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.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Friday, December 4, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, August 17, 2009
"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.
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.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Normalcy, Schmormalcy!
The countdown to normalcy has begun. By Wednesday, I should be driving short distances. By August 3rd, I'll be back to work. By Labor Day, back to full duty, including airplanes and hotels, although hopefully in more manageable doses. So, that's what "normal" has begun to look like through my particular set of filters.
All this has got me thinking about the whole concept of "normalcy," and I have decided there just "ain't no such a thing," as Dad would have said.
Maybe normal is what we get used to. The Three all say I "look different" without the cervical collar I've worn since breaking my neck three months ago. The Three say that it will "be different" when I can play catch with them or do more than walk stiffly along the street with them while they dart this way and that. My wife, God bless her, has likely begun to think that me being no help at all around the house is "normal," and I can't wait to disprove that theory, now that my lifting limit is a whopping 20 pounds, and now that I might be able to drive myself a bit by later this week, after 13 weeks of the "Smokin' Hot Wife Taxi Cab Service" being my only means of being any where other than right here in The 'Burg.
Maybe normal is what others expect. Actually, since this is me, let's not even consider that, since the thought has simply never, in my memory, crossed my mind. I really couldn't care less what someone else thinks, so we'll blow right past that one...
Maybe normal is what society imposes. I hope not, especially in light of where society is headed. Explaining to The Three that college is going to be really hard 'cause Daddy and all of Daddy's generation are in the process of being taxed to hell and back isn't, and shouldn't be, normal. Or should it be? No where is it written that life will be without trials, or that those trials might not be inflicted by those to whom power has been entrusted. (Hmmmmm, perhaps a post on "power" lies in the future...?)
Maybe normal isn't really normal at all. Remember Pleasantville or The Truman Show?
So, with our six-year-old defending his club championship this week, our 9-year-old auditioning for one of America's top children's theatre programs and our 3-year-old convinced that The Potty still deserves Jelly Beans and that every day calls for her prettiest dress -- maybe my job as a dad....as their dad, is to listen, and to let them know that all they can do is all they can do. Maybe "normal," as The Three will define it, should come to be defined as doing their best, every time, and being completely at peace with the outcome -- as long as they did their best. Maybe my job is to create a "normal" where Daddy's more tolerant than he usually is, and to make sure that they are comfortable in their own skins, doing their own things.
Maybe normal lies within the confines of each family's interaction with each other, and with their God. And maybe that's more than ok -- more than "normal."
Maybe that really is the best that we can do.
All this has got me thinking about the whole concept of "normalcy," and I have decided there just "ain't no such a thing," as Dad would have said.
Maybe normal is what we get used to. The Three all say I "look different" without the cervical collar I've worn since breaking my neck three months ago. The Three say that it will "be different" when I can play catch with them or do more than walk stiffly along the street with them while they dart this way and that. My wife, God bless her, has likely begun to think that me being no help at all around the house is "normal," and I can't wait to disprove that theory, now that my lifting limit is a whopping 20 pounds, and now that I might be able to drive myself a bit by later this week, after 13 weeks of the "Smokin' Hot Wife Taxi Cab Service" being my only means of being any where other than right here in The 'Burg.
Maybe normal is what others expect. Actually, since this is me, let's not even consider that, since the thought has simply never, in my memory, crossed my mind. I really couldn't care less what someone else thinks, so we'll blow right past that one...
Maybe normal is what society imposes. I hope not, especially in light of where society is headed. Explaining to The Three that college is going to be really hard 'cause Daddy and all of Daddy's generation are in the process of being taxed to hell and back isn't, and shouldn't be, normal. Or should it be? No where is it written that life will be without trials, or that those trials might not be inflicted by those to whom power has been entrusted. (Hmmmmm, perhaps a post on "power" lies in the future...?)
Maybe normal isn't really normal at all. Remember Pleasantville or The Truman Show?
So, with our six-year-old defending his club championship this week, our 9-year-old auditioning for one of America's top children's theatre programs and our 3-year-old convinced that The Potty still deserves Jelly Beans and that every day calls for her prettiest dress -- maybe my job as a dad....as their dad, is to listen, and to let them know that all they can do is all they can do. Maybe "normal," as The Three will define it, should come to be defined as doing their best, every time, and being completely at peace with the outcome -- as long as they did their best. Maybe my job is to create a "normal" where Daddy's more tolerant than he usually is, and to make sure that they are comfortable in their own skins, doing their own things.
Maybe normal lies within the confines of each family's interaction with each other, and with their God. And maybe that's more than ok -- more than "normal."
Maybe that really is the best that we can do.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Anticipation
My wife calls me the "King of Anticipation." She does not intend it to be a compliment.
Now, look, not only is it hard for me to title a post after a freakin' Carly Simon song, let alone one that conjures up memories of an ad for ketchup, but to publicly acknowledge that my wife is correct in this critique, well...
I'm pretty sure it was Thomas Jefferson who said, "Our disappointments in life are almost always tied to our expectations, and almost never to our circumstances." (It was either him or one of my early dates, but I digress...)
Checking the list of circumstances: I know the surgery was "successful." I know the incision isn't infected. I know that I can't work yet, but that I can't play with the kids or swing a golf club either. My circumstances, candidly, aren't all that bad, despite all the incredible friends and family who keep sending their support, their well wishes and saying, "I am really sorry this happened to you..."
Perhaps, if my circumstances ain't that dire, some of the expectations ought to come under the microscope. My own expectations -- for a full, fast, complete recovery -- one that allows me to salvage not only some of the summer with the kids, but to give my wife back enough of her summer (they are danged short here, let me tell you) that she gets to enjoy some sunshine before the hectic school year starts back up. My kids -- "Daddy, when will / can you pick me up again?" "Daddy, when can we play golf together?" Daddy, when can we go to see Grandmas and Aunts and Uncles...?"
Other expectations, and some of the questions they beg, creep in to the anticipatory mind, too.
How aggressive can I be in addressing the changes that have occurred in the three months I've been away from work? How much of what I've envisioned as the industry has continued to change radically will I be able to implement, and how quickly? In general, both physically, culturally and mentally, how much will I have to pace myself? When can I travel again, and how much am I willing to be gone?
As my wife tells me, "you just don't know the answers, so let it happen." As my Faith tells me, it's all part of a plan, and the hard part for dopes like me is balancing the use of our gifts and talents within the plans of He who gave them to us in the first place. (I joke that I quit praying for patience, because I didn't like the way God answered those prayers...)
All joking aside, I am comfortable with my circumstances. I broke my neck. Big deal. I could have died or been paralyzed. I could be in a dramatically more difficult place than I am, physically and in all other aspects. In short, I have it better than 99.9765% of the people on the planet so if I'm disappointed, them shame on me.
If our disappointments stem more from what we expect than from what we encounter, and I believe they do, here's to working harder to remember what blessings I have, and to applying the wisdom, ability and resources available to me to make the most of what comes next -- whatever it might be.
Now, look, not only is it hard for me to title a post after a freakin' Carly Simon song, let alone one that conjures up memories of an ad for ketchup, but to publicly acknowledge that my wife is correct in this critique, well...
I'm pretty sure it was Thomas Jefferson who said, "Our disappointments in life are almost always tied to our expectations, and almost never to our circumstances." (It was either him or one of my early dates, but I digress...)
Checking the list of circumstances: I know the surgery was "successful." I know the incision isn't infected. I know that I can't work yet, but that I can't play with the kids or swing a golf club either. My circumstances, candidly, aren't all that bad, despite all the incredible friends and family who keep sending their support, their well wishes and saying, "I am really sorry this happened to you..."
Perhaps, if my circumstances ain't that dire, some of the expectations ought to come under the microscope. My own expectations -- for a full, fast, complete recovery -- one that allows me to salvage not only some of the summer with the kids, but to give my wife back enough of her summer (they are danged short here, let me tell you) that she gets to enjoy some sunshine before the hectic school year starts back up. My kids -- "Daddy, when will / can you pick me up again?" "Daddy, when can we play golf together?" Daddy, when can we go to see Grandmas and Aunts and Uncles...?"
Other expectations, and some of the questions they beg, creep in to the anticipatory mind, too.
How aggressive can I be in addressing the changes that have occurred in the three months I've been away from work? How much of what I've envisioned as the industry has continued to change radically will I be able to implement, and how quickly? In general, both physically, culturally and mentally, how much will I have to pace myself? When can I travel again, and how much am I willing to be gone?
As my wife tells me, "you just don't know the answers, so let it happen." As my Faith tells me, it's all part of a plan, and the hard part for dopes like me is balancing the use of our gifts and talents within the plans of He who gave them to us in the first place. (I joke that I quit praying for patience, because I didn't like the way God answered those prayers...)
All joking aside, I am comfortable with my circumstances. I broke my neck. Big deal. I could have died or been paralyzed. I could be in a dramatically more difficult place than I am, physically and in all other aspects. In short, I have it better than 99.9765% of the people on the planet so if I'm disappointed, them shame on me.
If our disappointments stem more from what we expect than from what we encounter, and I believe they do, here's to working harder to remember what blessings I have, and to applying the wisdom, ability and resources available to me to make the most of what comes next -- whatever it might be.
Friday, June 19, 2009
If Some Boxers Are Punch Drunk...
...Barbara Boxer might be the drunkest. And I'm not sure she's ever taken a shot to the chin.
(That long pause you're hearing is discretion making it's all too rare visit to my thought process... Rest assured that before this post hits, several hundred characters will have hit this page, been deleted, re-typed and been deleted yet again...)
"Could you say 'senator' instead of 'ma'am?' " Boxer (D-CA) remarked recently to Brigadier General Michael Walsh. Walsh was testifying at a hearing that Boxer was chairing on the levees in New Orleans. "It's just a thing," she babbled on. "I worked so hard to get that title. I'd appreciate it."
(Long pause again. Wondering if I shouldn't just pick a different topic.)
Oh, how I wish the Brigadier General would have gone all "A Few Good Men" on her sorry, useless behind and said, "Right, you arrogant heap who disgraces our very form of government, and why don't you call me General, because I actually did have to work hard to earn that title."
I grew up on a farm. I have first-hand experience with hard work. I've noticed that it is often preceded by hard and thorough thought. In fact, very few people who work hard do so without realizing it. All too many, Barbara Boxer among them, mistake hard work for things that oh, like, aren't hard. People like Barbara Boxer have mistakenly come upon the perception that they matter; let alone that they matter more than anyone else.
My greatest fear is that unless we somehow correct the trend we face today, that the Barbara Boxer's and Nancy Pelosi's of the world will unduly impact my children's futures. I know they've already spent the money I've worked so hard to earn to educate and provide for them; my fear is that they will lower the bar on decorum so dramatically that somehow one of these generations will get the idea that laziness and misinformation are adequate perspectives from which to govern, or simply from which to decide. Heaven forbid that one of my daughters will consider Barbara Boxer a role model.
At least I can use Boxer as an example of how not to display proper manners. We've taught our kids that "Yes, Ma'am," and "No, Ma'am," are terms of respect. Sadly, respect is a topic that Barbara Boxer can't relate to, understand or recognize, even when it's aimed in her direction. Perhaps she's just that uncomfortable due to the realization that she hasn't earned it...or much of anything else, for that matter.
(That long pause you're hearing is discretion making it's all too rare visit to my thought process... Rest assured that before this post hits, several hundred characters will have hit this page, been deleted, re-typed and been deleted yet again...)
"Could you say 'senator' instead of 'ma'am?' " Boxer (D-CA) remarked recently to Brigadier General Michael Walsh. Walsh was testifying at a hearing that Boxer was chairing on the levees in New Orleans. "It's just a thing," she babbled on. "I worked so hard to get that title. I'd appreciate it."
(Long pause again. Wondering if I shouldn't just pick a different topic.)
Oh, how I wish the Brigadier General would have gone all "A Few Good Men" on her sorry, useless behind and said, "Right, you arrogant heap who disgraces our very form of government, and why don't you call me General, because I actually did have to work hard to earn that title."
I grew up on a farm. I have first-hand experience with hard work. I've noticed that it is often preceded by hard and thorough thought. In fact, very few people who work hard do so without realizing it. All too many, Barbara Boxer among them, mistake hard work for things that oh, like, aren't hard. People like Barbara Boxer have mistakenly come upon the perception that they matter; let alone that they matter more than anyone else.
My greatest fear is that unless we somehow correct the trend we face today, that the Barbara Boxer's and Nancy Pelosi's of the world will unduly impact my children's futures. I know they've already spent the money I've worked so hard to earn to educate and provide for them; my fear is that they will lower the bar on decorum so dramatically that somehow one of these generations will get the idea that laziness and misinformation are adequate perspectives from which to govern, or simply from which to decide. Heaven forbid that one of my daughters will consider Barbara Boxer a role model.
At least I can use Boxer as an example of how not to display proper manners. We've taught our kids that "Yes, Ma'am," and "No, Ma'am," are terms of respect. Sadly, respect is a topic that Barbara Boxer can't relate to, understand or recognize, even when it's aimed in her direction. Perhaps she's just that uncomfortable due to the realization that she hasn't earned it...or much of anything else, for that matter.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
The "Secretariat" of Spouses
There is a legend in sports that Secretariat's heart weighed 22 pounds. The "average" horse's heart weighs only about 8 pounds.
In other words, the legendary 1973 Triple Crown winner-by-a-rout had nearly three times the heart of most horses.
No one has weighed my wife's heart yet. I doubt they'll ever have reason to do so. For the record, though, just in case you're wonderin' -- actually, whether you're wonderin' or not -- my wife has about five times the heart of your "average" spouse.
One learns a lot about relationships in times of trial. One learns a lot about limits when limits are tested. One learns a lot about what makes them tick when the very "ticking" is drawn in to the gray area, as mine has been of late. After six weeks of caring for me in addition to The Three Who Will Not Be Tamed, and with seven more weeks ahead, including starting over tomorrow after a major surgery, not once has she wavered, not once has she complained, not once has she missed her stride. The kids are lucky to have her as their Mom, but not nearly as lucky as I am to have her as my partner, and as my wife.
Yesterday marked 11 years of marriage. Like most couples, there have been some bumps in the road during those 11 years, but the simple fact of the matter is this:
If I live to be 100 years old, no greater honor will be possible than the honor of being married to my wife.
With prayers for a steady hand on the part of my surgeon, and many years of good health to show my wife how much I appreciate her, I sign off this post knowing that Secretariat had nothing on my wife when it comes to matters of heart.
In other words, the legendary 1973 Triple Crown winner-by-a-rout had nearly three times the heart of most horses.
No one has weighed my wife's heart yet. I doubt they'll ever have reason to do so. For the record, though, just in case you're wonderin' -- actually, whether you're wonderin' or not -- my wife has about five times the heart of your "average" spouse.
One learns a lot about relationships in times of trial. One learns a lot about limits when limits are tested. One learns a lot about what makes them tick when the very "ticking" is drawn in to the gray area, as mine has been of late. After six weeks of caring for me in addition to The Three Who Will Not Be Tamed, and with seven more weeks ahead, including starting over tomorrow after a major surgery, not once has she wavered, not once has she complained, not once has she missed her stride. The kids are lucky to have her as their Mom, but not nearly as lucky as I am to have her as my partner, and as my wife.
Yesterday marked 11 years of marriage. Like most couples, there have been some bumps in the road during those 11 years, but the simple fact of the matter is this:
If I live to be 100 years old, no greater honor will be possible than the honor of being married to my wife.
With prayers for a steady hand on the part of my surgeon, and many years of good health to show my wife how much I appreciate her, I sign off this post knowing that Secretariat had nothing on my wife when it comes to matters of heart.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Time Passes, and Not At My Pace
"Back in the day," our high school baseball games were on Monday and Thursdays. I lived for Mondays and Thursdays. I recall Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday being really long days. Growing up on a farm, we'd watch the weather pretty closely, and if it was supposed to rain on a Monday or Thursday, well, I'd be hard to console -- sometimes three days in advance.
"Don't wish your life away," Dad would say. "The weather might change between now and then, and besides, someday, you'll wish you had all that time back."
I thought he was nuts. Admittedly, as a kid, I often thought he was nuts. Too bad it took 35-some-odd years and pancreatic cancer for me to realize he was the smartest guy I've ever known. (He knew that, too. "It's amazing how wrong I was then, and how right I am now, even though I haven't changed my mind, huh?" he'd say in those last few years before he died...)
I am pretty sure today is Saturday. I am pretty sure that the normal plan would have had me getting in a quick round o' golf with the boys this morning, then meeting Jodi and The Three by the pool. Maybe some lawn work toward day's end and then some decent dinner at a decent spot tonight -- a decent bottle of wine or two -- and home at a decent time for another "normal" day tomorrow.
Normal ain't so normal these days.
Six days post-surgery, I expected to get up, feel better than any of the five days prior, maybe take a couple walks, maybe even take #2 of The Three over for a lesson at the golf course.
Instead, I spent most of the morning in bed, wondering if and hoping that this mix of meds was the right one, and wondering when it was going to feel like I was on the road to recovery, instead of on The Highway to Hell -- which, while a great song on my iPod -- is not so much what I had in mind when I was wishing away all those non-Mondays and Thursdays.
One of those pathetic soap operas that my folks, sister and grandma used to watch was "The Days of Our Lives." "Like sands through the hourglass..." the voice-over before each episode would start, and I'd run, wretching, for a baseball bat or glove, or a bicycle, or anything that got me away from the TV...
But, you know, when Dad was telling me not to wish it away, he was reminding me that our days are like sands through the hourglass....and they pretty much chug along at their pace, not ours. Sometimes, I don't think I get that so well...
Dad "got it." I hope I "get it" more on the other side of this whole episode, and I hope, somehow, I help our kids "get it," before the proverbial 2 x 4 to the side of the noggin' is involved.
"Don't wish your life away," Dad would say. "The weather might change between now and then, and besides, someday, you'll wish you had all that time back."
I thought he was nuts. Admittedly, as a kid, I often thought he was nuts. Too bad it took 35-some-odd years and pancreatic cancer for me to realize he was the smartest guy I've ever known. (He knew that, too. "It's amazing how wrong I was then, and how right I am now, even though I haven't changed my mind, huh?" he'd say in those last few years before he died...)
I am pretty sure today is Saturday. I am pretty sure that the normal plan would have had me getting in a quick round o' golf with the boys this morning, then meeting Jodi and The Three by the pool. Maybe some lawn work toward day's end and then some decent dinner at a decent spot tonight -- a decent bottle of wine or two -- and home at a decent time for another "normal" day tomorrow.
Normal ain't so normal these days.
Six days post-surgery, I expected to get up, feel better than any of the five days prior, maybe take a couple walks, maybe even take #2 of The Three over for a lesson at the golf course.
Instead, I spent most of the morning in bed, wondering if and hoping that this mix of meds was the right one, and wondering when it was going to feel like I was on the road to recovery, instead of on The Highway to Hell -- which, while a great song on my iPod -- is not so much what I had in mind when I was wishing away all those non-Mondays and Thursdays.
One of those pathetic soap operas that my folks, sister and grandma used to watch was "The Days of Our Lives." "Like sands through the hourglass..." the voice-over before each episode would start, and I'd run, wretching, for a baseball bat or glove, or a bicycle, or anything that got me away from the TV...
But, you know, when Dad was telling me not to wish it away, he was reminding me that our days are like sands through the hourglass....and they pretty much chug along at their pace, not ours. Sometimes, I don't think I get that so well...
Dad "got it." I hope I "get it" more on the other side of this whole episode, and I hope, somehow, I help our kids "get it," before the proverbial 2 x 4 to the side of the noggin' is involved.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
American Idol: A New Perspective From A TV Curmudgeon
Yes, I freely admit it. Prior to this season, I thought American Idol was crap. Pure, steamy, unadulterated and icky poo, like 98% of all the other programming on the tube, save for The Golf and Weather Channels.
Along came Kris Allen.
I don't know Kris. I've never met him. A few months back though, I heard of him. A young member of our sales trainee team at work, Katy, was excitedly preparing for her wedding. She was giddy. All her friends were giddy for her. "Tell me about your fiance," I said. "He's the best," she replied, adding that he was still a student at UCA (The University of Central Arkansas), and that he really wanted a career in music somehow, some way.
Yep, fiance, now husband, Kris Allen.
Then, she talked about the stuff she was working on for our company, and the same unbridled enthusiasm came through -- perhaps not as intently as when she was talking about Kris, their new apartment, the wedding and the pending excitement around all that. Ours is a company full of wonderful people. Talented, hard-working, dedicated, caring -- they're the reason we win. And, this young class -- the Katy Allen's and Dana Lund's of the world, well they secure us for the future... Even as I've become more cynical than I ever intended to, I remember that morning, thinking, wow, these are some really talented young people in this row of cubes -- and Katy, one of the two "new kids on the block," fit the bill -- in fact, she was gonna be one of the really good ones.
So, along comes American Idol. My wife loves it. Our nine-year-old, oldest of The Three, who loves music and the stage, really got in to it. One of the contestants was from a church right here in MKE. "Oh, and, hey, I wonder if there's any chance that that young kid from Arkansas is Katy's husband..." I thought.
Whodda thunkit?
Long story short, I don't like the tag "Idol," and I think the show is somewhat over-baked, but what I know now that I didn't before is that there's a young lady I've met who's living a once-in-a-lifetime beginning to a once-for-a-lifetime marriage. There's a handsome young man from Conway, AR, USA, who's dad isn't afraid for the whole world to see how proud he is of him. I also believe that his dad's pride in him is exactly the same as it was before the show. You get a feel for true quality that penetrates even cynics like me. There's a young guy in Milwaukee who finished third, but now has a whole new means of honoring his late wife -- not just with his talent, but with the stage that's been provided by this show. My wife and daughter watch it together, and my daughter asks us what we think, and we talk about it together.
So, some weeks later, I am a fan. I watch it now. It's fun. It might still be crap, but for the people whose lives have been changed, I bet their arguments to the contrary are much deeper than my suspicion of crappiness. In an era without a "M*A*S*H*," or a "Cheers," or even a "Seinfeld" or "Friends," and with the exception of CBS' Golf Coverage with David Feherty and Gary McCord, it's by far the best thing on TV.
I hope Kris wins, and not just because I have a "connection." He reminds me of Phil Mickelson (see an earlier post to this blog), in that he clearly knows he's blessed, he knows he's talented, but he doesn't think that makes him special, and every time he opens his mouth, his dad has reason to be proud of him. I also hope Kris wins because Adam, despite being a wildly talented artist himself, just feels to me like Todd Marinovich with eye-liner, and I like the understated manner of Kris and the Family Allen more.
I also keep hearing Katy's voice in my head. "He's the best. He'd really like to have a career in music..."
Clearly, he will, and I bet he would have, even without American Idol. And I bet his wife still turns out to be one of our best, if she wants to.
Along came Kris Allen.
I don't know Kris. I've never met him. A few months back though, I heard of him. A young member of our sales trainee team at work, Katy, was excitedly preparing for her wedding. She was giddy. All her friends were giddy for her. "Tell me about your fiance," I said. "He's the best," she replied, adding that he was still a student at UCA (The University of Central Arkansas), and that he really wanted a career in music somehow, some way.
Yep, fiance, now husband, Kris Allen.
Then, she talked about the stuff she was working on for our company, and the same unbridled enthusiasm came through -- perhaps not as intently as when she was talking about Kris, their new apartment, the wedding and the pending excitement around all that. Ours is a company full of wonderful people. Talented, hard-working, dedicated, caring -- they're the reason we win. And, this young class -- the Katy Allen's and Dana Lund's of the world, well they secure us for the future... Even as I've become more cynical than I ever intended to, I remember that morning, thinking, wow, these are some really talented young people in this row of cubes -- and Katy, one of the two "new kids on the block," fit the bill -- in fact, she was gonna be one of the really good ones.
So, along comes American Idol. My wife loves it. Our nine-year-old, oldest of The Three, who loves music and the stage, really got in to it. One of the contestants was from a church right here in MKE. "Oh, and, hey, I wonder if there's any chance that that young kid from Arkansas is Katy's husband..." I thought.
Whodda thunkit?
Long story short, I don't like the tag "Idol," and I think the show is somewhat over-baked, but what I know now that I didn't before is that there's a young lady I've met who's living a once-in-a-lifetime beginning to a once-for-a-lifetime marriage. There's a handsome young man from Conway, AR, USA, who's dad isn't afraid for the whole world to see how proud he is of him. I also believe that his dad's pride in him is exactly the same as it was before the show. You get a feel for true quality that penetrates even cynics like me. There's a young guy in Milwaukee who finished third, but now has a whole new means of honoring his late wife -- not just with his talent, but with the stage that's been provided by this show. My wife and daughter watch it together, and my daughter asks us what we think, and we talk about it together.
So, some weeks later, I am a fan. I watch it now. It's fun. It might still be crap, but for the people whose lives have been changed, I bet their arguments to the contrary are much deeper than my suspicion of crappiness. In an era without a "M*A*S*H*," or a "Cheers," or even a "Seinfeld" or "Friends," and with the exception of CBS' Golf Coverage with David Feherty and Gary McCord, it's by far the best thing on TV.
I hope Kris wins, and not just because I have a "connection." He reminds me of Phil Mickelson (see an earlier post to this blog), in that he clearly knows he's blessed, he knows he's talented, but he doesn't think that makes him special, and every time he opens his mouth, his dad has reason to be proud of him. I also hope Kris wins because Adam, despite being a wildly talented artist himself, just feels to me like Todd Marinovich with eye-liner, and I like the understated manner of Kris and the Family Allen more.
I also keep hearing Katy's voice in my head. "He's the best. He'd really like to have a career in music..."
Clearly, he will, and I bet he would have, even without American Idol. And I bet his wife still turns out to be one of our best, if she wants to.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Music
I only have about 800 songs on my iPod.
Over 600 of them are great songs.
The other 200 are pretty decent.
There's a lot of Lyle Lovett, not enough Cake, quite a dose of Bob Seger and a healthy ration of Clapton. The Refreshments, from Austin, TX, are well represented and might actually be my favorite band, but I also love The Self Righteous Brothers from Lincoln, NE. Sadly, I recently learned that they are no longer performing. The Rainmakers, who played the college circuit out of Kansas City back in the early 80's show up on my iPod about a half dozen times. Surprising how much Green Day and Toby Keith, too. (There are two artists seldom mentioned in the same sentence, huh?)
Quirky stuff like Leon Redbone and Frank Zappa pops up pretty regularly. There's vintage Hank Williams, and literally dozens of blues standards from B. B. King, John Lee Hooker and all the expected blues greats.
My wife is one of the greatest gift-givers of all time. She hates golf, but she gives great gifts. She doesn't like it that I am gone so much, but she gives great travel gifts. Example: One of the greatest gifts she ever got me was a set of those Bose Noise Cancelling headphones. Even with them, and they rock, with the exception of European or cross-country flights, I'd still get only a couple hours of non-stop music, though. And half the time, I'm working, and the music is just sort of "there."
Not today. Today, with the exception of an hour or so, I've had the iPod playing non-stop. And, with the exception of sorting 12 years of recipes that we've thought "hey, we should make that someday," I've just had the music. Jodi and her mom, and The Youngest of The Three are off to the mall, and it's just me, my neck brace, 2000 loose pieces of paper and about 12% of these 800 songs.
Man, I miss music.
Somewhere along the way, the TV got way too prevalent. The phone rings all the damned time. The BlackBerry pings with a bunch of e-mail that I can't do anything about while I'm on leave. It seems the sheer noise of life is pretty oppressive, and I never realize it until I get a day away from it. And that is simply not often enough.
Aerosmith just followed Patsy Cline, with Stevie Ray, Clapton and The University of Iowa Marching Band after that. I snuck a quick peak and Cake is up next.
Gotta go.
Over 600 of them are great songs.
The other 200 are pretty decent.
There's a lot of Lyle Lovett, not enough Cake, quite a dose of Bob Seger and a healthy ration of Clapton. The Refreshments, from Austin, TX, are well represented and might actually be my favorite band, but I also love The Self Righteous Brothers from Lincoln, NE. Sadly, I recently learned that they are no longer performing. The Rainmakers, who played the college circuit out of Kansas City back in the early 80's show up on my iPod about a half dozen times. Surprising how much Green Day and Toby Keith, too. (There are two artists seldom mentioned in the same sentence, huh?)
Quirky stuff like Leon Redbone and Frank Zappa pops up pretty regularly. There's vintage Hank Williams, and literally dozens of blues standards from B. B. King, John Lee Hooker and all the expected blues greats.
My wife is one of the greatest gift-givers of all time. She hates golf, but she gives great gifts. She doesn't like it that I am gone so much, but she gives great travel gifts. Example: One of the greatest gifts she ever got me was a set of those Bose Noise Cancelling headphones. Even with them, and they rock, with the exception of European or cross-country flights, I'd still get only a couple hours of non-stop music, though. And half the time, I'm working, and the music is just sort of "there."
Not today. Today, with the exception of an hour or so, I've had the iPod playing non-stop. And, with the exception of sorting 12 years of recipes that we've thought "hey, we should make that someday," I've just had the music. Jodi and her mom, and The Youngest of The Three are off to the mall, and it's just me, my neck brace, 2000 loose pieces of paper and about 12% of these 800 songs.
Man, I miss music.
Somewhere along the way, the TV got way too prevalent. The phone rings all the damned time. The BlackBerry pings with a bunch of e-mail that I can't do anything about while I'm on leave. It seems the sheer noise of life is pretty oppressive, and I never realize it until I get a day away from it. And that is simply not often enough.
Aerosmith just followed Patsy Cline, with Stevie Ray, Clapton and The University of Iowa Marching Band after that. I snuck a quick peak and Cake is up next.
Gotta go.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Seeing vs. Hearing
I've heard them all.
Actually, that's not a typo. I literally think I have listened to every kid's movie of note, while The Three Who Will Not Be Tamed watch them on the DVD in the back on our drives to Iowa, or Chicago, or Bay Beach, or where ever, I have heard them all.
So, with a little time to sit on my hands, I've actually watched a couple of them with the youngest of The Three the past week or so.
Amazing quality.
Granted, this is against the backdrop of a trip to Disney, where expectations, selection and training of people create one of those "this is how it ought to be everywhere" experiences, but these animated features are incredibly well done. Even just the cheesy princess movies (it is, after all the two-year old I'm getting the bonding time with) make the ol' Rocky and Bullwinkle reels look pretty shoddy.
Don't get me wrong, I have no problem with The Roadrunner dropping a ton of TNT on Wyle E. Coyote. That was all we had to see, and not once have I, or any of my classmates been tempted to drop explosives on someone -- at least not that we're living up to. Tom and Jerry was funny, too, and Bullwinkle / Dudley Dooright still might be the best cartoon ever -- hard to believe there were only like a dozen episodes ever made. "Must catch Moose and Squirrel," in a quality Boris Badanoff accent is good for a laugh in most any context...
Today, and over the past fifteen years or so, The Simpson's is probably the best example of really incredible writing and modern animation quality -- but I wonder at what age our kids will get the context -- if at all -- as to how good they have it.
For me, it was probably somewhere in my mid-30's. I wonder how we can expedite that for these incredible young people who see more technology every day than we even had available, and who see more TV in the backseat on a weekend drive than we did in a week, back in the day?
Actually, that's not a typo. I literally think I have listened to every kid's movie of note, while The Three Who Will Not Be Tamed watch them on the DVD in the back on our drives to Iowa, or Chicago, or Bay Beach, or where ever, I have heard them all.
So, with a little time to sit on my hands, I've actually watched a couple of them with the youngest of The Three the past week or so.
Amazing quality.
Granted, this is against the backdrop of a trip to Disney, where expectations, selection and training of people create one of those "this is how it ought to be everywhere" experiences, but these animated features are incredibly well done. Even just the cheesy princess movies (it is, after all the two-year old I'm getting the bonding time with) make the ol' Rocky and Bullwinkle reels look pretty shoddy.
Don't get me wrong, I have no problem with The Roadrunner dropping a ton of TNT on Wyle E. Coyote. That was all we had to see, and not once have I, or any of my classmates been tempted to drop explosives on someone -- at least not that we're living up to. Tom and Jerry was funny, too, and Bullwinkle / Dudley Dooright still might be the best cartoon ever -- hard to believe there were only like a dozen episodes ever made. "Must catch Moose and Squirrel," in a quality Boris Badanoff accent is good for a laugh in most any context...
Today, and over the past fifteen years or so, The Simpson's is probably the best example of really incredible writing and modern animation quality -- but I wonder at what age our kids will get the context -- if at all -- as to how good they have it.
For me, it was probably somewhere in my mid-30's. I wonder how we can expedite that for these incredible young people who see more technology every day than we even had available, and who see more TV in the backseat on a weekend drive than we did in a week, back in the day?
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
When The Stones Sang "Time Is On My Side..."
...I wonder if they had this much of it on their hands.
Week #3 of convalescence tells me that while I am still convinced that I will retire the very second I can afford to, that I will not spend much time sitting / laying around. When that time is forced, it can be something of a sentence; granted, I'll take the lounging over a wheelchair or coffin, the other two options I faced when the accident occurred.
I read a lot. I mean, even when I am in the middle of the 70+ hour BS weeks, I read a lot. Now, I read a LOT. Stuff I'd never read otherwise.
For example, the idiot who, in his blog, suggests that CBS should fire David Feherty for his recent column in which he relayed the deep dismay our soldiers have over the current direction of our country. In a joke about Pelosi, Reid and Obama that, in the days before political correctness would have just been funny, Feherty danced right up to, but didn't cross the line. Feherty is not politically correct. He's not for everybody. He's controversial. He's not a journalist, for crying out loud, he's a golf commentator. He's not Walter Cronkite, nor is he Howard Cosell. He's more like Jerry Seinfeld, only with an Irish accent and funny.
He also does more for our soldiers than any other 1,000 people combined.
He knows them. He spends time with them. Over there, where the action is and where the risk is. He honors them. He supports them and he talks to them. He's seen the sadness in their eyes as an administration that was committed to protecting our nation gave way to one committed to "making friends" with people who are incapable of friendship. He's heard the anger in their voices as they've realized the funding they need to be safe in harms way is being spent on crap initiatives that reward people who've done nothing to deserve rewarding. All he did was relay that message back here in a comedic context. God knows the mainstream media won't touch it...it tarnishes their messiah.
With all this time on my side, I realize that the media is a huge part of the problem in our country, and therefore in the world today.
Thank God for the David Feherty's of the world.
A little bit of truth here and there...especially if it's in a funny context...can't hurt.
Week #3 of convalescence tells me that while I am still convinced that I will retire the very second I can afford to, that I will not spend much time sitting / laying around. When that time is forced, it can be something of a sentence; granted, I'll take the lounging over a wheelchair or coffin, the other two options I faced when the accident occurred.
I read a lot. I mean, even when I am in the middle of the 70+ hour BS weeks, I read a lot. Now, I read a LOT. Stuff I'd never read otherwise.
For example, the idiot who, in his blog, suggests that CBS should fire David Feherty for his recent column in which he relayed the deep dismay our soldiers have over the current direction of our country. In a joke about Pelosi, Reid and Obama that, in the days before political correctness would have just been funny, Feherty danced right up to, but didn't cross the line. Feherty is not politically correct. He's not for everybody. He's controversial. He's not a journalist, for crying out loud, he's a golf commentator. He's not Walter Cronkite, nor is he Howard Cosell. He's more like Jerry Seinfeld, only with an Irish accent and funny.
He also does more for our soldiers than any other 1,000 people combined.
He knows them. He spends time with them. Over there, where the action is and where the risk is. He honors them. He supports them and he talks to them. He's seen the sadness in their eyes as an administration that was committed to protecting our nation gave way to one committed to "making friends" with people who are incapable of friendship. He's heard the anger in their voices as they've realized the funding they need to be safe in harms way is being spent on crap initiatives that reward people who've done nothing to deserve rewarding. All he did was relay that message back here in a comedic context. God knows the mainstream media won't touch it...it tarnishes their messiah.
With all this time on my side, I realize that the media is a huge part of the problem in our country, and therefore in the world today.
Thank God for the David Feherty's of the world.
A little bit of truth here and there...especially if it's in a funny context...can't hurt.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
So, it is said that life can change in an instant...
And so it can.
April 23, 7:29 PM. Enroute from one meeting to another in Little Rock, my rented SUV collides with another car at an intersection I've passed through dozens of times. Air bags, ambulance, x-rays, CT scans, MRI's -- broken neck.
I asked the Neurosurgeon to tell me how bad it was on a "1 - 10 scale."
"You broke your neck, so the scale starts at 5," he says. "And, with that in mind, it's a six."
So, in the grand scheme of things, I am lucky. Lucky that my wife was able to arrange to fly down to get me, lucky that we were able to return home within a few days, lucky that instead of dead or paralyzed, I'm faced with a few weeks off work and restrictions from lifting or playing with the kids and no golf for most of this season.
But, in the grand scheme of things, I am more than lucky. Lucky that my wife wanted to come down to get me, and that she's taking awesome care of me and the kids. Lucky that the other folks in the crash weren't hurt badly. Lucky that my faith let's me realize that this needed to happen, and lucky that I understand how badly out of kilter I'd become for it to need to happen.
Lucky that my kids genuinely care that Daddy hurts a bit. Lucky that even though the Vicadin was so good, I've had the discipline to stop it and let ibuprofen lead the way. (OK, maybe that's not luck -- cause ibuprofen sucks compared to the Vic!)
I can't help but count my blessings. Life could have ended for me in that instant, or for someone in the other car, and that would have left a huge gap for others. A broken vertebrae could have meant paralysis or long hospitalization.
I'm walking, after all, and a full recovery is expected.
I'm lucky that on my walk with my wife and our not-quite-three-year-old last night, our daughter looked up at my neck brace and said, "I wuv your scarf, daddy."
Here's hoping that part of life never changes, or, if it does, or when it does, I am too old to notice.
April 23, 7:29 PM. Enroute from one meeting to another in Little Rock, my rented SUV collides with another car at an intersection I've passed through dozens of times. Air bags, ambulance, x-rays, CT scans, MRI's -- broken neck.
I asked the Neurosurgeon to tell me how bad it was on a "1 - 10 scale."
"You broke your neck, so the scale starts at 5," he says. "And, with that in mind, it's a six."
So, in the grand scheme of things, I am lucky. Lucky that my wife was able to arrange to fly down to get me, lucky that we were able to return home within a few days, lucky that instead of dead or paralyzed, I'm faced with a few weeks off work and restrictions from lifting or playing with the kids and no golf for most of this season.
But, in the grand scheme of things, I am more than lucky. Lucky that my wife wanted to come down to get me, and that she's taking awesome care of me and the kids. Lucky that the other folks in the crash weren't hurt badly. Lucky that my faith let's me realize that this needed to happen, and lucky that I understand how badly out of kilter I'd become for it to need to happen.
Lucky that my kids genuinely care that Daddy hurts a bit. Lucky that even though the Vicadin was so good, I've had the discipline to stop it and let ibuprofen lead the way. (OK, maybe that's not luck -- cause ibuprofen sucks compared to the Vic!)
I can't help but count my blessings. Life could have ended for me in that instant, or for someone in the other car, and that would have left a huge gap for others. A broken vertebrae could have meant paralysis or long hospitalization.
I'm walking, after all, and a full recovery is expected.
I'm lucky that on my walk with my wife and our not-quite-three-year-old last night, our daughter looked up at my neck brace and said, "I wuv your scarf, daddy."
Here's hoping that part of life never changes, or, if it does, or when it does, I am too old to notice.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Was Jeff Spicoli Correct?
There's a great line in the movie Fast Times at Ridgemont High when Sean Penn's character says, "But, Mr. Hand! If you're here, and we're here, isn't it our time?"
After almost two years of every waking moment seeming like it was someone else's time, I'm going off the grid with the family. We're just going to hang out for 8 days. No PC. No BlackBerry. No e-mail, no voice-mail, no nothing.
No golf. No schedules. No calendar.
No pressure. No deadlines.
We'll eat when we're hungry. We'll play when we feel playful and we'll sleep when we feel sleepy.
Yes, it will be our time, but, selfishly, it's going to feel a lot like my time.
I can't wait.
After almost two years of every waking moment seeming like it was someone else's time, I'm going off the grid with the family. We're just going to hang out for 8 days. No PC. No BlackBerry. No e-mail, no voice-mail, no nothing.
No golf. No schedules. No calendar.
No pressure. No deadlines.
We'll eat when we're hungry. We'll play when we feel playful and we'll sleep when we feel sleepy.
Yes, it will be our time, but, selfishly, it's going to feel a lot like my time.
I can't wait.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
72 Hours, 2009 years
To one who has Faith, no explanation is necessary. To one without Faith, no explanation is possible.” (St. Thomas Aquinas)
What we believe dictates what we can accomplish. What we Believe, dictates who we are. What can be explained – moreover what needs to be explained, well, that’s a sole product of the Faith we have -- or don't have -- in what we Believe. That’s true in the work context, and it’s true on the broader canvas of life.
In honor of the events of the next three days, both in 2009 and some 2009 years ago, this quote, my Good Friday staple, is a good one to consider.
It takes courage to believe to the point that no explanation is necessary. Conversely, the sense of emptiness that must come from requiring an explanation for everything must be virtually debilitating. Another of my favorite quotes (I think it was Einstein of Franklin, or maybe even Thomas Jefferson, one o' them way-smart dudes) is that "not everything that counts can be counted and not everything that can be counted counts."
2009 years ago an average carpenter was nailed to a cross and he died. By that act, we are saved and we are forgiven. Not only does that count, but it defies explanation. Three days later, that carpenter rolled away a massive boulder covering his tomb, spoke with several of his friend, and then ascended to Heaven. It all defies explanation, and I am 100% committed to the belief that it is true, and that no further explanation can make it any more -- or any less -- true.
Simple. Undeniable. Inexplicable. Awesome.
Happy Easter.
What we believe dictates what we can accomplish. What we Believe, dictates who we are. What can be explained – moreover what needs to be explained, well, that’s a sole product of the Faith we have -- or don't have -- in what we Believe. That’s true in the work context, and it’s true on the broader canvas of life.
In honor of the events of the next three days, both in 2009 and some 2009 years ago, this quote, my Good Friday staple, is a good one to consider.
It takes courage to believe to the point that no explanation is necessary. Conversely, the sense of emptiness that must come from requiring an explanation for everything must be virtually debilitating. Another of my favorite quotes (I think it was Einstein of Franklin, or maybe even Thomas Jefferson, one o' them way-smart dudes) is that "not everything that counts can be counted and not everything that can be counted counts."
2009 years ago an average carpenter was nailed to a cross and he died. By that act, we are saved and we are forgiven. Not only does that count, but it defies explanation. Three days later, that carpenter rolled away a massive boulder covering his tomb, spoke with several of his friend, and then ascended to Heaven. It all defies explanation, and I am 100% committed to the belief that it is true, and that no further explanation can make it any more -- or any less -- true.
Simple. Undeniable. Inexplicable. Awesome.
Happy Easter.
Monday, April 6, 2009
The Second Week in April
This week is sorta big for me, really.
It features two events of religious significance for me. Sunday is Easter Sunday, arguably the most significant religious holiday (OK, not arguably, in my eyes, but I do make the occasional attempt to be politically correct) now, where was I? Ah, yes, Easter Sunday is the most significant religious holiday of the year. That sunrise service just resonates the themes of resurrection and redemption, or for the kids, who are too young to completely grasp the whole idea of sacrifice, Resurrection and redemption, their tradition is multi-colored plastic eggs filled with enough crap to give them tummy aches for weeks. Still, all in, the Easter observance, the traditions around it and the season in which it falls -- Spring -- all cast palpable reminders of redemption and starting anew. It is my favorite holiday by far, and certainly the most significant.
This year, it coincides with The Masters, golf's marquee event. This one is "religious" in quotation marks. (See "unhealthy attachment" in the next sentence...)
In 1986, I hadn't yet begun to play the game, let alone establish what my wife now calls an "unhealthy attachment" to it. And, as I left for a softball game on that second Sunday in April, I glanced at my TV to see that Jack Nicklaus was "out of the running." Two hours later, I returned, flipped on the TV to see him walking up the hill on #18 with tears in his eyes, and realized in an instant that I had missed one of sports' defining moments. (Not the sport of golf, but sport...as in all of 'em.) No TIVO then, and it so happens I was one of the 93% of people who hadn't yet learned to run their VCR, so thank heavens for Golf Channel Classics!
They tie together for me; Easter, hugely significant in the grand scheme of life, and The Masters, significant in the grand scheme of enjoying that life while we're tied to this rock. Each Spring, I am reminded of the redemption and the resurrection that guarantees it, and I am reminded that Faith, the kind with the upper-case "F" is at the core of everything. And, each Spring, I meet my buddy Tony at the club, and we watch a weekday afternoon's worth of the Masters, invariably mentioning that day in 1986 when golf began to matter for me, and invariably reminded that faith, the kind with the lower-case "f," is at the core of accomplishing great things, even in the face of long odds.
It's going to be a good week...
It features two events of religious significance for me. Sunday is Easter Sunday, arguably the most significant religious holiday (OK, not arguably, in my eyes, but I do make the occasional attempt to be politically correct) now, where was I? Ah, yes, Easter Sunday is the most significant religious holiday of the year. That sunrise service just resonates the themes of resurrection and redemption, or for the kids, who are too young to completely grasp the whole idea of sacrifice, Resurrection and redemption, their tradition is multi-colored plastic eggs filled with enough crap to give them tummy aches for weeks. Still, all in, the Easter observance, the traditions around it and the season in which it falls -- Spring -- all cast palpable reminders of redemption and starting anew. It is my favorite holiday by far, and certainly the most significant.
This year, it coincides with The Masters, golf's marquee event. This one is "religious" in quotation marks. (See "unhealthy attachment" in the next sentence...)
In 1986, I hadn't yet begun to play the game, let alone establish what my wife now calls an "unhealthy attachment" to it. And, as I left for a softball game on that second Sunday in April, I glanced at my TV to see that Jack Nicklaus was "out of the running." Two hours later, I returned, flipped on the TV to see him walking up the hill on #18 with tears in his eyes, and realized in an instant that I had missed one of sports' defining moments. (Not the sport of golf, but sport...as in all of 'em.) No TIVO then, and it so happens I was one of the 93% of people who hadn't yet learned to run their VCR, so thank heavens for Golf Channel Classics!
They tie together for me; Easter, hugely significant in the grand scheme of life, and The Masters, significant in the grand scheme of enjoying that life while we're tied to this rock. Each Spring, I am reminded of the redemption and the resurrection that guarantees it, and I am reminded that Faith, the kind with the upper-case "F" is at the core of everything. And, each Spring, I meet my buddy Tony at the club, and we watch a weekday afternoon's worth of the Masters, invariably mentioning that day in 1986 when golf began to matter for me, and invariably reminded that faith, the kind with the lower-case "f," is at the core of accomplishing great things, even in the face of long odds.
It's going to be a good week...
Friday, April 3, 2009
Masters Week Next Week: Phil Mickelson and Proud Fathers
I met Phil Mickelson by chance near the players entrance a few years back at the US Open at Olympia Fields in Chicago. He's been my favorite golfer for years, and when I told him that, he said, "Thanks very much! Do you mind if I ask why?"
I told him that I liked it that he acknowledged the fans and that he just generally carried himself well. That when some idiot reporter asked him about the pressure of making a putt or scrambling for a par, he tended to answer by saying how fortunate he was to be able to play a game for a living. When someone asked him, "Would you really leave the US Open (the year he finished runner-up to Payne Stewart when his wife, Amy, was about to have their first baby) for the birth of your child?" he said, "Yes. There will be other US Opens."
I told him that it occurred to me that every time his Dad saw him on TV that he must be really proud of Phil, and that it would be pretty cool if my son grew up to conduct himself similarly.
"Thank you very much," Mickelson said, "that's very kind of you to say that." If his dad had been watching us, I think he'd have been really proud of his son.
Last year, when our then-five-year-old son won the 7-year-old flight Club Championship at our Club, he ran to give a high five and congratulate his buddy, Zach, who finished third. Then he whispered to me, "Daddy, did I really get first place?" When I told him he really did, he looked up and whispered, "Shweeeeet!"
His dad was really proud.
I wonder if, and hope that my dad is, too.
I told him that I liked it that he acknowledged the fans and that he just generally carried himself well. That when some idiot reporter asked him about the pressure of making a putt or scrambling for a par, he tended to answer by saying how fortunate he was to be able to play a game for a living. When someone asked him, "Would you really leave the US Open (the year he finished runner-up to Payne Stewart when his wife, Amy, was about to have their first baby) for the birth of your child?" he said, "Yes. There will be other US Opens."
I told him that it occurred to me that every time his Dad saw him on TV that he must be really proud of Phil, and that it would be pretty cool if my son grew up to conduct himself similarly.
"Thank you very much," Mickelson said, "that's very kind of you to say that." If his dad had been watching us, I think he'd have been really proud of his son.
Last year, when our then-five-year-old son won the 7-year-old flight Club Championship at our Club, he ran to give a high five and congratulate his buddy, Zach, who finished third. Then he whispered to me, "Daddy, did I really get first place?" When I told him he really did, he looked up and whispered, "Shweeeeet!"
His dad was really proud.
I wonder if, and hope that my dad is, too.
Obamanomics; Like April in Wisconsin
Today, I sat down and figured out how much our new President has committed me to in order to pay for all the flawed bailouts he's proposing. It made me sad.
Then I subtracted how much more he's going to take from me in each of the next four years. (Eight? No, please!) It made me really sad.
Next, I penned off a few quick notes to let the charities I have supported so generously know that I'll be sending much less this year than last, but that they could sure feel free to reach out to Barack and Nancy and the gang to try to get it from them. That made me sick.
In desperation, I thought about how safe we had been since 9/11, and tried to take refuge in that comfort, until I realized that defense wasn't going to see a dime of benefit from the tripling of our defecit and that none of the pork he was proposing was going to feed our brave, fighting men and women. That made me scared.
Finally, I reflected on how badly I had wanted him to be successful, even though I didn't vote for him, and how dissapointed I already was, and how the next three years and nine months were going to be a lot like April in Wisconsin. Bleak, cold, and windy. That made me angry.
Then I subtracted how much more he's going to take from me in each of the next four years. (Eight? No, please!) It made me really sad.
Next, I penned off a few quick notes to let the charities I have supported so generously know that I'll be sending much less this year than last, but that they could sure feel free to reach out to Barack and Nancy and the gang to try to get it from them. That made me sick.
In desperation, I thought about how safe we had been since 9/11, and tried to take refuge in that comfort, until I realized that defense wasn't going to see a dime of benefit from the tripling of our defecit and that none of the pork he was proposing was going to feed our brave, fighting men and women. That made me scared.
Finally, I reflected on how badly I had wanted him to be successful, even though I didn't vote for him, and how dissapointed I already was, and how the next three years and nine months were going to be a lot like April in Wisconsin. Bleak, cold, and windy. That made me angry.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Speed Kills
“Scientists tell us that the fastest animal on earth, with a top speed of 120 feet per second, is a cow that has been dropped out of a helicopter.”
- Dave Barry
“It is not by muscle, speed, or physical dexterity that great things are achieved, but by reflection, force of character and judgment.”
- Marcus Tullius Cicero
Speed kills. That’s what Mom told me for the two years leading up to me getting my drivers license back in 1977, and for the 30 years thereafter, until her death in 2006. She always wondered why it took me less than six hours to get to the farm, while it took her and Dad some 7 + hours to get to our house.
“Um, Mom...well, you see, I drive really, really fast. That scholarship the Iowa Highway Patrol gives at our high school? I fund that.”
Speed, I trick myself in to thinking, allows me to squeeze two days in to one. Five weeks in to a month. Yadda, yadda, yadda. The “illness of the urgent” keeps muscling the “clarity of the important” in to the wall in turn #3, and we tend to come limping past the checkered flag all smoke and sparks and carnage as a result.
I did it twice today, that I am aware of. “How quickly can you get me that?” I asked someone...
I wonder what it'd be like if we strived for a scenario where we asked, “How long do you need to really do this to the best of your ability?” or “When are you comfortable that you could have the best possible plan for that issue?”
I wonder what it would feel like to finish the race, or a lap, for that matter, hitting on all eight cylinders, engine humming, low to the ground and really screaming along with no sign of damage apparent.
I wonder if time spent on reflection, force of character and judgment, wouldn’t help us feel less like the cow dropped from the helicopter.
Just sayin’…
- Dave Barry
“It is not by muscle, speed, or physical dexterity that great things are achieved, but by reflection, force of character and judgment.”
- Marcus Tullius Cicero
Speed kills. That’s what Mom told me for the two years leading up to me getting my drivers license back in 1977, and for the 30 years thereafter, until her death in 2006. She always wondered why it took me less than six hours to get to the farm, while it took her and Dad some 7 + hours to get to our house.
“Um, Mom...well, you see, I drive really, really fast. That scholarship the Iowa Highway Patrol gives at our high school? I fund that.”
Speed, I trick myself in to thinking, allows me to squeeze two days in to one. Five weeks in to a month. Yadda, yadda, yadda. The “illness of the urgent” keeps muscling the “clarity of the important” in to the wall in turn #3, and we tend to come limping past the checkered flag all smoke and sparks and carnage as a result.
I did it twice today, that I am aware of. “How quickly can you get me that?” I asked someone...
I wonder what it'd be like if we strived for a scenario where we asked, “How long do you need to really do this to the best of your ability?” or “When are you comfortable that you could have the best possible plan for that issue?”
I wonder what it would feel like to finish the race, or a lap, for that matter, hitting on all eight cylinders, engine humming, low to the ground and really screaming along with no sign of damage apparent.
I wonder if time spent on reflection, force of character and judgment, wouldn’t help us feel less like the cow dropped from the helicopter.
Just sayin’…
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
April Fools Day
I never was a fan.
But, today, watching our oldest short-sheet her little brother's bed -- giggling, plotting and "checking to see if the coast is clear" every step of her devious way -- reminded me that it's really just a manufactured reason to laugh.
And while on the one hand, it sorta ticks me off that we need to manufacture reasons to laugh, on the other I am pretty glad that we -- at least some of us -- are willing to work at it.
It didn't matter that little brother didn't "get it." It didn't even matter that I had to re-sheet the bed. It mattered that big sister had fun and a couple pretty good giggles while she was doing it, and little brother said that "next year, he was going to switch the cereals in the box" on his big sister.
Happy April Fool's Day. Seems to me like the real fools are the ones that can't have a little fun with the day.
But, today, watching our oldest short-sheet her little brother's bed -- giggling, plotting and "checking to see if the coast is clear" every step of her devious way -- reminded me that it's really just a manufactured reason to laugh.
And while on the one hand, it sorta ticks me off that we need to manufacture reasons to laugh, on the other I am pretty glad that we -- at least some of us -- are willing to work at it.
It didn't matter that little brother didn't "get it." It didn't even matter that I had to re-sheet the bed. It mattered that big sister had fun and a couple pretty good giggles while she was doing it, and little brother said that "next year, he was going to switch the cereals in the box" on his big sister.
Happy April Fool's Day. Seems to me like the real fools are the ones that can't have a little fun with the day.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Spring Along Cedar Creek
"What will you do, Richard?" asked Junior, our neighbor. We were standing at the water's edge, even though we were more than 500 yards from the creek's banks. It was me, 7-years-old or so, Junior, and my dad, Richard "Dick" Heston. The usually lazy brown waters of Cedar Creek were now a raging, swirling torrent of moving mud, sweeping fertile Iowa topsoil, and the crop that Dad had recently planted in it downstream. The financial implications were lost on me at age seven, but the perspective on how little we control some things resonated with me even then.
"I'll wait for the water to go down, and plant it again," Dad answered. "And if it floods again?" Junior continued. Dad said, "If there's time, I'll plant it again. If there isn't, I'll wait until next year."
Every Spring, even though I left the farm almost 30 years ago, and even though Dad's been gone for over 6 seasons, I remember standing there, and I remember the conversation as if it were yesterday. "If there's time, I'll plant it again. If there isn't, I'll wait until next year."
In my current job, as a senior executive in the Financial Services Marketing field, our fiscal year ends Tuesday, and I realize that the banking and investment industries that we serve suffered quite a flood during these past several months. Figuratively speaking, some of the seeds we planted this year might grow, but much of our success and that of our clients will hinge on how well we prepare the crop for this next season.
In my role as father to The Three Who Will Not Be Tamed, I realize how much they've grown over the winter, and how quickly the time will pass until they are at some point in their lives remembering some lesson that they learned from me.
This Spring, I find myself hoping that the lessons are positive, and that The Three might someday be better prepared for the floods they face, as I am today because of a conversation along the banks of Cedar Creek some 40 years ago.
"I'll wait for the water to go down, and plant it again," Dad answered. "And if it floods again?" Junior continued. Dad said, "If there's time, I'll plant it again. If there isn't, I'll wait until next year."
Every Spring, even though I left the farm almost 30 years ago, and even though Dad's been gone for over 6 seasons, I remember standing there, and I remember the conversation as if it were yesterday. "If there's time, I'll plant it again. If there isn't, I'll wait until next year."
In my current job, as a senior executive in the Financial Services Marketing field, our fiscal year ends Tuesday, and I realize that the banking and investment industries that we serve suffered quite a flood during these past several months. Figuratively speaking, some of the seeds we planted this year might grow, but much of our success and that of our clients will hinge on how well we prepare the crop for this next season.
In my role as father to The Three Who Will Not Be Tamed, I realize how much they've grown over the winter, and how quickly the time will pass until they are at some point in their lives remembering some lesson that they learned from me.
This Spring, I find myself hoping that the lessons are positive, and that The Three might someday be better prepared for the floods they face, as I am today because of a conversation along the banks of Cedar Creek some 40 years ago.
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