in the peaceful ranch setting. For the past couple of years, I have been able to make yearly trips out there in the spring and or summer to help with branding (spring) or ride motorcycles (summer) during the Sturgis bike week. For a host of reasons, the time enjoying the Black Hills is always a highlight...and the time logged on horseback or on the bike is therapeutic beyond any words I know how to convey.

It would be nice to pinpoint exactly why the annual excursions are so comforting, but I’m presuming it has something to do with the stability of the area. Whether I ride the Harley across the state through towns like Watertown, Highmore, Pierre, Phillip and Wall or fly directly into Rapid and drive down to the ranch, things always seem pretty much the same. After living in the ever-changing hustle-and-bustle of both coasts, there is just a sense of contentment that comes from the sameness the American West.

After cleaning up from a day of riding, the evening ritual is always the same. Folks saunter out onto the beautiful wooden porch, pour a glass of red wine, sit by the huge stone fireplace and listen to some Texas' swing via the outdoor Bose speakers blaring Willie's Place. Usually my cousin Laurel brings out some fruit and cheese, and after an hour or so Brent usually fires up some Ribeyes (smothered in butter) big enough to clog even the healthiest aorta. After supper we turn off the Sirius radio and I get out the guitar. We typically spend the remainder of the evening singing old country and gospel songs while sipping wine, gazing at stars and enjoying the roaring fire. Later, well after nightfall, when the fingers are raw from picking King of the Road, Folsom Prison Blues, Amazing Grace and the entire two-hour campfire play list, we often sit in silence, listening to the symphony of the outdoors...and the unmistakable soothing sound of our clogging arteries.

If you’ve ever been there, you already know the magic you encounter while driving through this beautiful area. If you haven’t, I truly hope you find time to make a visit someday. There is simply something healing about the Black Hills, and when driving down the two-lane roads you really never know what you might see. Below are a couple of snapshots from the last trip. Yes...the bison are actually that close.

Have a truly wonderful weekend, and whatever you do, please take a little time to do something you truly love.

King of the Road

...and I'm thinking again...about my grandpa's kitchen

About a year ago there was a post here about the kitchen in my grandparents home in Abercrombie, ND. It's not clear why, but for some reason it seemed to resonate with some people who fondly recalled a similar setting from their past. True...part of this post is a retread...but it's not easy coming up with new content every Friday...especially shortly after stumbling out of bed at 4am. So, below is an entry based on that earlier post. It's not exactly the same...but it's close. For those of you that spent any time having breakfast with your grandparents at a farmstead kitchen table (or in any setting for that matter), it might rekindle some memories.
The chipped linoleum on my grandparent’s kitchen floor was off-white as I recall, and it looked as though it had been there since sometime in the 1940s. The counter tops were worn and stained Formica, and I suspect they had been installed about the same time as the flooring.

Across from the radiator on the south side of the room was the American made refrigerator. It too appeared to be from sometime in the 1940s…and at least to me, it seemed to be one of the first post-ice box electrical appliances that actually contained a condenser to refrigerate air. It was white enamel, and judging from the huge chromed latch handle that looked better suited as a hatch on a WWII era submarine and it may have just as well been built by the U.S. Navy. Though I never had to lift it, I suspected it weighed about 1,000 pounds. If you opened the freezer door (on top behind the big door), the actual freezer compartment always appeared to be filled with about 50% frost. On top of the refrigerator was a worn King James bible, and a small monthly daily devotional called "Our Daily Bread."

Immediately to the left of the refrigerator was door to the cellar. I only went down there a handful of times, but the floor was dirt and the cinder block walls were lined with shallow shelving that were full of canning jars. You had to walk down in dark or with a flashlight, because the pull-chain for the dim 60-watt bulb was at the bottom of the stairs. The dank room seemed pretty gross to me, and I was always amazed when someone would venture down there to fetch a jar of canned peaches or some such so that we might have fruit for our noontime dinner...late-afternoon lunch or maybe in the evening for supper.

Behind the back door over by the staircase that went to a storage room above the kitchen, were a couple of old cans, hanging winter barn coats and some old rifles leaning against the wall. One of those guns was a loaded 410 shotgun that my grandparents used to keep by the door at the farm. It was handy to have ready in the event that a pheasant appeared or a wild turkey sauntered by...but that was about all. That gun sat there for at least 40 plus years (probably longer), and to my knowledge nobody ever got a hankering to take it to a cafe, post office, school or to the local movie house...or anywhere where they'd do anything but target practice or hunt. That 410 (unloaded) hangs in the basement of my home now...and an ocassional glance at it is always reminder of a much simpler time.

In the center of the room, between the refrigerator and the radiator, the four-seat kitchen table had a Formica top with a metal band around the perimeter. The table's chairs were metal too, with plastic seat cushions. In all my years visiting that house, from sometime in the 1960s until the early 1990s, I don't believe that table ever changed.

The Table

Growing up in Los Angeles, I wasn’t there for every breakfast at that North Dakota table, but every morning I was, the ritual was always exactly the same. The menu didn’t vary much. It was usually some variation of fried eggs cooked in bacon grease, some type of meat (usually bacon), piles of white toast (usually Wonder bread), and slabs of real Land O’ Lakes butter. Slabs. The coffee was made by pouring the coffee grounds directly into the boiling water. There was always real cream and a bowl of sugar cubes on the table, and my grandpa would pour his coffee onto the saucer (to let it cool) and slurp it off the small dish... often while sucking on a sugar cube.

No Whole Grain Here

Once we were done eating, grandpa would fetch the old bible and the daily devotional from the top of the refrigerator. In all the days I was in that house, I don’t ever recall him missing this daily routine. He would read the assigned short simple lesson from the pamphlet, and then recite a couple of bible passages from the associated scripture. After that, he would slap the bible shut and enthusiastically pray in a thick a thick Swedish accent. Every day until she passed away, he would ask for relief for my ailing grandmother, and usually request some help to ensure a bountiful harvest. On the days I was there, he would almost always include thanks for the visit and appeal for my safe return trip home. In my mind’s eye, I can see us all sitting there like it was yesterday.

As for me, I don’t remember the last time I even looked at a bible. To be honest, I’m not sure where that prized book I received in confirmation even is. I know I’ve looked up some verses up electronically for some teaching that I do (looking up the Golden Rule and such), but that was all online. I may have picked up a large print bible in a Barnes and Noble a few years ago but that was only to get a sense of how it might work as a Christmas present for my mom. Other than the gospel music I play occasionally with a buddy at a bar in Old Town now and then, I really have almost no remaining connection to the devotion that was so central to my grandfather’s life...and once so central to mine.

What’s all this mean? Well, if you’ve been reading this for any length of time, you know better than to presume I know. I really don't have a clue other than I heard this morning’s song on Pandora earlier in the week, and I guess it just got me to thinking about that kitchen table. As I get older and find my self reminiscing, it's always about times like these and seldom ever about work.

Whatever you’re doing the next two days, try to make it a truly wonderful weekend. If you can, steal away some time and do something that counts with your family and friends. At the end of the line, these will be the times that matter most.

There's a family bible on the table
The Song