The Wisdom of Giuseppe

“Excuse me,” he said. “Can you make the type bigger and darker?” The Italian accent was as thick as the night sky out the window of flight #652 from San Francisco to Denver, and the smile was uniquely warm. An inquisitive energy danced from his well-lined eyes.

He gestured toward my Kindle®, and said it again, “Can you make the type bigger and darker?”

“You can,” I answered, and showed him, with four flicks of my thumb just how big and dark I could make it. His eyes danced again.

“I’m Steve,” I offered.

“Giuseppe. My name is Giuseppe,” he replied, with a warm handshake and one of those smiles that sent a clear message that my life had just been impacted.

It was 5:55 PM on the last day of yet another business trip. My journey would, I hoped, in spite of the predictable January snowstorm in the Great Lakes, take me home to my beautiful wife and The Three Who Will Not Be Tamed. Giuseppe’s journey, I would learn, began long before we boarded the plane and would take him on a less predictable path, indeed.

“I’m a sailor,” he smiled. “I’ve been considering one of those,” he added, with another gesture toward my eReader. “But I didn’t know if the type could be made bigger and darker, and please, tell me, how will I get my books when I am on the ocean?”

He went on to tell me that after thirty or forty years of serving as “skipper” on “big boats” for wealthy boat owners “the insurance companies, when I turn (sic) 75, they don’t think I can be skipper – that the risks are too high.” Without a hint of resentment or sadness in his voice, he continued, “I’ve been a sailor my whole life, and now I sail my own boat.”

38 feet, in case you’re wondering. Open sea. From one side of the globe to the other -- Cabo San Lucas, Mexico back home to Sorrento, Italy. “On a clear day, I can see the island of Capri from my home,” he told me. The still-sparking eyes wandered for a moment, and I thought, almost out-loud, “you can see it from seat #3A somewhere over Colorado, too, can’t you, Giuseppe?”

On most trips like his, even the most seasoned captains go through the Panama Canal. For this journey, he would take “the long way,” around the Magellan Strait. In a 38-foot boat. On the open sea. At age 78. The “long way.”

He shared with me the sadness and regret of “not seeing his four children grow up,” yet he reveled in the fact that his two grandchildren wanted to be sailors. He told me that his wife had been on the boat “one time,” but that “she no like the boat. I try. Maybe I try too hard,” he said, matter of factly.

He was flying to visit his physicians, making sure his rugged, almost eight-decade-old human vessel was ready to captain his sleek, twin-mast sailing vessel across the world. And then, with one deck hand (two for the Magellan Strait), he would set sail.

There are moments when you know your life has changed forever. In seat # 3C, on Flight #652, I had one of those moments. I am not sure how it changed, nor why. I simply know that Giuseppe’s life intersected mine at such a time and in such a way that I will never forget, and hopefully in such a way that at some time, before it is too late, I will understand.

We exchanged e-mail addresses. “I get bored on the boat,” he shared with me, “and it is good to hear from friends.”

I get "bored on the boat," too, Giuseppe. And I am proud and lucky to be called “friend.” I hope that The Three will be luckier for our meeting, too. I’m not a sailor, but I recall that the safest passage is for those who follow the charts provided by the skippers who rode the waves before us.

Godspeed, Giuseppe. May the winds be fresh and always at your back, and may there be plenty of clear days to gaze out at the island of Capri when you arrive back home.

Do You Count All The Dice In Yahtzee!?

Our oldest is getting skeptical. Combine that with the fact that she's astoundingly inquisitive, anyway, and I'm thinkin' her mom and I are going to have to really be on our toes.

"Mom, this letter from Santa looks like your handwriting," she pouted. (It wasn't. Seriously, it wasn't.)

So, we do our best to answer truthfully and in a context that makes sense for a fourth grader, and, for now, we just have to show her that as long as there is joy in giving, that there will always be a Santa Claus.

And with this daugther, there will always be questions.

She'll be ten soon, this one. Since she could talk, she's been on world-record questioning pace. "Why?" questions. "What?" questions. "How?" questions. And, since she could ask them, she's actually listened to the answers, and she formulates the next question off the answer to the first one. Unless, of course, you don't answer the first one fast enough, then she has no choice but to go on without you.

Balancing the pride I feel for this inquisitive young mind with the fact that her energy peaks every day at about the same time mine wanes is a challenge that I don't often enough answer with my best foot forward, but I am proud of her inquiring mind, nonetheless. She might be a great researcher someday. She might be a great sales pro. She might be a great journalist. She might just be inquisitive for the sake of wanting to know. Heck, she could end up knowing more trivia than Cliff Clavin did on Cheers.

The Santa questions are to be expected. So are the Jesus questions. "Dad, if some people don't believe in Jesus, how can they celebrate Christmas? Shouldn't they still have to go to school and to work Friday, and why should they get presents if they don't believe?" Every night during devotional time, or Bible time, or Nancy Drew time, or talk time, there are at least a dozen questions. My job is to do better at realizing they're all important to the asker, and to try to answer in some way that helps her continue to be comfortable asking. That's harder than it should be, but I am really working at it.

It is late as I type this post, and as I burn some midnight oil to get some work done before the Christmas holiday -- I was startled when she just wobbled downstairs to tell me she couldn't sleep. "Why not, honey?" I asked her. "Dad, I just can't remember if you have to count all five dice in Yahtzee or not! Do you?" she asked me.

I walked her back up to bed, kissed her good night again and said, "Sometimes Daddy has trouble sleeping because I can't get a question out of my mind, too," I told her.

"You should go to sleep, Dad," she replied. "You have to go to work early in the morning. I'm just a kid, and we don't have school tomorrow. But when you get home tomorrow, can you explain to me how sometimes you count them all and sometimes you don't?"

Yes, you sweet little girl, I can. And, thanks for asking.

I pray that when the really important questions pop in to that beautiful little noggin, that she'll still want to ask her mother and me, and that we'll roll a Yahtzee! with our answers.

Seth Godin Makes Me Better

If you haven't heard of Seth Godin, go to Barnes & Noble or Amazon and buy every one of his books. Do it now.

They're not all great books, but they all contain some great thoughts.

Check out www.sethgodin.com and just troll through some of the blog posts. They're short. 80% of them apply to something you're thinking or doing. 50% of those are "Aha!" moments. You don't even have to be in marketing to "get" him, you just have to be alive, awake and at least partially alert. Check that, if you're not alert, he'll get your attention within a few days.

I met Seth for the one and only time a few years back when he spoke to a bunch of our customers (at a previous career stop). It was shortly after Purple Cow was published, and I found him to be laser focused and intensely likable -- in less than a minute, I realized I was in the presence of someone who made a difference.

There was a country song years back (was it Aaron Tippin?) that insisted, "you've got to stand for something or you'll fall for anything..." Seth Godin stands for some things. He stands for common sense. He stands for courage in business. He stands for openness and intensity.

Seth Godin make me think.

Seth Godin makes me better.

Thanks, Seth.

Chapter II: Should have listened to Tom Petty and trusted God

"...every day you see one more card; you take it on faith, you take it to the heart..."

If I'd have known that all I needed to do was post an outpouring of emotional googly mooggly on my blog for things to move forward, I'd o' did it weeks ago, fer cryin' out loud.

Every day you do see one more card. Shame on me for doubting The Dealer.

Don't get me wrong, I don't suck any less at balance or waiting -- I just have yet one more reminder that I don't get it, and that God placed me here primarily for his own amusement. Seriously, in high school, we put the fire hydrant in "Driz's" locker every morning for our entire senior year. That's what I must be like for God. Unsuspecting. A willing puppet for the show. Show up in the morning, open the locker door and, "Crap! It happened again..."

At least I feel better. It is all about me, right? Oh, wait. THAT's the problem. Now I get it. Sort of. Or not.

So, we take it on faith....ooooops, make that Faith, with an upper case "F"...and we take it to the heart -- the waiting is just part....and when we trust, that's the part with the payoff.

Tom Petty, The Rolling Stones, God and My Biggest Weak Spot

Tom Petty sang "...the waiting is the hardest part." Mick and the boys sang that "...time is on my side."

Petty was right. Jagger was "maximizing the recreational pharmaceuticals" of the era.

As a person of faith, I know that "waiting on the Lord" is part of what we are called to do. I also know that we were blessed with brains, the ability (and the expectation?) to reason, and the skills, in some cases, to influence outcomes. All are, by design, in conflict, and I know that trust and wisdom are the keys to unleashing the best of the lot. Wisdom comes from getting kicked in the boys with an alarming regularity, and trust is the belief that someday, somehow, the kick won't come...if we are discerning and thoughtful in our "waiting." Trust. Wisdom. Patience. Discernment. Faith.

Balance is the problem.

Balance has always been my problem. I tend to have two speeds. "Go," and "Wish I was going."

These, I have learned are tools in God's arsenal for His own amusement. "Look," He says. "Heston is doing it again. He really cracks Me up." I've remarked in these pages and in countless conversations that I quit praying for patience, because I didn't like the way He answered. I'm wondering if I can get a waiver on balance, too.

Balance is the challenge.

I tend to be either an all-world Dad, or a really crappy one, sometimes within seconds of each other. I tend to be either a really good spouse or an awful one, sometimes in the same second. I'd like to think I am a pretty consistent friend, but there are days when I can really feel that I "get it," and other days when I lament the letter I should have written, the phone call I should have made or the listening I didn't do. All or nothing. Balance has left the building.

The same goes in my hobbies. I once made an eagle and three birdies at Whistling Straits, only to shoot a 92. My caddie suggested I quit. I love him, but he's such a smart ass!

I once had a really awesome wine collection, which has evolved in to 65 bottles I can't drink yet and about 30 that I should have drunk months ago -- along with about 20 that no one should drink -- ever.

My lawn used to be my pride and joy. Now, my 15-year-old neighbor kid does it. Better than I did.

As life has dealt me some interesting hands the past four or five months, I find myself facing the same challenge. Balance. I find myself kicking it like Bill Buckner did that ground ball, or like Chris Webber did that time out in the Final Four.

Maybe I am getting better at it and don't realize it. Maybe I am getting worse at it and don't realize it. Maybe I'm just dumber than a bag full o' hammers -- and, I think I am starting to realize that.

It all really does work out the way it's supposed to, and I should be less surprised and offended that I have no idea how it's supposed to work out. I would be....if I could just get this balance thing down.

"Choke" On This! Tiger Woods and Badger Suspensions

I wanted to be a sportswriter, English teacher and coach.

The more I see of sports journalism today, the more glad I am that a different path presented itself.

First, the term "sports journalism" should rarely be used. Frank DeFord, Rick Reilly, David Feherty and a few others "get it," and understand that the performers they cover play their games at a level that most folks simply can't relate to, and when I say "most" I mean all but one-tenth of one-tenth of one percent of anyone who's ever played whichever game is in question.

Jay Moriarti and others are offering their blogs, quips and shots this morning that Tiger Woods "choked."

I might throw up.

The same dorks say the Buffalo Bills choked. Granted making four consecutive Super Bowls is pretty rarefied air, but some dope who's never been able to run 40-yards, let alone a 40-yard-dash in under 5 seconds thinks he's qualified to call them "chokers." Some just say the Bills' kicker choked. These are the same guys who can't kick their dogs -- but who probably try -- out of frustration for the fact that they are wanna-be's who look for any angle to drag people down to make themselves feel better.

Phil Mickelson is not a choker. Greg Norman is not a choker. Bill Buckner is not a choker. And, while I am not a huge fan of one Eldrick "Tiger" Woods, I can guaran-danged-tee you he did not choke away the 91st PGA Championship yesterday. Y.E. Yang shot the best score of the day. He chipped in from off the green for an eagle. He hit a miraculous shot on 18, and then calmly rolled in the putt for a three-shot win over the world's #1 player. Tiger lost. He didn't choke. Y. E. Yang won. He played better. Tiger is still the #1 player in the world, and the favorite to win the FedEx Cup and any tournament he enters. He just lost once. End of story.

At what point did we lose sight of the fact that sometimes people win because they deserve to? At what point did we start considering sports figures to be some type of Messiahs and find it necessary to pontificate on their every swing, step, throw or tackle as if the world hung in the balance?

At what point did we fall out of touch with the idea that in sports, life and business, that someone wins and someone loses, and that the result doesn't, outside the context of that game or match, make them a winner or a loser?

At what point did we start to teach kids, young athletes in particular, that they're somehow above the rules and that they're entitled to the best of everything -- a condition that I see as an extension of the whole out-of-balance / out-of-context focus from people who report on and write about sports?

And, unfortunately, too many people apply the same flawed thinking to the raising of their kids.

Two University of Wisconsin football players got suspended last week, and their parents are running to the AD, hiring lawyers and trying to force their kids' way back on the team. One of the fathers made some smart-ass remark about "Maybe this is how they do it in Iowa..." (Coach Bielema began his career at Iowa, and still wears a Hawkeye tattoo...). My black-and-gold loyalties made me consider that the dad in question might be an idiot, but what proved the theory to me was the fact that he's throwing a fit to get his kid put back in to an organization that wanted him out, at least for the time being.

Wisconsin's liberal leanings permeate most of the activities in the state. Our 6-year-old played on a baseball team this year where there were no "outs," no score was kept and no matter how far you hit the ball, you could only advance one base. "We don't want the less talented kids to get their feelings hurt," one of the program organizers told me.

That program organizer "choked." The parents of the Badger football players are choking, and if the attorneys take this case, they'll be choking. If athletic staff at UW caves in and forces the team to take back two guys that have been suspended because they didn't do what's expected of everyone else on the team, then they'll be choking, too.

Now, if the two players say, "We screwed up. We'll take our lumps and try to earn our way back on the team," then they start to swing the universe back in to balance. Those guys will grow up a little bit this summer, and they'll be better prepared for the real world. Heck, if they do that, I know of a company that likes to hire people with that kind of maturity, just in case their dads can't sue to get them in to the NFL.

Iowa

Last week I was back in Iowa for a day or so. Somehow, no matter how long I live away, it will always be "home."

Granted my trip was to deliver a eulogy for a beloved uncle who, at 86, succumbed to cancer and re-joined his wife, daughter and son-in-law, as well as my parents and other family members in Heaven, but still, I was home.

There was a time when weddings brought us together. Festive but hectic times that seemed to pass too quickly, and involve too much hub-bub. Now, funerals are the gathering call, and they're coming too quickly. Still, the pace at times like these allow us to talk; to be together and to celebrate the lives that many of us left in a hurry, but that some of us miss more each day. Yeah, I was home.

It's been dang near 30 years, but most of what I saw was as it should be -- a lot like it was 30 years ago. The only big change was that the highway through town has been replaced by a highway around town. But all the locally-operated stores had started to disappear when the big box stores came in, anyway.

My Little League coach, who runs the funeral home, is still the same great guy he was when I was ten-years-old. My basketball coach sounds the same. The farm looks the same; taller trees, worn buildings, but it's all there, right where it should be. My sister and brother-in-law were there, and all my cousins. Through the tears of loss, there was the comfort of being together. Of being home.

It's funny how I didn't worry about a bank failing, or about a revenue forecast, or about expense measures while I was there. I worried about the great-grandchildren, who didn't understand why "Papa" had died, but I also relished in their ability to bounce back, and the wide-eyed wonder that kids that age exhibit at some things we think are routine. It's funny how I didn't keep reaching for the BlackBerry, and how we sat up Friday night until 2 AM talking about family stuff, not once thinking, "Man! I gotta get to bed so I can be at the office by 6:00!"

There are places on this earth that order is the rule, and where comfort is the standard condition. There are places on this earth where the people are as good and honest and trustworthy as the day is long. There are places on this earth that just feel "right."

Iowa is one of them.

It was good to be home.