Musings

Latest Homework

2011-10-23T18:08:00.001-04:00

One thing I've found interesting about art class is that rather than stifling creativity, constraints seem to foster it. The latest homework limits the composition to eleven shades on the white to black scale. You are furnished the white and black paint and have to mix the other nine shades yourself.

I chose my favorite oldest daughter's high school picture because it fit the bill of the assignment -- head and shoulders shot and a lot of different light values. (Maybe some day, I'll do one of my favorite youngest daughter).

The picture below is the project about mid-way through. To get to this point, you had to outline the different shade values (converting color to black and white) draw a sketch and then draw an enlarged sketch (twice as big) for painting. The numbers on the large drawing are my shorthand for which value of grey, white or black to use.

The assignment this weekend was to paint for five hours. The art teacher warned us that "you can't fake five hours of painting." Here's where I was after about six hours before breaking for dinner.

Like a horse that smells the barn, getting this close I just couldn't stop. So after dinner I went back out to the shop (studio now?) and put in a couple of more hours to finish it. Here it is done at 9:30 PM (an early night for most projects where I'm close to the end and just can't stop). I'm not sure I captured the original image, but at least it looks like a person!

Here are the two previous homework assignments.

Line, Movement and Space

Shape as an Element: Harmony and Variety

Catching Up

2011-10-15T21:10:00.002-04:00

The tag line at the top of my blog says in part “This is a repository for sporadic, random musings…”

Little did I know just how sporadic and random I would be. I see I haven’t put anything on my site since July 27^th – almost three months.

*******

I think Mark Twain captured it in The Invalid’s Story (1882). In the words of the expressman (per Wikipedia, an expressman refers to anyone who has the duty of packing, managing, and ensuring the delivery of any cargo on board a train), death is “awfully solemn and curious.”

I found myself feeling awfully solemn and curious recently when I learned of the death of a high school colleague, Mike Thornton. He was two years behind me in high school and sat next to me in band every day for two years. He went on to play tuba in the Cincinnati Orchestra, retired two years ago and died last month of a heart attack. Age 59.

This follows the death of another tuba player colleague, Rich Nahatzi last year. Rich was two years ahead of me at Peabody. He was diagnosed with a brain tumor and died shortly after. Age 61.

I know people die every day. Always have and always will. It’s inevitable and unavoidable. But it sure is awfully solemn and curious. Peace Michael and Rich.

******

Looking back at this site, I realize that I just haven’t been motivated to do anything with wood since the rolling pins. I don’t know why. What I have done, though, is sign up for an art class. Art 101. I think there is some kind a law that says when you hit your 60s you take up art and get ready to move to Florida.

Where will it lead? Who knows? For now, I’m just enjoying learning something different from my day job and developing fundamental skills. Here my first line design drawing homework.

******

On the work front, I’m on my third job this year – all with the same company. With any luck, I’m done with job transitions for a while. At this stage of life, I no longer have a burning desire to set the world on fire, as I once did, in my day job. And I wonder what possessed me to be so driven at former times. (So why am I going into work tomorrow -- a Sunday?)

Maybe this different perspective is influenced by seeing many of my colleagues retire (or worse!). For too many decades work was my primary priority. Not anymore.

*******

Finally, I'm pretty amazed by Emily’s and Matt’s chickens. Most of us are so removed from the sources of our food that we can’t appreciate where it comes from. It’s a lot different going to a grocery store and buying a dozen eggs in a sterile cardboard (well, plastic) container than going out to the coop in the morning and collecting production from the night shift.

It’s kind of a miracle that we’ve been able to form such a friendly relationship with a bird over the last 10,000 years or so that it gives us our daily bread (well, egg). Maybe that’s why I chose this theme for my second art homework.

******

Oh, about that wood-working thing. Here are some shaving brush handles I turned today for my nephew’s handmade soap business. Hope they work.

I did my part

2011-07-27T19:55:00.002-04:00

About the only thing any of us can do in this debt ceiling theater of the absurd is write to our legislators. I don't do this very often if you define not very often as "never." But I did write this time. Here's what I wrote to my congressman, my senators and the White House.

*******

Greetings:

I know you don’t want this time in our history to go down as the beginning of the demise of America after our short 235-year experiment. It sure feels that we’re heading that way to my eighty-year-old mother, to my friends, to my family and to me.

Please continue to do all you can to resolve this debt ceiling crisis and even more important, address the deficit and debt issues our country is facing. The former is artificial and, as my father used to say to me when I complained about my latest high school sports injury, self-inflicted. The latter cannot be ignored without jeopardizing the future of our country and, not to put too fine a point on it, our planet.

It’s time to be let the positions and posturing (that make us an embarrassment to the world) go. It’s time for rationality, compromise and courage. It’s time solve the long-term problem -- not just put a short-term patch on things.

Let’s move in the direction the debt commission recommends. It's reasonable and it’s the right thing to do. We can’t get it done by Tuesday, but let’s at least move in the right direction.

*******

Elijah Cummings was on the job -- he wrote me right back. ;) The rest had apparently gone home for the night.

Today with each side coming up short on the debt reduction side, it's almost been comical. It would be comical if it weren't so darn important.

Let's hope they can get it right and get it right quickly! It's a lot eaiser keeping the genie in the bottle than trying to get him back in after the damage is done.

It's Hot

2011-07-23T17:01:00.005-04:00

It’s hot.

At work yesterday afternoon, at the request of BGE, our local utility, we were asked to turn off lights, fans and anything that we could to conserve electricity. Walking through the complex, I spied a mini-Fukushima event. Not in the sense that anything was going to melt down, but it was so hot that there were fire hoses trained on the bank of air conditioning units to keep them cool and functioning.

Coming home from work, the outside temperature read 106 degrees in Marcia’s car. I borrowed it so Emily could use my car to drive into DC for her college room-mate’s wedding rehearsal. I don’t drive Marcia’s car much, but last time I drove it I was wondering if the air conditioning system was working. It’s not. (Note to self: need to get that fixed.)

The outside temperature spiked at 107 on the way home and then dropped to a cool 102 once I hit the forested hills of the last few miles of my commute. Thank goodness I was home to working air conditioning. Or so I thought.

I noticed that air was a little warm as I came into the house, but tried to put that out of my mind, as I read the news in The Week and took a fifteen minute nap. I awoke to alarm and a frazzled wife who was convinced that our air conditioning compressors were broken. It was 88 degrees inside the house and the outside units weren’t running.

This was uncomfortable. It was also little concerning because my mother-in-law, who is a tad older than we are and therefore less able to tolerate the heat, was visiting. It wasn’t just her, though, being pampered by air conditioning everywhere we go has probably made us all a little softer and less heat tolerant.

The logical thing to do is to call our power company and see if they had cycled off our outside units as part of the deal we accepted (Peak Rewards) to do that on occasion. It would be the logical thing to do if you could complete the call to find out. Nothing but a rapid busy signal on the line. What about the website? Nothing posted there, either.

Finally I was able to break the code on the power-outage phone line and get through to a human. The human said the outside units would be back on in five minutes. Twenty minutes later I had to call again. The second human said they would be back on within an hour of the “end of the event” which, thanks to being able to log on to our account, we discovered ended 45 minutes earlier. Thirty minutes later I was back on hold waiting to talk to another human when the outside units kicked on.

I know it was hot, but BGE really booted this situation by inadequate planning. I don’t think that anyone who signed up for this program thought that cycling off your compressor would mean that it would be off for eight plus hours on the hottest day the year. And how about planning for adequate phone lines to take the inevitable calls or at least a web-site posting on your homepage? Too much to ask?

But even if BGE did everything perfect, people (looking in the mirror I can see an example) tend to get irritable when they are hot. They don’t always think clearly and can become impatient. There are a few guys walking around in sports coats about forty miles due south of here that illustrate the point.

While I was on hold between the second and third BGE humans, I saw on CNN that Obama and Boehner had come to impasse on the little debt ceiling deal they were working on. I gather that Boehner walked out and wouldn’t return Obama’s phone calls.

While this is probably like every contested negotiation that’s ever gone on or will go on and will only get resolved at the last possible moment, the stakes, being the financial stability of the planet, make this one a little more important than typical. And it looks to me like the parties are way late in the game to be spouting positions. There’s a deal to be had and a deal that will make things better for our country, our successors and the world if only the parties would lose their positions and focus on their (and their constituents’) interests. It would be a shame to lose this opportunity.

So here’s my advice:

1. Fix the air conditioning system in the President’s and the Speaker’s cars
2. Cancel the Peak Rewards program for the White House and the Capitol
3. Lose the sports coats – it’s hot for crying out loud!

May cooler heads prevail!

River Perspective

2011-07-16T19:00:00.000-04:00

When my girls were small, anytime we crossed the Susquehanna River over the I-95 bridge, I’d look at the beautiful vista of the wide river and say “someday, girls, we’re going to canoe down that river.” Last Saturday, Marcia and I finally did that. We’ll, not exactly. We took a guided tour in a 50 year old john boat equipped with two plastic lawn chairs and a 15 hp Evinrude with a retired banker, Jim, as guide.

The part of the river we toured was a couple of miles upstream and downstream of Selinsgrove, PA. Jim has lived on the river all his life (except for a few years in Vietnam, which he didn’t like). His home is on the waterfront and about a half-mile from where he was born and raised. His birth home is occupied by his brother – the latest of four generations. His great-grandfather used to farm one of the many large, rich-soiled islands that dot the river. Jim knew his territory.

One story Jim told was an event his grandmother was fond of recounting about his great-grandfather. She told of time a barge going down the river stopped to inquire about buying food for the crew. The captain of the barge wanted to buy 25 pounds of potatoes. She said her grandfather got quiet as he contemplated the request, but finally shook his head and said, “No, sir. I can’t do it. I’ll not cut a potato in half for anyone.” (When I recounted the story later, I called it a Tall Bunyan – a little spoonerism mixing Paul Bunyan and a tall tale. I kind of like it.)

While we cruised the river (it’s amazing what 15 horse-power can do), we saw numerous blue heron and five bald eagles – four adults and one juvenile -- and Jim told history -- of eel fishing, coal harvesting, colonial times and ancient Native America times. One of the most striking historical facts, though, is that this broad, shallow river has been around for 300 million years. In fact, it’s one of the three oldest rivers of the world and was flowing when North America was part Pangaea. It puts things in perspective.

I need a little perspective right now. As Congress and the President play high-stakes poker betting the country’s (or perhaps the world’s) financial stability, with minute by minute media updates on all the posturing, positing and drama – all resulting in no progress, I had to declare a media holiday. It looked to me like I was watching a train-wreck, could see it coming but could do nothing to stop it.

I don’t where things stand now, we may have already had the train-wreck or may be getting closer to having one as we hit the on-coming 0802, but not watching it all unfold has been helpful. It’s been helpful to separate myself from the illusion that there’s anything I could do about this by worrying it along. I can no more influence the outcome than I stop the flow of the Susquehanna. And whatever unfolds, with the perspective of 300 million years, just how important could it be?

Rolling Pins – The Final Installment

2011-03-21T21:07:00.000-04:00

I think I mentioned that there’s a point I get into trouble in every woodworking project. The only problem is that point comes multiple times. In the middle of my just-finished winter rolling pin phase, I had to take a couple of weeks off to recover from five minutes of catastrophe.

I was taking a shortcut (always a danger) in drilling the hole in one end of a rolling pin roller. The shortcut was drilling the hole deeper than the drill-bit was designed to drill (by chucking it shallow) and using my spur-chuck (instead cutting a tenon and chucking it) on the headstock end. This meant I couldn't back the drill out to remove excess material and let the bit cool a little -- drilling a little at a time. As a result, the drill bit heated up and bonded to the hole.

Aiming to save both my work and my drill bit, I put the drill chuck, bit, roller-pin assembly in the vice and pulled and twisted with all my strength, weight and leverage. After a few attempts, I was successful. Well, successful in violently freeing the drill chuck, drill bit, roller-pin assembly from the vice. The roller-pin hit me in the chin, knocked off my face shield and nearly cold cocked me. It added my trade-mark signature to each of my wood working projects -- a little of my blood.

The blood was coming from my lip. I had driven my lower lip into my upper front tooth. Luckily, no loose or broken tooth, just a hole inside my lower lip and a nice curved cut matching the contour of the end of the rolling-pin on the outside front of my chin.

When things like this happen, I take it as subtle signal that I should quit for the day (especially if the bleeding won't stop). So after going into the house to assess the damage, stop the bleeding and swelling, I was done woodworking for the day. Well...I should have been done.

Since the hole wasn't all the way through my lip and I didn't think I needed stitches, I figured it wasn't a full stop sign -- just a hint. So, I went back to the shop intent to get the drill bit out and save my work. Mistake.

My next brilliant idea was to put the chuck in the Shopsmith, hold the roller-pin and let the machine unscrew the bit. Do you know how much power those things have even on slow speed! Needless to say, that didn't work. I did succeed in giving my left palm between my thumb and forefinger a good friction burn and added a nice blister there and on my thumb.

All this happening in about five minutes I took as an unequivocal signal to stop. See how perceptive I am.

Anyway, after sleeping on it, I realized I wasn't going to save both my drill bit and my rolling pin. I carefully cut out the bit on my band saw. I was able to salvage an 8" blank that will make a nice candle holder at some point. I probably would have figured this out without the second injury if I had taken notice of the first clue to stop.

In all this, my only advice to anyone entering the world of woodworking is, don't do it like I do!

Here’s the fruit of my labor – the final six of my rolling-pin period.

Oh, and three months worth of sawdust.

Rolling Pin -- Installment #2

2011-02-06T21:30:00.000-05:00

Here are the latest contributions to my rolling pin period:

The one in the middle is for my mom. She admired the first one I made (and gave to Marcia), so I made this one for her upcoming significant birthday. I won't say which birthday it is, but we're celebrating it on Superbowl Sunday, so let's just say it's Birthday LXXX.

It seems appropriate to mark later birthdays with Roman numerals. They deserve significance as much as Superbowls do. So, let's see, I'll celebrate Birthday LXI this year. Looks a lot more impressive than a measly 61.

Back to the rolling pins, I think it's taking me six to eight hours to make the five parts and assemble these things. That's after the glue-ups and blank cutting. I don't know for sure how long they take because I lose track of time. So, the time they take is not a complaint, just a factoid. I'm in no hurry to complete the remaining six. I'm taking my time and savoring each one.

The little pins in the picture are salvaged from scrap remaining from cutting the last blank. I didn't want to waste such pretty wood. And I can turn these in less than an hour start to finish. No stress making parts match and assembling. Just good turning fun.

Time to sharpen the tools and start another one -- sometime soon.

Doing the Right Thing

2011-01-15T15:33:00.000-05:00

A small news story today told about a Southwest pilot who held a flight to wait for a grandfather going to see his dying two-year old grandchild. The story moves me.

The grandfather was held up in the security line and was going to miss the flight. His wife called and asked that the flight be held. Somehow this message got to the pilot who left the flight deck and waited by the jetway for the grandfather to arrive. The grandfather arrived running in his sox – he didn’t take time to put on his shoes after the security screening – to be greeted by the pilot. The grandfather was there to say goodbye to his grandchild thanks to the very human decision of the pilot.

Why does this move me?

It’s an example of compassion, of courage to do the right thing, of love for a fellow human in grief. It’s a story of a company culture that allows and celebrates its employees doing the right thing.

This kind of thing doesn’t happen that often in our fast-moving and complicated world. It needs to happen more.

Woodworking Circle of Life

2011-01-01T10:30:00.001-05:00

My woodworking projects seem to follow a familiar pattern. The wood cost more than I expect, I get in trouble early and I need to buy more tools. This latest project is no exception. First, the wood.

A little while ago, I set out to make an inexpensive rolling pin or two. I settled on some rock maple, about $4 a board foot, and purpleheart about $6 a board foot. So far, so good. Then, I started looking for a nice dark wood to contrast the rock maple and for the handles. “Boy, that cocobolo sure looks nice, let me load up on that,” I thought. “Let’s see, for the handles I’ll need 8/4 and then a bunch of these short 4/4 boards for the rolling pin.” While the bill was being calculated, I happened to look up at the price board. Cocobolo -- $27.16 @ board foot. Gulp. I’ll probably get nine out of the project, so the world’s most expensive rolling pins will have close to $30 in wood cost each.

Once home, everything proceeded smoothly through the glue-up. Then the trouble. My band saw wasn’t cooperating in cutting through the three-inch blanks. The first one had a nice bow on the side as the blade arced in the cut. Change the blade to a (dull) 5/8” blade. More grief. It kept getting stuck, making the saw trip the circuit breaker. In my past life I would have kept muscling through this – cut a couple of inches, get the blade stuck, go flip the circuit breaker, repeat. (Well, ok, I did do this for a couple of blanks. And, yes, when I couldn’t get one cut off all the way, I resorted to the encouragement of a sledge hammer. So you could say that I'm not totally reformed yet.)

After quitting for the night, to contemplate my problem (well stew on it) I surmised it was my choice of blades – too large and too dull. When things go wrong, it puts me in a dark, black, mood. I feel like an incompetent idiot. I know I am an incompetent idiot when starting something that I’ve never done before, but don’t really feel that way until I get into the trouble phase of the project.

Turns out the blade was the problem. With that fixed, my next blanks came out fine. I took the worse blank (the hammered one) as my prototype and was able to even salvage that one! Here they are.

At the far right, are the ends of the first glue-up, I’ll glue these together to make another blank. Next to that is a glue-up that hasn’t been cut at the 10 degree angle to produce the diagonal pattern. Two blanks will come out of this piece.

Back to the project -- now things were going swimmingly. That is until I got to the part that I needed to chuck the end pins. My chuck minimum is about 2” the pins are 5/8” diameter. Tool time. Log on to Rockler and buy spigot jaws for my chuck. Rockler rocks. I ordered the jaws Sunday. They arrived Thursday – just in time for me to finish my first rolling pin on Friday. Here it is.

So now I’ll happily churn out a few more rolling pins -- feeling a little less idiotic and a little less incompetent. But I’m not convinced, I’ve kicked the cycle. I see more costly wood and mid-course trouble in the future. And, of course, you can never have too many tools!

Impressions of China, Part 4 of 4

2010-11-15T08:30:00.000-05:00

There and Back

I was surprised about the route for the flight to Beijing. I assumed we’d be heading north-west to get to China. That’s the way Sarah’s flights to China have gone. Instead we went pretty much due north, over the northern part of Greenland, over the North Pole, and then south through western Siberia to Beijing. As we approached the North Pole, the ice seemed to go on forever. With global warming, I’m sure there’s less ice than there used to be, but I don’t think you could describe the top of the world as open-water!

We came back the route that I thought we’d use to fly over. We left Beijing about 7:00 PM China time, hit the international date line about 12:00 Midnight (12:00 Noon Eastern Daylight Saving Time) and promptly went back to yesterday. A little before 1:00 AM (China) 1:00 PM (EDST) we hit Alaska and watched a beautiful sunrise. Alas, yesterday only had six hours of daylight. The sun went down as we hit the eastern border of Ohio around 6:00 AM/PM – an hour before we left …yesterday(?)…it boggles the mind!

I said it was an adventure. It was. An adventure in perspective.

Perspective in knowing that the world is a bigger place. Not just intellectual knowing but visceral knowing. There are a lot more people on the planet who are different from us, as Americans, than are the same. There’s a lot more going on in the world than US-centric news.

Perspective in knowing that people are people. The people we met were gracious and caring hosts with the same concerns in life as we have -- family, housing, careers, retirement and future.

Perspective in knowing what an historical infant we are. China’s civilization goes back 5,000 years and encompasses over 20 dynasties -- many which lasted several hundred years. At age 234, the US, in comparison to China, is just getting started. With that perspective, a little thought on issues from the perspective of millennium (versus milliseconds) may bode us well as we seek to perpetuate our young democratic dynasty. With any luck, we'll broaden our time horizon as we deal with the issues of the day. Here’s hoping for a successful first millennium for the infant USA!

Impressions of China, Part 3 of 4

2010-11-08T08:28:00.000-05:00

Building

Chinese are builders. I never really thought of them that way, but it was apparent in the three cities we visited. Beijing from the air looks like New York City times ten. It goes on forever! Shanghai must be one of the most modern cities on the planet. It seems to have been almost completely redone over the last twenty years with impressive sky scrapers and beautiful parks. And even Harbin is in a building boom.

But China is a land of contrasts. Some of the older apartment buildings in Beijing and Harbin look like tenements with deteriorating facades. They remind me of the “modern” buildings I saw in East Germany in 1981 – built fast, but not necessarily built well. And I’m not sure that electrical or plumbing codes have caught on universally. Electrical wires seem to be draped low and in random ways across buildings and intersections in parts of Beijing. Even in new construction, the plumbing seems a little delicate. I’m not sure why it won’t handle toilet paper or sure that it’s vented properly.

Finally, the country villages we saw in our travels look to have changed very little over the last several hundred years.

The Environment

From the air, many of the forests appear to have been planted like rows of corn. We did get to visit a forested mountain that didn’t seem that way. Again, it was a study in contrasts.

The path was paved in flagstone, but beside the first 1,000 feet or so were excavated trenches about 6 feet wide and four feet deep, that originated in the latrine. Much of the trail was lined with discarded trash. I don’t think the Chinese have heard about “pack it in, pack it out,” or “leave the camp better than you found it” or “take only memories and leave only footprints.” Littering is not a faux pas in China – there’s always someone, at least in the cities, to pick it up and sweep the streets with ancient looking brooms in the morning.

Once we got up the trail, we noticed a lot of yelling in the mountain. Another Chinese tradition. After climbing (well walking on the stone-paved sidewalk) the mountain for a while we ran into a woman selling drinks and renting hammock time. We saw an unpaved trail that went straight up the mountain that looked inviting. On both sides up this trail were Buddhist payer flags strung in the trees at chest level. They were a smaller version of the plastic flag strings used here to announce sales on used car lots.

The vendor woman warned us not to go up that trail (which was as wide as a one-lane road and straight as a mid-west highway) because we might get lost. We went anyway.

It was interesting that we went off the paved trail and up the mountain while the Chinese stayed on the stone-paved trail. Kind of an east/west metaphor. We were alone on this trail for the rest of the afternoon.

Later that week I read in the China Daily that there had been an increase in rescues over the National Day holiday. Unlike here where rescues involve getting someone out of an avalanche, or off a mountain peak, the Chinese rescues were just helping out people who were lost in the woods. The article encouraged people not to go into the forest without a trained guide.

Finally, as we left Beijing, the air quality was hazardous – the lowest level on China’s five point air quality measurement scale. I don’t remember all the scale descriptors, but I was struck by China Daily reporting that China’s goal was not for the top category, but for the second category -- “Fairly Good.” Seems like low aspirations coming from a place that aspires to clean air and water.

Impressions of China, Part 2 of 4

2010-11-01T08:24:00.000-04:00

Eating

Chinese people eat better than we do. Less fat, let sugar, less refined foods. Not many baked products. They find things like our cookies too sweet. We think of corn as a vegetable. They put an ear of corn on a stick and eat it like cotton candy. Given the sugar in corn, I think they’re right.

Meals are generally slower than here. Maybe it was my skill level, but I found eating with chop sticks slowed me down enough that I could say “chur bao le” (I’m full) and really mean it. That’s a lot different from my normal mode of inhaling my food while I’m doing something else. And if you know the right places to go (generally a crowded very noisy place), you can eat extremely reasonably.

In Harbin the last night we were there, we picked up the tab for dinner for six. We had six or so dishes to share. The tab? About $12. Big spenders, huh! Of course that was the extreme. Things cost a lot more in Shanghai and Beijing. But the experience of eating out – store-front noodle shop, street vendor, street kitchen, etc. – doesn’t seem to be out of reach for locals.

Finally, the food is pretty good and recognizable – but not like the Chinese food we eat here. For example, rice is usually what you eat when you’re done eating and not always served with the main dishes. It’s used to top off the tank. If you stick to main dishes like chicken and pork, vegetables, you can survive. I must admit, I didn’t try the stinky tofu that was cooked about every ten feet outside in Harbin. I stayed away from the pigs knuckles and donkey meat (at least I think I did), too. And, I never realized how much I appreciated coffee,until I couldn't get it! But all in all, I found the cooking to my liking.

People We Met

In addition to bonding with people in crowded shopping areas, and seeing the 2010 Shanghai Expo with 447,000 close friends, we spent time and shared meals with Chinese friends of Sarah’s and a day with a Chinese tour guide. I can’t say that eleven or so people are representative of the 1.3 billion population but I was surprised by the apparent openness of the folks I met. Our tour guide pointed out the Cultural Revolution’s students destruction of a Ming dynasty’s emperor’s tomb. A graduate economics student, said “he didn’t agree with China’s national leadership” and speculated that China’s economic growth was in a bubble. People didn’t hesitate to ask us about health care or retirement in America or complain about the affordability of housing in the Chinese cities. While we avoided topics such as Tiananmen Square, it felt like a more open society than I expected. The Internet is probably responsible for much of this. The graduate student told us that there are back doors to western media. He’s a fan of the BBC, for example.

The people of the Northeast Forestry University were gracious hosts. In our honor, we had two banquets with faculty and staff of the university, a trip to the mountains with a barbeque, and finally an escort to the tiger park, where Mr. Yang, in spite our protestation, picked up the admission tab. We were treated like celebrities, which made me realize that fame is not what it’s cracked up to be. It’s good to have the freedom anonymity offers. No command appointments, no endless ceremonial toasts and freedom to come and go as you please. We appreciated the events scheduled for us, but it made the “off” time precious.

One thing about the Chinese is that they have pride in their roots. As far as I can tell, things got started over there about 4,000 years ago with the Xia dynasty. It’s quite a contrast with history of Europeans in America that goes back 400 years, but when I tried to make that point to a Chinese, I was quickly told that Chinese civilization goes back 5,000 years.

Impressions of China, Part 1 of 4

2010-10-25T19:48:00.000-04:00

Monday night, October 11th, 11:00 PM, after 30 hours of travel, we arrived home from our two-week visit to China. It wasn’t a vacation, it was an adventure. We explored the Forbidden City, climbed the Great Wall, conquered the Shanghai Expo, climbed a mountain (well, half-way), communed with 800 tigers, smelled different smells, ate different food, risked our lives taking taxis and risked our lives again crossing streets. Oh, and we saw a lot of people who didn’t look or talk like us. Here are some things I noticed.

Driving

We didn’t drive in China, but we took twenty or thirty cab rides. The challenge for me is that these were small vehicles. My feet fit into the back seat floor well like tight fitting shoes. This made getting in and out of cabs interesting – not quick or pretty.

Speaking of tight fits, we were driven to the tiger park by our hosts at the university. Mr. Yang was certain that his car would fit six. It was a small Chinese-brand SUV (a Great Wall). I was in the front seat and four women were in the back. Let me just say that Mr.Yang didn’t factor in the greater foundation of wisdom of the mature American woman in his occupancy calculations. Four women were wedged into the back seat like my shoes in the cab, but only by alternating two sitting on the seat edge.

The rules of driving in China are that there are no rules. Driving in China means blow your horn constantly, don’t worry about lane markings, stop lights, intersections, pedestrians or other vehicles (including bicycles, scooters, jitneys or fire engines). Never make eye contact with anyone. Driving on sidewalks is fine. If there are four lanes marked, that means six or seven “columns” of vehicles, if you define columns as twisting, weaving, snake-like processions. An exit ramp for a freeway can also be an entrance ramp if you want it to be.

Think about that guy here who weaves in and out of traffic on a busy highway using cars like flags on a down-hill ski course. Now slow down traffic to a couple of miles per hour on a congested (super saturated) highway with everyone using everybody else as flags to mark weaving points and you come close to the picture. Too many cars, too much construction and too many people crossing willy-nilly.

You would think that cars would look like they have all been in demolition derbies, but they don’t. And you would think there would be tremendous road rage, but there isn’t. There must be something outside the normal sensory world to make it all work (if you can call the horrendous grid-lock working).

And how do you cross a street? Don’t! If you must cross, locate an international crossing guard (a local citizen), as my daughter says, and stay as close to him or her as you can as you cross. NEVER play chicken with a driver. You will lose. NEVER assume the driver will stop. He won’t. I saw the fear in the eyes of a local Harbin pedestrian trying to cross the road in front of our (for once) speeding cab. He tried to cross but ultimately retreated, eyes as big as saucers, as our cab barreled through the intersection, speed and direction unabated.

All in all driving in China was a hair-raising experience (unfortunately for me, not literally). You have to trust that your driver wants to survive as much as you do – kind of like when you get on an airplane. I know that I was happy after our last cab drive that we were done with that part of the adventure and had survived.

The irony in all of this is that centrally controlled China looks like anarchy on pavement, while the land of the free looks regimented. I will never complain (well at least for a few weeks) about a good old USA rush hour traffic jam, where everybody just waits patiently in line for things to move.

Just a Number

2010-09-19T12:52:00.000-04:00

This time next week, I’ll officially be 60. Officially, I say, because, I’ve mentally been 60 the whole year I’ve chronologically been 59. No use procrastinating.

Turning 60 is no big deal. “It’s just a number,” they say. But if it’s just a number, why do most of the new books on my bookshelf deal with living the “second half of life.” (There’s a euphemism for you.)

And in case the number didn’t get my attention, over the last few months I’ve seen two contemporaries of mine leave the planet. First, a college mate died of a brain tumor, and then, a business associate of my vintage died from complications on what was supposed to be minor surgery. (I don’t think there’s any such thing as minor surgery for the patient, just for the surgeon.)

This phase of life is different and I’m reading to find a roadmap. I don’t have the roadmap but I do see some sign posts.

First, I know that sometime this decade I’ll hang up my day-job spurs. I haven’t figured out if that means I’ll forever end working. There’s something in me that admires the stories of the 90-something attorney or business owner who still goes to work every day. On the other-hand, there’s something in me that tells me that going to work every day is not the purpose of life and these guys just don’t have a clue.

Until recently I’ve been driven in my work. I had a boss tell me when I was 40 that he just didn’t know why I was so driven. I don’t know either. For most of my working life, though, I’ve had clear targets for achievement and contribution. It was important, for some reason, to set and reach these external goals. Through focus, tenacity and luck I did what I set out to do. The question is “so what?” And, “now what?”

Questions like these are sign posts for this stage of life. From reading, I know that the quest is no longer about achievement but about meaning. It’s a nice problem to have, all things being considered.

I recently, read Eckhart Tolle’s A New Earth, and Martha Beck’s Steering by Starlight. As is my habit, I had a couple of books going simultaneously. This can sometimes get stuff from one book scrambled into the other. Most of the time, this synergy works for me. It can be problematic, though, as when I was simultaneously reading biographies of Abraham Lincoln and Jack Benny. Turns out Lincoln didn’t really spend that much time in Waukegan.

One road marker to meaning is Tolle’s observation that we are not our thoughts or our feelings. We don’t think, our mind thinks us -- similar to the way our lungs breathe us without conscious effort. If we can observe ourselves thinking and feeling, who is it that is doing the observing? Tolle’s contention that is we are the observer.

Both Tolle and Beck then talk about discovering purpose and meaning in life by getting quiet and listening to this inner voice – remembering who you are. Both remind us to be present in the moment. The past is over and the future unknowable. The present moment is the only true reality. I write this because I need this reminder.

Up to now, I’ve thought a lot and thought that thinking is who I am. But, with Tolle’s insight, I can see I’m missing the point. Through, thinking, planning and doing, I’m forgetting to be a human being (versus a human doing). Heavy. (As we used to say in the late ‘60s of prior century.)

So what does it all mean as I begin my 7th (yikes!) decade on the planet? I think it means that I’m on a different road, now. I’m off the traffic–clogged fast lane of the super highway and on the slow, scenic, forgotten country road. It’s being present and remembering who you where (and are) before you joined the rush hour commute. That’s the metaphor for this phase of life.

Metaphor For Our Times

2010-07-29T20:30:00.000-04:00

I’ve been obsessed with the Gulf oil spill. Maybe because it’s a metaphor for our times – uncontained, a proliferation of problems and a constant stream of bad news.

At some level, my implicit belief is that once the spill is contained and the clean-up started, the collective psychological cloud we’ve been living under will evaporate as well. Spirits will soar, the economy will mend, employers will hire, wars will cease, the sky will turn blue and we’ll all live happily ever after. That’s my dream anyway.

Well, the well is capped, due to be fatally injured by the static kill on Monday, August 2nd, and put to death by the bottom kill on Saturday, August 7th.

Hooray! I feel better.

But even with the well capped and killed, Afghanistan lingers on, North Korea is nuts and unemployment persists. Still, the economy is slowly getting better and, somehow, I think a little good news from the Gulf can only improve the collective humor and instill a degree of optimism about the future.

With a little more good news, we should be able to break out of this economic blue funk and return to our characteristic euphoria. Here’s hoping we do so soon, but this time it’s rational euphoria -- tempered by memory of economic bubbles.

I have a glimmer of hope that things will take a turn for the better in the fall.

And I hope that I’m right.

Adventures in Wood

2010-07-19T19:23:00.000-04:00

Here's a look at my my latest adventures in woodworking.

First, an "inside out" vase made out of arariba wood . Notice that it's hollow. What you can't see is there's only a one-inch hole in the top. It's my second attempt at one of these and it almost didn't make it. I was a tad too aggressive with the inside diameter and thought it would blow up on me.

It's not perfect, but it's not bad for a second attempt either. (It's not crooked -- the uncredited photographer was.)

My next adventure was to use my new electric chainsaw to reduce a 3+ foot apple wood tree trunk, imported from Vermont by my son-in-law and daughter, to turning blanks. It was quite a surprise.

I first cut off an interesting burl from the trunk. The surprise was that there was a hollow tube where, I assume, a branch used to be. The branch was long gone but the tree grew around it.

I was still able to get some nice blanks from it. Here are seven of the eight. And the wood was in fine shape. I only had to trim about a half inch off both ends of the log to get to the non-checked portion.

Looks like some nice material for future bowls!

Spewing Oil

2010-06-01T20:34:00.000-04:00

Today, the environmental catastrophe in the Gulf of Mexico will spew another 12,000 to 19,000 barrels of oil into the sea. That’s around 500,000 to 800,000 gallons. And it may get worse before it gets better. It makes me feel bad for refueling my car.

In the 4.6 billion years of the planet, until we came along, no living being could make such a colossal mess of things. And in the brief 250,000 years or so humankind has been around, it’s only been the last 100 that we’ve been able to do such a bang up job of it.

Sure we could wipe out species, cause erosion and pollute air and water -- but not on such a grand scale. Since the early 1900’s we’ve learned how to create global warming, how to destroy the planet with nuclear weapons and now, how to drown it in oil that was safely at rest miles under a mile deep ocean floor. That’s progress.

Part of the problem is that we under-estimate risk until after the fact. We’re wired to be optimistic. We’re just so darn hopeful. But, as my glassblowing partner used to say to me, “hope is not a plan.”

How in the world did we allow deep-ocean drilling without thinking about and preparing for the consequences of things going wrong? It seems crazy in hindsight. It’s certainly taken the wind out of the recent campaign chant, “drill baby drill.”

Even though we’re wired to take risks, we’re also wired to be adaptable. We’re good at fixing things after they’re broken. When the space shuttle Challenger blew up in 1986 because we were playing Russian roulette with o-rings, we took a step back to review and remediate risks. Things went pretty well since then (with the notable exception of The Columbia in 2003 when we again gambled, this time with the integrity of the thermal protection system.)

Can we prevent future oil catastrophes? Can we neutralize global warming? Can we put the nuclear genie back in the bottle? Can we kick the gambling addiction?

Sometimes you have to have hope to start a plan. I hope we’re planning now and hope it’s not too late for this fragile, minuscule marble in space we call home.

I am an Earthling

2010-04-21T21:52:00.000-04:00

I was watching Jill Tarter, director of SETI (Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence) Institute's Center for SETI Research, in her 2009 TED talk this morning and it made me realize that when I complete demographic information, for the race question, I should check “other” and write “Earthling.”

Several things led me to this conclusion. First, Astronomer Tarter showed a series of images illustrating the infinitesimal real estate planet Earth represents in the universe. Second, she mentioned that human-kind has only been around for the last couple of hundred thousand years of a 4.56 billion year old planet. And, as she points out, we are neither the purpose of nor the pinnacle of evolving life. We just think we are. (Kind of arrogant isn’t it – especially, to paraphrase Kurt Vonnegut, since we just got here.) Instead of being the point of evolution, I think we’re just a darn-lucky life form.

The main thing that made me realize that I was an Earthling, though, was not these facts – our minuscule significance in the scheme of space, time and life forms – but the facts in conjunction with a quote cited from President Obama’s inaugural address. I heard it said in the address, but it went by too fast then for me to grasp the significance:

…we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself…

Isn’t it time that we realized how fortunate we are -- how fragile we are? Isn't it time for all Earthlings to unite and perpetuate life in harmony with the universe of which we are part and parcel. Better that than to go the way of planet Krypton.

Incompatibility

2010-03-31T20:19:00.000-04:00

Now that I’m a certified MBTI practitioner, I’m hungry for deeper knowledge about type theory. So, consistent with my type preference, I threw myself into the task --reading one book on the topic Sunday and starting another one Monday night. Eventually, I had to go to bed, though, without finishing the book. So, I got up at 4:00 AM the next morning and finished it.

I had just finished the book when Marcia woke up. I greeted her with a question. “This is the 30th isn’t it?” True to my “N” preference, I’m not keen on details.

“Yes it is,” she said.

“OK, then, happy 36th anniversary. I just found out we’re not compatible.”

Consistent with her “S” preference she simply asked, “Who gets the house?”

In Gifts Differing, Isabel Myers cites that 77% of married couples were alike on two or more preferences. Marcia and I would be in the 23% minority of couples with one or no preference alike.

This explains a lot – especially about our conversations. For example, true to my type, when I’m telling a story, I’m metaphorical and exaggerate in service of making the point. True to Marcia’s type, I can only get a couple of sentences in before we have to verify facts.

Funny it took 40 years to figure this out.

So, even though we're incompatible, I don’t think either of us will be moving out anytime soon. We’ll just be a little more enlightened for the next 40 years together.

Civilization and Freedom

2010-03-27T12:26:00.000-04:00

We’ve come a long way in the last 500 years since Columbus arrived. Then the height of civilization was about eating – not just having enough to eat but avoiding being eaten. And not just avoiding being dinner for Caribbean natives but, back at home in lean harvest years, avoiding being dinner for hungry Spanish farmers. (Can you tell I’ve just finished reading a book about Columbus’ voyages?)

Now the height of civilization is about access to health care. The US is Johnny come lately to this advance in civilization compared to the rest of the industrialized world. Nobody now seems to disagree that it’s important for a society to provide health care for its citizens. It’s just that we don’t want to pay for it.

Sunday night Marcia and I stayed up to watch the circus of the House of Representatives pass the bill that will lead to health care for virtually all US citizens in 2014. Only those who elect not to be covered and illegal immigrants will be excluded.

Will it cost more? Probably. And in distributing this cost, oxen will be gored. But in the long run, it’s the right thing to do -- for civilization and for freedom.

Ironically, mandated health insurance gives us freedom. Career and life decisions now frequently rest on the availability of health insurance. People are incarcerated in professions, jobs and firms due to the availability of health insurance where they are and the absence of it where they want to be.

When we were building our house, one partner of a two-man timber framing firm left the partnership and returned to a prior profession and employer because he needed health insurance. How many couples have a spouse working just for the health insurance? How many people continue work beyond the point of productivity or job satisfaction just for access to health insurance? Worse, how many people just starting out in life and career play Russian roulette by not purchasing health insurance in the mistaken belief that they don’t need it?

Early in my career as an HR professional, I saw an individual exceed the one million dollar lifetime maximum coverage and, absent the benevolence of the company, subject to financial ruin. It’s not as hard to do as you may think. I’ve seen at least one HR director lose her job because the health insurance plan exceeded the budget. I’ve seen health insurance plans cost go up more than 100% in a single year (based on a few high claims). I’ve struggled with the on-going shell game of shifting cost to employees, providers and other employers in an effort to preserve medical coverage for employees in the face of spiraling costs.

So, I celebrate the passage of the health care bill. I believe, as we avoid emergency room medicine, as we focus on prevention, as we have universal access to care, medical cost will stabilize – maybe not for everyone but for society as a whole. And the freedom from making life decisions based on the availability of health insurance coverage will pay big dividends through fostering entrepreneurship, creativity and, in general, a better quality of life for 30 or 40 million people.

Welcome to the next step in civilization, America. Welcome to health care freedom. Maybe 500 years from now, the notion of holes in the availability health care, will be as primitive and uncivilized as is the notion of cannibalism for us today.

Let’s hope so.

Now I get it...

2010-03-06T16:29:00.000-05:00

According to the Employee Benefit Research Institute (EBRI), I am now “near elderly.” Up to now, I was, perhaps, maturing, but still in my prime. Middle aged. Ok, maybe late middle aged, but still in the middle of the pack.

To add insult to injury, EBRI says not only am I near elderly, but at 59 and a half, I’m smack dab in the middle of the 55 – 64 near elderly age group. Not middle aged but mid-near elderly. As Chester A. Riley says, “What a revoltin’ development this is!”

This explains why people keep asking me if I’m retired. Even though the percentage of civilian noninstitutionalized Americans age 55 plus in the workforce is growing since 1975, only 39.4% are still slogging it out. Since this number includes elderly and near elderly, I'm sure the percentage is higher for my fellow near elderly and declines with every year of elderhood. Still, if you’re making the daily commute, unlike 60% of your new buddies, you kind of stick out. More so each year.

Up to now, I’ve never liked the term “Baby Boomer.” But compared to “Civilian Noninstitutionalized Near Elderly,” Baby Boomer is a term of art.

So there goes middle age. Not with a whimper but a bang. I have to admit that I’m a Civilian Noninstitutionalized Near Elderly Baby Boomer. A CNNEBB. Kind grows on you, doesn’t it?

Oh well, at least when I leave the Whippersnapperdom of near elderly and join the real elderly at age 65, I will have had notice. Thank you EBRI and, the likely, Gen Y culprits who came up with this great name. May you all see your near elderly years.

A Certain Age

2010-02-27T10:17:00.000-05:00

I’ve noticed that when you get to be a certain age, around 55 for me, people start asking you interesting questions.

When I changed employers at that age and let people in my network know my new contact information, one of my contacts asked, “So, is this a real job or are you just coasting to retirement.” Later, after moving to a new job at age 57, one of my former colleagues found me on LinkedIn. His comment, “I thought you’d be retired by now.” Or dead! Last weekend celebrating Chinese New Year with friends of friends (who are retired), I was asked, “So, are you retired?” It’s not the first time I’ve been asked that over the last couple of years.

Sometimes the question comes because we’re hanging around people who are retired or are contemplating retirement in the near future. Sometimes the question comes because Marcia has decided to retire this year. But sometimes the question must arise because I look like I should be retired.

A friend at church was telling me about some experiences with Exploritas – the new name for Elderhostel. When I asked the age for participation (because every time I’ve asked about a senior citizen discount since turning 50, it’s always my current age plus five years), the reply was, “Don’t worry, you’re old enough.” The next step will be for people to start telling me how good I look. Then I’ll know I’m ready for the rest home.

For most of my adult life, I’ve had a drive to work. When, at age 55, the company I was working for was sold, I wasn’t ready to retire – not just financially, but psychologically. I was ready for the next big thing. Like for most my adult life, work was still central. No more.

Although, I’m still not ready to hang up my spurs, lately the concept of working for a living seems surreal. Other than to provide a living, just why do we do work anyway? Why is it so darn important? And why do we (well, why do I), from time to time, get caught up in the exaggerated importance and drama of it all?

Don’t get me wrong, in these economic times, I’m grateful for employment. And I still enjoy what I’m doing for which I’m also grateful. It’s just that work is no longer central.

I’m still not ready to graduate from the employment world – psychologically or financially – so my plan is not to contemplate these questions too deeply for the next seven years. But I can see a transition happening. I can see work become a means to an end versus the end itself it’s been for me until recently. I can see the possibility of meaning beyond meaningful work. And I’m surprised by all of this.

Interesting how we change, isn’t it!

If you don't look too closely...

2010-02-15T19:36:00.000-05:00

...these look fine. Here are the finished ten end-grain cutting boards. The one at the top and the one at the bottom you've seen before. They are number one and two, respectively. The ones in the middle are from the batch process when I did eight at once.

Here's a closer (but not too close) look at the family starting from the bottom of the above photo and working toward the top.

As I was making the second round of cuts after the final glue-up, a bearing on my table saw froze and made it go hay-wire. This left saw marks on the final cuts, which attracted glue. The plan was to sand it all away to perfection.

Little did I know how hard it is to sand glue and saw marks off end-grain wood. After six hours of sanding the batch of eight, I threw in the towel. The result was some glue, saw marks and sanding marks on this batch.

I like the resulting patterns and wood combinations -- various combinations of purple heart, rock maple, cherry, sapele and two expensive strips ($24 worth) of asian pear. But close inspection will tell that they were human-made -- by a less than perfect member of the species.

Oh, well they should last a long time, and as they are used and re-sanded (by someone else!), they will just get better.

That's my story, anyway, and I'm sticking to it.

Now, I'm out of the wood business until the back-ordered table saw parts come. I'm ready for a break!

Great Moments In Communication

2010-02-11T14:40:00.000-05:00

When there's an historic advance in communications technology, frequently, memorable words are said. For example, not far from here in 1844 the first telegraph message was sent. The message? "What hath God wrought?"

In 1876, Alexander Graham Bell, sent his first telephone message. "Watson, come here, I want you." Not profound, but memorable.

Recently, my wife signed up for Skype. I already had it on my machine. We each have a study at opposite ends of the house, so this offered us a breakthrough in communication technology over our current technology of yelling.

With the eyes of history and the burden of memorable words upon me, I answered the first room to room Skype call in my house. My words? "Hey this is neat...bring me a beer!"

Glue

2010-02-11T14:23:00.000-05:00

As I said, there's probably more glue than wood in these cutting boards. To see what I mean, here's board #7 in its second (final) glue-up.

It's pretty messy business, but I've gotten a lot neater at it with practice.

End Grain Cutting Board, Continued

2010-02-04T20:48:00.000-05:00

With a big snow storm coming our way, most people run to the store for a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread. I did a store run myself today, not for milk and bread, but for for five gallons of kerosene and a gallon of glue. The kerosene's to fuel my wood shop space heater. The glue's to keep my cutting board production line going. Here's completed number two:

And here's number three in it's first glue up. As you can see by the film on the wood, there's almost as much glue as wood in these things.

Here's number four -- glued up last night:

Here's number five glued up tonight.

Here are six through ten, awaiting clamps to be freed.

It took about 33 board feet of lumber for these ten boards and will probably take a quart of glue. It also produced a lot of expensive sawdust to mill the lumber to spec -- enough to fill a 45 gallon trash bag. And that doesn't even include the sawdust I inhaled!

End Grain Cutting Board

2010-01-25T20:37:00.000-05:00

Until two weeks ago, I had no clue that there are different types of cutting boards. The topic just never came up in daily conversation. That all changed a couple of Saturdays ago.

I’ve been thinking about what kind of woodworking project to take on next. Something a little – well, a lot -- less ambitious than the grandfather clock I finished last summer. Something that wouldn’t be more stressful than the day job! So, when one of my fellow woodworkers at the Howard County Woodworking Guild talked during the show and tell part of the program about the end-grain cutting boards he had been making, I was intrigued.

I was too far away to see the actual cutting board and didn’t get to talk to him after the program, so I had to rely on my old friend the Internet to get up to speed. (Funny to think of the Internet as an “old” friend, isn’t it?) I found a site that was most helpful – the Wood Whisperer. Videos #7 part 1 and #7 part 2 explain it all:

http://thewoodwhisperer.com/category/video/page/6/

Besides telling you how to make one, the Wood Whisperer explained why end grain cutting boards are so much easier on knife edges than flat grain boards. Who would have ever thought that you’d make a project which featured the end grain of wood! On purpose!

Armed with knowledge, the following Saturday I set off to my friendly wood supplier, FreeState Timbers (http://freestatetimbers.com/index.html) to buy some purple heart and rock maple. (I also let him sell me a hunk of Jatobe he had in the scrap pile.) By the next Saturday, I was done. That's the prototype in the picture above.

And, who knows, for once I may even move beyond prototype to make another one! (Pretty likely since I’ve already got the glue-up seasoning in the laundry room.)

Haiti

2010-01-24T07:36:00.000-05:00

The recent earthquake in Haiti is tragic, to put it mildly. But as America responds, as people give, as our government mobilizes to help, it reminds me of how proud and grateful I can be to be an American. It’s my country at its best – competent and generous.

But my pride in my country is tempered by the ignorance of some like Pat Robertson who say Haiti has been “cursed” by a “pact to the devil.” It’s tempered by the ignorance of some like Rush Limbaugh who encouraged his listeners not to contribute to rescue efforts because they may enhance the President’s political position (ironically, using the disaster to “enhance” his personal fame.)

Maybe there are always lunatics like this in America. Maybe the myth of America as a country that unites in times of trouble is just that – a myth. But somehow, having seen times when the country comes together in times like these, in spite of the lunatic fringe, I can still believe in the myth. I can still be proud of my country at its best.

My hope for the future is more of the best and less of the lunatics.

For Fun

2010-01-17T10:01:00.000-05:00

Marcia's been cleaning out her computer files. Here's something she found from the time we shared one PC.

Written: December 14, 2003

For fun, I sing in a barbershop quartet. I love the harmony and who could beat the camaraderie of four guys getting together to sing, entertain others and forget the worries of their day jobs. That’s what you’d think.

Along with the singing comes interpersonal relations. As a VP of Human Resources, that is my day job. But I think quartet interpersonal dynamics are harder than work.

A quartet is like a marriage except with four people – we’ll really eight if you count the spouses, which you have to. There’s a formula for the geometric increase in paired relationships that gives a glimmer as to the complexity of these dynamics. It’s n*(n-1). So with two people, the number of possible interactions is simply two. With four people the number increases geometrically to 12. And with eight people to 56! But this really understates the problem.

A quartet forming is like the most complex mating ritual you’d ever see on the nature channel. First, someone stands next to you at chorus rehearsals and checks you out. This is not subtle; you know what’s going on. Next a couple of guys approach you and say, “Hey, let’s get together and sing some tomorrow night at my place. No pressure, no obligation, no commitment, let’s just sing a few for fun.” They know it’s an audition and you know it’s an audition. But neither of you let on you know or that you know that they know.

If you get past the non-audition, audition, then the fun really starts as you work out rehearsal times, agree on music to learn, agree on whether or not to compete and how many and what kind of gigs to do. There’s more time spent talking about clothes than any heterosexual male should ever spend on the topic. There are shoes to buy, outfits to match and even makeup and personal lipstick (for the stage, of course). I never thought I’d hear myself say, “Wait a minute, I have to go into the men’s room and touch up my lipstick.” And I now own more shoes than I ever have in my life.

If all this sounds like an episode of “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy,” it feels like it too. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” as the famous Seinfeld episode goes. (And even though I’m a committed heterosexual, I really do believe that there’s not anything wrong with that.)

Well as the song goes, “breaking up is hard to do.” Try that with eight egos and 56 potential interactions. Why do quartets break up? Sometimes it the interpersonal stuff, but at the bottom line, like couple in a relationship for the sex, quarteters are in it for the music. If one guy can’t blend, signs out of tune, or sings the wrong notes, eventually, he gets voted off the island.

When this happens, it’s traumatic. The first time it happened in my quartet, the rejectee and, the rejecter spokesman, had an ugly altercation in the parking lot of the church where the chorus rehearses. The result was that a 50-year old man got in his car and laid rubber getting out of the parking lot. In the discussion, it became clear that the spokesman was also casting aspersions on a second quartet member. Wham, more rubber and an instant duet from what had minutes before been a quartet.

The second guy came back, we found a new fourth and sang happily (well not all the time) for two years. Then last week, another vote. Although there was no rubber being laid in any parking lot, it was not a peaceful parting of the way. Much stomach lining was consumed over the last week by quartet members and quartet members’ spouses.

So now we're a trio. But you can’t do four-part harmony with three guys (Lord, I wish you could). So we’re again beginning the ritual mating dance. This time, when we find the right guy, we’ll try to negotiate a prenupt. Meanwhile, for fun, I think I’ll spend more time at my day job. The interpersonal dynamics are a lot easier.

TED

2010-01-10T10:01:00.000-05:00

In the quiet of the holidays, I rediscovered a link to TED. TED stands for Technology, Entertainment and Design. It’s a forum for wisdom and creativity. I was able to listen to several speakers conveying life’s hard-won wisdom.

From John Wooten, I (re)learned the definition of success, taught to him at his father’s knee sometime in the early 1900’s. Success for him is living your potential. Being the best that you can be, as the Marines say. Life is not a competition with anyone else, but a game of one.

From Dan Pink, I (re)learned that motivation comes from intrinsic not extrinsic rewards. Autonomy, Mastery and Purpose trump monetary incentives for all but the simplest mechanical tasks.

From Steve Jobs I (re)learned the role of passion as a muse and the certainty of our demise as a teacher. He also observed the importance of keeping faith that current challenges, opportunities and actions will all make sense someday. Only by looking back can we connect the dots. Steve is truly an over-achiever. Not many people will get the results he did from this timeless wisdom. But that’s not the point. We can all seek to achieve our potential.

I can’t do justice to the wisdom of the speakers and the examples from their lives that breathe life into their words. You’ll have to experience this for yourself. And I’ll have to remember to come back to learn and relearn -- even when times aren’t so quiet.

http://www.ted.com/

History as Fable

2010-01-03T13:40:00.000-05:00

What is history but a fable agreed upon? Napoleon Bonaparte

In his story, Ike’s Decision, in the Winter 2010 edition of America Heritage, Michael Korda says that we see the success of the D-Day invasion as “natural and foreordained.” It was not necessarily so.

History’s that way. Once we know the outcome, it’s hard to see how things could have turned out any other way. We think of history as a straight-line progression of unfolding events -- like reading a book.

The truth is history is not a linear projection. Outcomes and events build on each other but with infinite inflection points:

• What if Washington had lost at Yorktown?
• What if Lee had prevailed at Gettysburg?
• What if D-Day had failed?

Each of these potentially probable outcomes, and a plethora of others like them, would have resulted in a different chain of events than the ones we’ve come to know and view with such certainty.

We hold onto certainty as if it were reality, but it’s not. Events, turning points and outcomes are not pre-ordained and, while they may be driven by some person’s or persons’ focus and determination, turn on unexpected, random, circumstances and actions.

Intellectually, we know this. Emotionally we don’t. The question is what random events now happening will our successors see as “natural and foreordained?” How will the fable of our times be told?

Candlesticks

2009-11-01T18:36:00.000-05:00

After, figuratively, almost struggling to my demise making the grandfather clock case, I decided to take a woodworking interlude and work on my wood turning skills. I found a plan for a 7" candlestick on the Internet, glued-up some scrap oak and short 3/4" thick exotic wood boards I had in the shop and had at it. To the right are my my first two attempts.

The one dyed red is oak and is close to an accurate representation of the plan I purchased. I found it a little too ornate for my taste, so I freelanced a design for my second attempt.

The thing I like about wood is that it's forgiving. Attempt number two is a case in point. I was working on a flared top with an undercut on the bottom-side. Pretty ambitious and the wood let me know so. A big hunk of the top broke off and went flying across the room. So, I tapered instead of flared.

It looks OK anyway.

When I was buffing that piece for the final finish, the buffing wheel grabbed it out of my hands and shot it across the room. But, wood is forgiving and resilient. It survived pretty much undamaged. A little extra buffing healed the landing injury.

When I mentioned that I was turning candlesticks to my favorite oldest daughter, she said "Oh, I'd like a pair." Groan. It's one thing to make one of a kind, and entirely another thing to make two that look alike. I tried anyway. Here's the result.

Having done that, I was free to freelance a little. I tried another pair, but they're more like siblings than twins. Here they are along with an attempt inspired by a hand-made glass candlestick my daughter owns.

After the ornate one, I left the Baroque period (probably for good) and just played around with shapes. That was the most fun. It felt like I was sculpting the wood.

The middle one above was another gift from the woodworking gods. The top was originally the bottom before I tore a big hunk out of it with a catch. This one also survived the buffing wheel throw.

What's next on the woodworking front? Don't know. But for now, here's the candlestick line-up in evolutionary order.

Late Middle-Aged -- Earth and Me

2009-10-14T21:07:00.000-04:00

So the Earth will die. It makes me sad -- like losing a good friend. Earth’s been good to me. Of course I may not be here for the memorial service – it looks to be a billion years out. As the sun brightens, average temperature will go up to 158 degrees, the oceans will evaporate and only a few microbes and bacteria will survive. It gets worse. Earth will then heat up to 842 degrees, wiping out all life on its way to melting. Ultimately, about five billion years from now, the sun will burn out – Earth exit stage left, curtain. So say Iain Stewart and John Lynch in “Earth The Biography” (page 224).

As far as a place to live, Earth is in its late middle age. Life began shortly after Earth was born about 4.5 billion years ago. So from a habitable perspective, translating into an 80-year human lifespan, the planet would be about 65 – just a little older than me.

But humans haven’t been around all that long. The authors cite three ways to put human existence into perspective (page 51). First, they reference Stephen Jay Gould’s translation of Earth’s history into a 24-hour day. Dinosaurs show up after 11:00 PM and are gone in 20 minutes. Modern humans show up two seconds before mid-night with civilization showing up in the last tenth of a second of the day. Second, they refer to John McPhee using the analogy of an old English yard – from the King’s nose to tip of the middle finger of his out-stretched hand. Human history is wiped out by one stroke of a nail file. Finally, Mark Twain, less mathematically precisely, equated man’s existence as the “skin of the paint on the pinnacle knob” of the Eiffel Tower and commented that “anyone would see that that skin is what the tower was built for.”

Obviously, the Tower wasn’t built for the skin of the paint and the Earth wasn’t made for human kind. But we act that way. We may not be able to avoid the sun brightening in a billion years, but let’s not do anything to accelerate the process, thank you.

Being a late middle-ager myself, I identify with the good old Planet Earth. I know that if I’m not careful, I won’t make it to the end of my optimal life span. Unlike me though, Earth will make it, somehow, to the end. Earth will be here, in some form, when the switch is flipped and sunlight goes off. Life forms will not be so lucky.

So, “Save the Earth” seems to be the wrong motto. I think it should be “Keep Earth Habitable.” Only by paying attention to and mitigating human impact on the atmosphere and the complex interactions of systems that affect it will we be able to take full advantage of the next billion years.

So, here’s to another five hours on the clock. Here’s to a foot-long fingernail. Here’s to some really thick paint. Here’s to a full life and a ripe old age – for me and for my good buddy Planet Earth.

Name Calling

2009-09-07T12:26:00.000-04:00

Most of public discourse these days is conducted through labeling and name-calling. If you don’t agree with someone, just call them a name – socialist, right-wing nut, extremist, communist – and on.

It reminds me of when I was a kid. My brother and I found it too tedious use full words in the escalating war of name calling, so we resorted to initials. Of course, we had to have periodic rational discourse to negotiate the meaning of any initials added to the alphabet soup. Otherwise, the insult just wouldn’t have the intended punch.

The core insult got up to 14 letters something like: XXXXXXXSPCCRFX. The six letters before the last X stood for “spoiled privileged character crummy rat fink." The X'ed-out letters reflected our ignorance as children. I still remember them, as I’m sure my brother does, but I won’t repeat them. I now know better.

When I was in college, I was taught to have an open mind, to consider other perspectives on issues, to be tolerant of other viewpoints. If that’s still taught, we’re not learning it.

Why? Beyond making fame and fortune for the few, what’s the instrumentality for the perpetuation of society and civilization in staking out provocative and polarizing positions? Have we all forgotten how to think and talk to each other?

The debate over national health care continues. There are five bills in congress and the white house is poised to stake out a position this week. As an HR professional, I’ve been watching and dealing with escalating health-care premiums, cost shifting and employer medical plan benefit design for over 25 years. I’ve been listening to the debate and watching things get worse. In the 80’s there were 30 million uninsured now there are 47 million. Known in-efficiencies have not been addressed. People get locked into jobs they don’t want or can’t do because they can’t lose medical coverage. It really needs to be fixed. The problem is someone’s ox gets gored in the fixing process. But in the long run, our collective ox is gored by continuation of the status quo.

I don’t know what the solution is. In the 90’s I asked a Wharton professor who specialized in employer-provided benefit plans, “How should a private employer best position itself in the turbulent environment for employer-provided medical insurance.” His answer was, “I don’t know, and if I don’t know, nobody knows.” I think that’s still true.

So, let’s stop the name calling, let’s grow up, open our minds, have civil discourse and solve the problem without fatally goring anyone’s ox. Let’s take the long view and do what’s best for those who come after us. Not just for healthcare but for life, community and civilization. It’s a lot more productive than thinking up new insulting names or initials.

Fading Memory

2009-08-24T21:02:00.000-04:00

For some reason, my mom can’t view my blog. When she clicks on the link, she gets an “illegal operation” error of some sort. When she finally can get on and read this, I know it will be OK – she has a sense of humor – as does my wife, who, I think, is the punch-line of this story.

My wife and daughter recently made a trip to visit my mom. I had to work, so I couldn’t join them. As I was getting ready for bed that night, I asked my wife, “How was mom?”

“I’m worried,” she said. “She told me the same exact story within ten minutes.”

“Oh,” I said. “What was the story about?”

“I don’t remember,” she said.

We both got one of those too-rare belly laughs from the irony of this exchange. We could all use more. Life is pretty absurd, after all.

Not Worrying But Flourshing

2009-08-07T22:02:00.000-04:00

“What worries you, masters you.” John Locke

What’s been mastering me over the last three months is building that darn grandfather clock. It was, as we used to say in the orchestra, “an octave above my salary” (or at least an octave above my skill level!). So, I worried it to completion:

• Are my measurements within 1/32 of an inch?
• Will the pieces go together?
• How will I get the glass made and installed?
• Will the door fit the opening?
• Crap, the door stiles are bowed,what’s going to happen when I install glass?
• Will the clock movement fit?
• If it fits will it run and actually tell time?

Just a small sample, but you get the picture.

There must be some instrumentality in worry, given its breadth of practice. I think it serves us best when it spurs us to take action and address a problem. It serves us badly when it turns into irrational rumination.

“Will the pieces, go together? This is really sloppy, amateurish work. It would be an awful waste to put and expensive clock mechanism in such a shabby case. What if it doesn’t even fit? What if it doesn’t work? What an awful excuse of a human being, I am. Why did I even try to do this...and on….”

Positive Psychology gives us tools to head off rumination before it starts. Positive Psychology is not positive thinking. It’s a new discipline that’s been around for about 10 years. Rather than focusing on what’s wrong with someone and fixing that, as prior psychological practice did, positive psychology focuses on helping humans flourish.

For example, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy is a specific tool from positive psychology to stop rumination and unproductive worrying. It teaches you to stop a negative stream of thought and consciously examine it for fit with reality. If the clock didn’t work, would that by itself really mean I was bad human being? Not really (but I’d probably still feel like one).

Stopping negative thought is important because negative thoughts lead to negative emotions which are twice as powerful as positive emotions. And to flourish, you need to experience positive emotion in the ratio of at least three to one. I learned this from Barbara Fredrickson’s Book, Positivity: http://www.positivityratio.com/index.php.

In her book and website, Fredrickson offers tools and practices to improve one's positive ratio to the three to one level (most people are two to one or lower) and, thereby, flourish.

Bad stuff happens. Bad stuff is real. Practing Fredrickson’s methods, is like making emotional bank deposits, so that one is equipped and resilient when faced with adversity.

While there’s nothing bad going on for me right now, I’m hoping that making these deposits will help me flourish and become a little bit better human being. At least, I’m hoping that I won’t ruminate and fixate on my next grandfather clock-like project (which turned out OK, after all).

Illusory Control

2009-07-31T18:16:00.000-04:00

We humans think we can control things – we think we’re in charge. It probably goes back to about 12,000 years ago when we began to settle down, domesticate animals and grow our own food. But 12,000 years is not much of a track record for running things on a 4.6 billion year old planet with living organism going back 3 billion years. In that kind of a timeframe, we’re just a blip on the screen. So while we think we’re in charge now, we aren’t. It’s just illusory control.

That control is illusory is all too clear with the economic mess we’re living through. A lot of smart people thought that they had economic theory and financial risk management all figured out. But financial institutions tumbled like decks of cards and the economy isn’t behaving according to plan.

Mutual fund companies routinely disclose that “past performance is not a guarantee of future results.” As Blanche used to say on The Bickersons, “You say it, but you don’t mean it.” Analyst foist prolific investment advice, all “back-tested” with how it would have turned out if a prescient person had scrupulously followed the advice over prior decades. And although all advice ends with the ubiquitous disclaimer, they don’t mean it (the disclaimer, that is).

The reality is that we’re perpetually in uncharted territory – not just in finances but in life. We look to history as a guide to the future – as if the world were a totally predictable place. It isn’t.

By nature I’m a controller and a planner. Although I’ve mellowed with age, I still suffer from the illusion that I can control my future. But, I know that, in spite of my plans and actions, my health, my lifespan, my finances, my employment are all at the control of a multitude of other influences, factors and people.

The thing I’m trying to plan and control right now is my employment – a year from now. I’m filling a temporary role and don’t know what lies beyond. In the face of this uncertainty, I want to hold onto what I have with a death-grip. (Compared to how things could be in these times and at this stage of my life, it’s not much of a problem, but it’s all that I’ve got. I’m grateful for that!)

While admitting relative powerlessness sounds depressing, it really isn’t. We humans are extremely adaptable and opportunistic, too. And the world is a dynamic place with twists, turns, adventure and synchronicity. So, my advice to me is to embrace uncertainty. Like a trapeze artist, lose the death grip, let go of the swing, fly through the air, and go for the catch. If you miss, though, it’s no big deal -- just bounce in the net, climb the ladder and give it another go.

I say it, but I don’t mean it.

This employment uncertainty is a metaphor for me at this stage of my life – looking to transition into a post-employment world (whenever and whatever that will be) -- and all the uncertainty this part of life brings. I’ve written myself a two line mantra to help remember how to live through these days and, perhaps, for the rest of my life. It morphed into a poem:

Laugh and live life above the fray,
Savor the gift of each moment and day.
The past is prologue but not a script,
The future’s unwritten, adventure encrypt.

So, be curious, be grateful, stay fluid and wonder
Throw fear, care and worry aside and asunder
Laugh and live life above the fray,
Savor the gift of each moment and day.

Who knows, maybe someday, I’ll both say it and mean it!

First Encounters

2009-07-25T03:01:00.000-04:00

In the Spring 2009 issue of American Heritage, Colin Galloway wrote about New York Native Americans first encounter with Europeans. In the article, he has a side-bar reprint of a section of John Gottlieb Ernest Heckwelder’s book, Account of the History, Manners and Customs of the Indian Nations, Who Once Had Inhabited Pennsylvania. The excerpt recounts the Native American story of encountering Henry Hudson and his ship. Heckwelder’s book was published in 1819, but, according the article, the account was written in 1760, so it’s pretty contemporary. You can download a digital copy of the book if you like:

http://www.archive.org/details/histmannerscust00heckrich

Heckwelder (or maybe Heckewelder), was a Moravian missionary who spent much of his life with Native American tribes. The thing that impresses about this account is how contemporary it sounds. We tend to think that modern humans are somehow more intelligent than our ancestors. But I’ve read that humans have had the same basic level of intelligence for the last 5,000 plus years.

When I read contemporaneous writing, whether it’s Tacitus talking about the viciousness of Germanic Tribes around AD 100, or an Indian Tribe account of the first encounter with Europeans in 1609, I can almost hear a present day conversation. To show you what I mean, here’s how I think the story in Heckwelder’s excerpt would read today.

*******

“What the heck is that thing swimming (or is it floating) way out there -- straight out on the horizon?”

“Beats me! Let’s get some others and see if they know what the heck it is.”

So they ran back to the village as fast as they could and got others to come back with them and figure out what it could be. Once everyone saw it, though, they couldn’t agree. Some thought it was an extremely large fish or other animal. Some thought it was a large floating house. Whatever it was, it was getting closer. “We need to sound the alarm and bring up all the warriors.”

The now larger group gathered and watched the mysterious object approach. As it got closer, all agreed it was a large canoe or house upon which the Supreme Being, himself, was coming for a visit.

By this time the leaders of the different tribes were assembled, deliberating on how to receive the Supreme Being on his arrival. Plenty of meat was prepared, idols and images were inspected and put in good order and a grand dance was planned to entertain and, just in case he was angry, appease the Great Spirit.

The forecasters were also hard at work trying to figure out what this visit meant and what would come of it. Everyone, including the leaders, was looking to these wise folks -- both for advice and for protection.

Between hope, fear and confusion, the dance began. Fresh runners arrived confirming that it was a floating house and crowded with living creatures. It was now certain that the Supreme Being was bringing some kind of never-before-seen game to them. But wait! The second group of runners confirmed it’s a large house, all right, but not full of game. It’s full of funny colored people with a strange sense of fashion! One in particular looks totally red! This one must be the Supreme Being, himself.

The funny colored people, soon started yelling from the floating house, but no one could understand what they were saying. People got scared and ran for the woods, but the leaders got everyone back. No use offending the Supreme Being. “If he gets angry, he’ll just destroy us.”

Finally the floating house stopped and a small canoe came ashore with the red man and some others in it. The leaders had made a large circle into which the red man and two other entered.

The read man greeted the leaders in a friendly way and the leaders returned the gesture. The group was awed by the color of his skin and dress. “He must be the Great Sprit,” they thought, “but why is his skin so white?” “What does he want?”

At that moment one of his servants brought out a large gourd, poured a small glass of something and gave it to the Great Sprit. He drank it and had another glass poured. The Great Sprit then handed the glass to one of the leaders who smelled it and passed it around to the other leaders who all did that same. No one dared taste it!

Just as it was about to be returned to the Great Sprit, a brave member of the crowd jumped forward. “You idiots!” he says. “You’re supposed to drink it! If you don’t you may anger the Great Spirit and he’ll wipe us all out!”

“I may die, but I’ll drink it to save the rest of you.” He then took the glass, and saying his farewell to all, drank all of it. Every eye watched as he began to stagger and then drop to the ground. There he lay – very still. But, in a moment he was back up and declaring the stuff pretty darn good. In fact he said he never felt better! “I wonder if the Great Spirit would share a little more,” he says. The Great Spirit does. The whole assembly partakes and gets wasted.

******

Everyone knows how this turned out. Four hundred years later, a native population of 20 million is gone, along with a richness of cultures, stories, religious beliefs and knowledge. We have only fragments left.

Much of this loss was unintentional – the result of the susceptibility of Native Americans to European diseases. But much was intentional – concerted efforts to exterminate beliefs, culture and race. What a loss. And, in hindsight, incredibly ignorant.

Hindsight is the operative word, though. It’s always clearer looking back. The question for us is, what ignorant things are we now doing that our successors will find as incredulous as we find the extermination of such a rich vein of human experience. Time will tell.

Diesels and Tranquiltiy

2009-07-18T03:01:00.001-04:00

“…I went out and ran the excavator with lights until the sun came up. To me, and I suspect no one else on earth, there is something wonderful about listening to country music playing in the cab, air conditioner running, the hum of a huge diesel engine in the background, the tranquility that comes with being in a virtual wilderness of trees and marsh, the day breaking and vibrant pink coming alive in the morning clouds — and getting to build something with each scoop of dirt.”

This is part of an e-mail from Mark Sanford, the governor South Carolina, to his mistress. I find it interesting for several reasons.

First, why am I reading this personal communication and why does it surprise me that these Greek tragedies keep unfolding? Between Governor Mark Sanford, Senator John Ensign, Former Governor Elliot Spitzer and Quarterback Steve McNair, for example, marital infidelity, hypocrisy and disastrous outcomes among the politically powerful or famous are not exactly uncommon.

One answer to why I pay attention is cited in Eduardo Porter’s editorial in the July 3rd New York Times. It surprised me that a recent Gallup poll of adults reported 92% finds affairs morally wrong. Even more surprising was that the approval rating for adultery has not been greater than 9% over the last decade. These statistics just don’t seem to jive with behavior we read and hear about every day. I guess we think more conservatively than we act.

The jarring thing, though, from this distasteful venture in voyeurism, is not the affair and its consequences. That’s all too predictable and common. The jarring thing is the email excerpt quoted above. Just how disconnected from the natural world can we get, if we need an air conditioned cocoon, country music and the roar of a “huge diesel engine” to appreciate tranquility? The planet is doomed!

Building a Grandfather Clock

2009-07-11T08:04:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, I’m not musing at all, just doing. When I tackle a project, it just won’t let me go until it gets to some stage of completion. With my woodworking projects that’s usually about 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning after some marathon attempt. The latest example is my tall case (grandfather ) clock. It didn’t keep me up until 2:00 AM, but it did almost suck up my entire week of vacation.

Like Seinfeld says about his parents moving to Florida after retirement, “They didn’t want to do it, but it was the law,” I think it’s the law that old farts build grandfather clocks. Every picture I found of a home-built clock had a beaming old fart standing beside it. So, about mid-Spring I ordered the plans for the Harland clock from Klockit and held on for the ride.

The plans were complex. The required skill level for the project was well above mine. I don’t know how many hours I spent just trying to understand the drawings. Somehow, though I muddled through, with a little strategic help from my plan-reading wife and the extra hands and brain of my son-in-law. I made a lot of mistakes in making the case. I recovered from most of them and learned a lot from the project which I’ll apply to the grandfather clock I build next … well…never.

It’s not done yet. I still have finishing and installation to do. But the case is built, and I can see that it’s going to work. So, I’m out of the grip of obsession. Until the next project, anyway.

Confabulation, Meaning and My Limbic Brain

2009-07-01T03:01:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I wonder why I feel less driven to achieve at this stage of my life than I was when I was younger. Achievements just don’t seem to be as important. I’m relieved to read that this is normal. More than one author talks about the first half of life being about achievement while the second half of life (if you can call 58 a half-way point) being about addressing meaning.

As to meaning, I read an interesting perspective on this in the August 13, 2008 issue of Positive Psychology News Daily (http://pos-psych.com/) written by George Vaillant. He talks about our limbic brains. Maybe you know what this means, but I had to look it up.

Our limbic brain is the primitive, reptilian part of the brain resting on top of the brain stem. It even looks like a reptile (or, better, a salamander) from the side view. It controls our emotions and our flight or fight response. Vaillant’s proposition is that meaning comes from this part of our brain, not the cognitive part. He says that most think that meaning comes from having purpose, values, efficacy (a belief you can make a difference) and self-worth. But, he also says, “Don’t believe everything you think.” Meaning really comes from positive emotions – love, compassion, hope, awe, gratitude, trust and joy.

This is consistent with the analogy Jonathan Haidt uses in The Happiness Hypothesis. He says that our conscious minds are like the rider on an elephant. The elephant (our unconscious) makes all the decisions while the rider acts as the elephant’s attorney to confabulate conscious reasons for what the elephant does.

Kathryn Britton reported an illuminating perspective on this in the January 30, 2008 issue of Positive Psychology News Daily. Britton summarized Mihaly Csikszentmihalvi’s talk on the evolution of the mind:

· 2 million years BCE: Learning, liberation from genetically determined behavior
· 1 MY BCE: Shared experience, knowledge mediated by tools, memes shaping behavior, liberation from limitations of our own experience
· 50,000 BCE: Language, expanded transmission of memes, liberation from terror of death
· 10,000 BCE: Urban revolution, information shared across occupations and ethnic cultures, liberation from tribal determinism, start of individuality
· 5000 BCE: Encoded information, memes codified in writing, proto-science, liberation from limits of memory, start of idea of progress
· 1400 BCE: Appearance of great religions all over the world, bridges to supreme power, start of belief in human primacy
· 1900 CE: Apogee of belief in human primacy, liberation from restraints leading to sense of hubris and entitlement
· 1900-2000 CE: Two senseless world wars, irrational ideologies, liberation from self-serving illusions of superiority leading to nihilism and despair.

(I also had to look up “memes.” According to Dictionary.com, a meme is “a cultural item that is transmitted by repetition in a manner analogous to the biological transmission of genes.”)

The point of all of this for me is to, first, trust my limbic brain more and my cognition less. Second it’s to cultivate positive emotions as a pathway to meaning versus, reasoning my way there. As Valliant says, “The essence of finding meaning is not to think more (or less) of ourselves but to think of ourselves less.” I’ll try not to think about that.

Our Town Momments

2009-06-27T03:01:00.000-04:00

Most of the time, I’m oblivious to the magic moments of life. But every once and awhile, however briefly, I come to and appreciate the beauty of a moment. Rarely, I try to capture the moment. I think of them as “Our Town” moments – analogous to Emily’s experience in the Thornton Wilder play when she’s given the opportunity return from death to visit and really see the beauty and love packed into what just seems like an ordinary day.

*******

Written: September 9, 2000

At the football game last night, I realized this was Sarah’s first high school marching band experience. I don’t know why, but I got all choked up. Marcia asked me a question that, had I tried to do more than grunt an answer, I would have ended up blubbering. I don’t know why it affected me this way. Perhaps it’s because my little girl’s growing up. Or maybe it’s just the beauty of ordinary things like playing in a band at a football game. At the time you don’t realize how precious these moments are. I certainly didn’t realize it when it was me on the field. What’s happening now that’s just as precious and just as unnoticed? Whatever. All I know is my emotions were trying to tell me something important.

*******

Written: April 11, 2003

Sarah and Marcia went to Myrtle Beach for a band and chorus contest last week. Howard High bands and choruses came in 1st place in about every category. When I went to pick them up, I got choked up. Why?

It just seemed like one of those magical moments Thornton Wilder talks about in “Our Town.” An ordinary moment so beautiful you can’t stand it. The return of the conquering heroes -- oblivious to how proud they’ve made the hometown folks.

I also realized that I was the one on the bus 35 years ago. My parents and grandparents were the proud hometown folks and I was the oblivious one. Except for my mom, the hometown folks are gone. How sad we don’t appreciate these extraordinary ordinary moments.

Sarah, I’m so proud of you. You take your talent for granted and don’t realize how special you are. I hope I find the right moment to tell you this soon. A moment when you’re not oblivious, as I was. And a moment while I’m still here.

******

Written: May 30, 2003

Here I am in West Lebanon, New Hampshire sitting in Emily’s new apartment.

The move-in is tomorrow at 10:00. After packing the truck with two hired guns (high school boys friends of Sarah) last night, I left for the 500-mile trek at 6:00 A.M. this morning. I made good time and everything went well until I tried to park the car at Emily’s house. I dinged her (my) Stratus with the truck and busted out the taillight. Oh well, it could have been a lot worse. I’m just thankful that, my truck, my load and I made it up here with no major incidents or speeding tickets.

It may be a stretch, but there’s a rough parallel with my own graduation. My Grandfather Brown got into a fender bender trying to turn onto Green Street after my graduation. I wasn’t even around, but I felt guilty for “causing” it by graduating. I’m sure that thought never even occurred to Granddad Brown

The toughest part of the move was earlier though -- packing up Emily’s childhood. I had no idea she saved so much stuff. The treasures she saved brought back a flood of memories. For example, the fish stick. I had no idea she had saved it. It was a stick I carved when we camped out at Greentop with the Indian Princesses. Emily must have been six or seven. The stick ended up looking like an eel. Emily had painted it bright colors like a totem.

Besides the fish stick, there were special rocks, the plastic Halloween pumpkin (used to collect candy), stuffed animals, dolls, the heart shaped candle I brought back from California (with Sarah’s one-year-old teeth marks in it – she thought it was food), and books – tons of books.

The sad part is her childhood is gone forever. And so is mine. It seems only a short while ago that I was packing up my own childhood to move into an apartment with my brother, Dennis. I’m sad for the end of Emily’s beautiful childhood, of the passing of her little girl laughter and of my fleeting memories of it all. I’m sad for the accelerating passing of time. And I’m worried about Emily starting out in the world without her training wheels (but we’re still holding the back of the bike even if she doesn’t know it). I pray above all she will be happy.

The sadness will be there, but it won’t take center stage in the coming week. Tomorrow should be a blast unloading the truck with Emily and her friends and setting up her apartment with a truckload of furniture. And then, graduation next week. It’s family time, and time to be proud of Emily. She’s turned out to be a beautiful human being. What a joy for Marcia and me. Who could ask for anything more.

******

Written: June 9, 2004

There are times that I can’t talk. There are times that I get so overcome that I can’t say what I want to say without breaking up. So, I just don’t say it. What sets me off and what is this trying to tell me? Somewhere there’s a clue in these emotional triggers.

This happened to me twice recently. Last week I was talking to Emily about her visit to Grafton Vermont to the school where she will be teaching first grade. She talked about meeting the kindergarten class who will be her 1st grade class next year. She spoke of seeing her classroom for the first time. Most important she expressed her sense of awe in the realization that she has job and will really be teaching next year. I think the last part hit is what hit a nerve. It’s part pride in Emily that she’s got a great start in life. And I think it’s part remembering the experience of another 23-year-old -- me.

Talking about awe, 30 years later I’m still amazed that I got the BSO job. It was an incredible feat for an underdog to win a blind audition against experienced players. I guess Emily’s start brings back those memories and makes me realize just how special and life changing that time was.

Sunday, I was talking to my cousin, Tim Brown, at Uncle Earl’s viewing (he died last Friday at age 80). I related to him how Dad worshiped his big brother, Earl. This brought forth a flood of emotions. Simultaneously, I could hear my Dad’s voice telling me, when I was about five, how important it is for me to be a good big brother, to have my little brother look up to me.

I could hear my father tell his favorite uncle Early stories: “I’d walk a mile for a Camel. Warren, walk up to the store and buy me a package of cigarettes.” “Where do you want me to dig?” (Dad points with his foot, Earl shovels on the top of Dad’s foot resulting in a bloody foot soaking in a pail of water – Grandma Brown’s universal remedy.)

Most of all, I could feel what a good and simple man my Dad was, I could hear his laughter and I guess I missed him. Maybe this is a simplified and romanticized memory. But it tells me, I’m still mourning. All in all, I don’t think this makes me an unusually emotional person. And I don’t think these emotions are inappropriate. But it makes me realize that I do have them. And it’s not a bad thing.

*******

Written: May 28, 2007

We’re back from a visit north to hear a Sarah’s symphony concert and spend some time with Matt and Emily. It was a very nice weekend and a great thing to do a little more than a month prior to Matt and Emily’s wedding.

Related to the wedding, I feel I should try to capture some thoughts in a letter to Emily at this milestone in her and Marcia and my lives. But somehow, it doesn’t feel right. She’s had 26 years of me and I don’t think I could say anything except how proud we are of her and happy for her. Maybe that’s enough and worth writing. I’ll give that a try at some point prior to 7/7.

Thursday prior to the trip to Vermont and New Hampshire, I took a field trip to visit my company’s property in Monroe, NC. An interesting thing happened in the Charlotte airport. A group of young air force personnel returning home from Afghanistan and Iraq were on my flight. No one even noticed them at the BWI, the departing airport. But when we “deplaned” (boy, I hate that word) in Charlotte, it was a lot different.

I was in the last seat of the plane and they were right around me. As I left the plane and started walking down the terminal, I heard spontaneous applause break out. As we progressed toward the main terminal, it sounded like a quick moving spring shower following the small troop's progress. I couldn’t see them, but I knew where they were by the tracking applause.

How simple and how wonderful a display of appreciation. It takes me back to a, perhaps mythical, simpler time when people appreciated those who risked their lives on someone else’s behalf. It made me well-up. I don’t quite know why that got to me, but it did.

******

Other things like this move me:

• The graduating class at Dartmouth singing the school song, arms around each other’s shoulders and swinging side to side with the music
• The description of the spontaneous salute Lee’s troops gave him as he returned from surrendering to Grant.

There’s a common thread to explore here somewhere. Perhaps it’s simply the un-noticed, unappreciated and, sometimes, unbearable beauty and joy of the gift of life. Thornton Wilder got it right.

Slow is Good and Good is Fast

2009-06-24T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: March, 22 2005

Slow is good and good is fast.

The first time I heard this said, I had to stop and think. It’s a mind bender!

I was working with my glass-blowing partner, Robb, trying to make an incalmo piece for the first time. He brought me his side of the piece too hot. When I tried to join it to my side, his part sagged out of shape and made it impossible to get a seal. I heated the resulting mess several times and finally got a seal. (I think I primarily did this because Robb said it would be impossible.) The resulting piece was a mess.. I went on to put a foot on it, fold over the lip and spin it out. I learned a lot from it, but the most important lesson was after the piece was done.

Michael, a former sheet metal worker and amazing glass artist provided a little coaching. He relayed something someone had said to him in his prior profession. “Slow is good and good is fast.” By that he meant, if the piece is too hot, send it back and let it cool. If it's not the right shape or size, heat it up and tune it up. By being hasty, by rushing, by hurrying we make mistakes and lose time. That's more than a glass blowing lesson for me. My tendency is to try to do things fast. Too fast is half fast (if you get my drift).

Slow down, take the time, savor the moment. It reminds me of something Dr. Higgins, a music education professor used to encourage his students to do. “Waste paper,” he used to say. This was heresy after 12 years of public school teachers exhorting students to do just the opposite. But it made sense. The most important thing was the musical creation, not that it was done on a single sheet of paper.

Waste paper, waste time. Slow is good and good is fast. The dichotomy is that in slowing down, in wasting time you actually save it. You're fully present in the moment -- whether you're by yourself or with another. After all, what are we going to do with all the time we're saving, anyway?

Employability at 50

2009-06-20T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: September 17, 2000

Next week at this time I’ll hit the big 5-Oh. What does it mean? Really nothing. It’s just a number.

Having said that, I admit, I’ve spent a lot of time fretting over this “just a number” this year. Yesterday, I realized why. It’s not so much it’s meaningful to me, but that 50 (and beyond) has a connotation for others that affects me in the employment market. So, it’s not what I think about it, but what I think others think about it and how I think their thoughts can affect my employability.

Having said that, I have to realize that what others think is out of my control. My employability is affected by many things I can’t change -- height, race, sex, baldness -- and things I can change, but don’t want to -- my philosophy of treating people with dignity and respect and developing people in their jobs.

So, as long as I can find work in some capacity to meet the needs of my family, the age thing just doesn’t matter. 50, 60, 70 -- 90, 100 are just numbers. What matters is health, love, spirituality and intellectual curiosity. As long as you have these, you’re still living vigorously. Without any of them you’re dead regardless of the number of chronological miles on your odometer.

Patience

2009-06-13T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: November 4, 2003

A month or so ago, I forgot my headphones to plug into the TV monitors at the gym. It was interesting to watch the five monitors, each tuned to a different station, while I worked-out. The emptiness, and shallowness of program content was startling clear.

Most programming was simply advertisement. Even with 60 or so cable channels, there's no content worth its while. News channels are really just entertainment. The big story one morning on every news broadcast was Madonna giving a passionate lesbian kiss to Brittany Spears at some celebrity awards ceremony. Who cares! This is news?

The popular press, TV and radio are filled with sex (we'll I guess it's not all bad), formulaic quick fixes for every problem and blatant commercials. I know I sound like a really old fart, but it all seems pretty valueless. The popular culture is shallow and has no attention span.

Ten years or so ago, I used to go to the monthly men's breakfast at church to (even though I didn't know it at the time) soak up wisdom from the older guys. Mac Whittamore delivered one program that stuck with me. He talked about our impatient, instant, society. Instant coffee, instant breakfast...instant answers. That's what strikes me today. There's a (something less than 10-step) formula that offers a quick, simple solution for every complex problem under the sun.

I'm a product of my times. I lack patience and want instant results. Yet, in my saner moments, I know there are no short cuts, no quick fixes. In the long run, slow, patient tenacity produces durable results.

So, patience, Dan. Savor every day. A little less connection with mass media will help!

Irritants

2009-06-10T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: January 28, 2007

Irritants irritate. Right now it’s the plumbing system. We lost water pressure Saturday. It’s amazing how much that affects – heating, hot water, cleaning, bathing. It sure makes you appreciate the invisible convenience of good plumbing.

Oh well, I found a work around the problem (by bi-passing the water softening system where I think the problem is) and we’ve got a call into the plumber. Meanwhile, all I can do is to wait for things to be resolved.

Seems like there’s always something to worry about. Seems like there’s always something to fix. Seems like there’s always some complex problem. I guess that’s just life.

My illusion, is that there would be no plumbing problems, complex bureaucracies to deal with (medical insurance claims, building permit mazes, IRS, you name it). Life would just be a series of deep thoughts, relaxation and fun. That’s unrealistic, of course, yet there’s a part of it that isn’t.

Life is about encountering and solving problems. That’s the way it’s always been. The difference is today, the problems aren’t as life threatening as they were for our ancestors. Advances mean that we live longer and better than generations that came before. Our worries are typically, not a matter of survival, mostly, just inconvenience. For the most part, we deal with complexity and bureaucracy, not carnage and brutality. So, the false part of my illusion is there will be a time when there are no more irritants, no more trivial problems -- just peace, deep thoughts and joy.

But the true part of my illusion is that I can recognize irritants are inevitable. My insight is that I make them worse by failing to recognize this and by adding time pressure and by trying to resolve them as soon as possible – muscling them to resolution. There’s almost always more time to fix something than my mental model says there is.

So here’s the advice. Irritants happen. Give them time to fix themselves on their own schedule. Don’t rush your life. Meanwhile, don’t delay the peace, pondering and joy of daily life. It’s not when the irritants are gone that joy happens, but during all the irritants. It’s not sequential, but simultaneous. It’s not when – then, but right now. There is time.

Peace.

Life Stories

2009-06-06T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: January 31, 2001

I’ve been meaning to capture this observation for a while -- how we encumber ourselves with unnecessary stories. It came clear to me at the Clarity session I went to last November.

I was in a room with eight strangers for three-and-a-half days. The interviews didn’t start with “tell me about yourself.” I realize now that starting there just tees up all the well-rehearsed, justifications, rationalizations, explanations and excuses we make for ourselves to explain what is in many ways a random series of events leading up to today.

Instead, Michael, the seminar leader, just started with something like “I’m Santa Claus and can give you anything you want. If you could have anything you want, including all the money you need, what would you do.”

It cut through the crap. We didn’t dwell on the past or try to rationalize how we got to where we were. We took the self-imposed barriers off our dreams and looked at them freshly.

The ironic thing is, I probably got to know those folks faster and in more depth in a shorter time than I would have had we done the “personal history” bit. And they got to know me in that same way.

For me it’s freeing, knowing I don’t have to talk about my history, what I do for a living, how I got to where I am or any of that stuff. It’s nice to just be who I am in the moment. And it’s enough.

Dad's Snowman

2009-06-03T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: 1/12/2007

Last Christmas, my nephew, Brian, pointed out a paper snowman hanging on the wall of my brother’s house. It was just a simple set of glued together circles that most of us probably made in kindergarten. The teacher would have cut out everything in advance, given the class instruction, and then (with a lot of adult supervision) let everyone at it to make their own customized creation.

Refrigerator art par excellence.

But this snowman was not built by a kindergartner; it was made by my father at age 74. At least we think it was.

At 74, Dad was pretty far along in his Alzheimer’s trip. He was getting up early (like 3:00 A.M., so he wouldn’t miss the bus), dressing himself (in two pairs of pants and two or three shirts) and spending the day in adult daycare. One day he came home with his shirt stuffed with paper snowmen. We don’t think he made them all. He just saw that they were available and took advantage of the situation.

Taking advantage of free stuff was in Dad’s nature and nourished by his job as a DC policeman. I don’t remember all the free stuff he brought home, but even though he was a teetotaler, we had bottles of hard liquor in the house. (And one time, a bottle under the front seat of the station wagon which inconveniently broke right before a church camping trip.)

So this paper snowman has value far beyond its function as a simple decoration for the season. It reminds us of Dad. It reminds us of his delight with bringing home free stuff to pass out. And it reminds us of his best moments – filled with humor, laughter and joy. So, we no longer have Dad, but his snowman lives on and with it our memories Dad and of times gone by.

Forgiveness

2009-05-30T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: June 14, 2004

Forgiveness. This was the topic of Beth’s sermon this week. She said an interesting thing: “In order to forgive others, you must first forgive yourself.” That got me thinking (again).

First, is there anyone that I have not forgiven? And, second, for what do I need to forgive myself?

I don’t believe that I harbor grudges. I believe I’ve gotten pretty good at forgiving people. In my conscious mind, I can’t think of anyone I need to forgive. If I probe a little, though, I can bring up people who may have “wronged” me, from a prior employer. I think I even have a little emotion around them and the fact that my career goals were thwarted there. The reality is that any roadblock they created launched me on to better things. I grew as an HR executive and have since, had the experience as the top HR executive in two different firms. Let it go, Dan.

But the bigger question is for what do I need to forgive myself? I didn’t have a clue a few minutes ago, but I think I know now.

I need to forgive myself for not being perfect. More, I need to forgive myself for not being perfect in every way. I’ve never thought of myself as a perfectionist, but on some level, it’s there. I need to be in perfect condition and at my ideal weight. I need to be a perfect executive, serve my community and the generations ahead. Nothing I do is good enough. I’m always driven to do better.

Being driven to do better is fine, but beating myself up for not being perfect is not. I forgive myself now, for being the imperfect man that I am. I don’t expect others to be perfect and I’m no different from others in my imperfections. I’m human.

There may be more, but this seems to be the crux of it. So, forgive. Live in joy and abundance, serving where you can and being content in your service.

A Consequential Life

2009-05-27T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: September 3, 2007

Living a consequential life. That’s what George Washington was trying to do. (I think he did it.)

I read in a Smithsonian article today that that’s what honor and fame meant to 18th century gentlemen including Washington and Lafayette. But what does that mean for today’s human beings?

There are a lot more of us than there were in Washington’s day. How do you live a consequential life with more than 6 billion people on the planet today? Earlier in my life, I felt a drive to make a difference in the world. Now nearing my 57th year on the planet, I’m not so ambitious. I’m more content and complacent. And more appreciative.

I’m appreciative for the love of my family and the opportunity to work. I’m appreciative for my health and my new found creative outlet of woodworking. I’m appreciative of Emily and Matt finding each other and joining together on life’s journey. I’m appreciative of Sarah’s growing into a woman and finding her way in life. Life is good.

But what can I do to live a consequential life? I can “play the hand I’m dealt” and try to contribute to making my employer a better company. I can write a little – perhaps a blog with a monthly contribution to start. I can sing and entertain others – the quartet is starting again. And I can build things to leave behind.

Maybe that’s all you can ask. There are monumental problems to be solved, but somehow, at this point in my life, I’m not up to solving them. But for now, as I become aware of the finality of time, I want to just enjoy my life and each day. And by living each day, contribute where I can to making the world a little better place for future generations. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s consequential.

Transitions Part - II

2009-05-23T03:01:00.000-04:00

Ever work for a company that’s being sold? It gets you to the bottom of Malov’s hierarchy pretty fast as the foundation of your economic security crumbles like sand.

In late December, 2005, we learned that the company was being sold. From then on, it was a day by day adventure (including a public bidding war) until the deal finally closed at the end of March 2006.

Here are a couple of examples of attempts to write myself off the window ledge during that time.

Written: February 5, 2006

Beth always gives good and thought-provoking sermons. I wonder how she can be so consistently inspired! Two phrases she used today caught my ear – “wounded healers” and “hard-won wisdom.”

The first phrase captures the fact that we have all suffered in life and recovered. Like a broken bone, an emotional, spiritual or even economic wound heals stronger. And we can use that strength to help others who are experiencing a loss or trial similar to one we have had and overcome. That ties into the phrase that really jumped out for me – “hard-won wisdom.”

I think almost all wisdom is hard-won. And the older we get, the more opportunities we’ve had to screw up and recover, and the more time we’ve had to heal open wounds. That’s why through the ages (in most cultures) wisdom has been associated with old age.

The ironic thing for me, as I arrive at my 55th year on the planet, is I’m starting to feel I have more, not less time. I can usually fit what I need to get done easily in the time I have for it. I’m living a pretty full and varied life. I have time to work-out, write a little, blow glass and quartet. With all of this, I can still handle a pretty complex job and serve on a couple of volunteer boards.

So why am I reflecting on this? It’s because I’m at another fork in the road in my working life. I had penciled in my calendar to evaluate my job and my career before I turned 55. I did that, and decided to be complacent with the status quo. Six months later circumstances outside my control are compelling me to re-examine that decision. And it’s a great time in my life to do this.

The company is for sale and the latest bid by another multi-family real estate operator says my job is toast. The bidding company already has all the functions we have in Baltimore, so they could squeeze about $9.0 million of payroll cost and $350k office rent out of operating expense by closing our office. This they surely would do – maybe not right away – but within a year the Baltimore office and most jobs are toast.

My job over the next 45 days or so is to do what I can to help others in the company sort out next steps and to facilitate his or her and the company’s transition. And it’s also to start winding down my affairs and looking to the future. It’s a little scary not knowing what the future holds, but it’s an opportunity – an opportunity to find something that really turns me on and that enables me to use my highest and best skills to give back to the world a little.

*******

Written: March 21, 2006

I only write when I’m feeling pain. When I’m feeling well, it’s just a strain.

Today, I’ve finally started to feel the sadness of winding down the company. I did a good thing today, by negotiating severance for the two project managers who had offers from the new employer but didn’t want to go. But I felt no jubilation. It was the right answer, but it came too late and with too much pain. The home office employees are despondent, angry and sad. And the field employees are scared but complacent. I think it will only get worse for them once the deal closes and they are employees of the new company.

So, I had a sense of ennui and sadness today. I just wasn’t excited about all the packing I needed to do to clear out my office. Somehow, that just doesn’t seem like a productive task. Oh well, those are the cards I’m dealt. It’s natural to be sad under these circumstances.

*******

The deal closed, the company was sold and has since been liquidated. My colleagues and I went on to new employment. Interestingly, three years later, many of us are on our second post-purchase employer. We humans are a resilient bunch!

Loving Your Work

2009-05-20T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: Monday, June 14, 2004

At Uncle Earl’s viewing, my cousin Tim said to me that, Uncle Earl "loved his work." That’s not something everyone can say.

That got me thinking. My dad said something similar to Emily once. Emily had the mistaken notion for a homework assignment that she was to interview someone and write a bio. I suggested she talk to my dad. It was before his Alzheimer’s had been diagnosed and Dad was still pretty lucid. I listened in on the interview on another phone. Dad said, "he loved his work. Every day was different. It went by so fast." I took from the last statement that he was not just talking about his day, but his entire career.

The question is did they really love their work so much while they were doing it, or did it just look better in the rear view mirror? Did the perspective of retirement romanticize what they did every day and how they felt about it?

I think in both cases, they really loved their work. Uncle Earl was a train engineer for 47 years, after all. And Dad took another law enforcement related job after retiring from the police department. I know not every day was a fun day for him, but I think he liked going into work, socializing with the officers and just having a good time. He was a sociable guy.

So, here’s the question, do I love my work? As a musician, I certainly loved what I was doing. Initially, anyway. It didn’t feel like work to “play” my tuba. Eventually, this work got to be routine, though, so I left the orchestra for other challenges. In HR, I had a passion and a drive to do more, learn more and come up to speed. I liked the systems work and organizational culture challenges. I still do.

I guess what’s missing now is a passion for my work. I enjoy it, but don’t love it. My passion has shifted to glassblowing, which I do as often as I can. So, do I love my work? No. But it’s an integrated piece of my life. And life is pretty good right now -- nice work, a chance for artistic expression (barbershop singing and glassblowing), a chance to build something (the house and the new office space build-out), good friends and a loving family. Do I love my work? No, but I do love my life.

Isn’t that even better?

Transitions - Part I

2009-05-16T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: September 10, 2000

Mike’s sermon today was on transitions. He cited a book by William Bridges -- Transitions: Making Sense of Life’s Changes. Bridges says transitions have 3 phases:

• Endings (disengagement, disidentification, disenchantment, disorientation)
• The Neutral Zone
• The New Beginning.

The neutral zone is a seeming unproductive time when we feel unfocused and undirected. It is a time to surrender, give in to the emptiness and trust in the eternal rhythm of the universe. I think this is another way of saying “let go.” It got me to thinking about other ways to say “let go” to put more meaning into this, for me, over-used thought and expression. So here goes:

Let go, surrender, give up, quit, relax, be, throw in the towel, detach, retreat, resign, release, move on, get a life, get real, whatever, watch and wait.

The final thing about transitions is that when we are ready to make a new beginning, we will shortly find an opportunity. How true this has been for me in the transitions in my life. I have to believe this is a universal law not subject to repeal any time soon.

How reassuring. How comforting.

Bob Lohr

2009-05-13T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: October 11, 2008

Bob Lohr died last Wednesday at 4:30 A.M. I went to his memorial service today. Why? I think it was out of a sense of duty. I was channeling my own Dad – doing my duty -- the right, civic thing.

I found myself moved several times during the service. I was moved by his son’s grief. I was moved by his “son-in-love’s” grief. I know the sense of loss, the hole in the heart feeling from experiencing the loss of my grandmother Huffman (whom I occasionally dream has come back to life -- it was not death, just a medical misunderstanding), my grandfather Brown, my grandfather Huffman, my Dad and, most recently, the loss of my father-in-law, Omar. I re-live that hole in the heart feeling at every memorial service and funeral. And lately there have been too many.

Through all of this, I can’t help but contemplate my own demise and legacy (or lack thereof). What have I contributed? What am I leaving behind? How can I make the future a little bit better for my descendants, in particular, and humanity, in general? Big questions and I don’t know the answers. But I do know that there’s no use waiting for situations, circumstances and events to be perfect before I start to figure this out. Time’s a tickin’.

Finally, I hope that when I go, no one is surprised at who I was. I hope that those who know me at work, home and hobby, all know the same, integrated person. I guess I won’t be around to know.

Omar

2009-05-09T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: December 3, 2007

How did I spend the weekend? In the hospital. Well not like it sounds, but with Marcia visiting her hospitalized father. He’s 89, active and has been in good health until this acute attack of an auto-immune blood problem.

He spoke of death, his father’s death and that it had been a good life, but I don’t think he’s really ready to go, yet. He was too intellectually engaged. But I do worry for him and I know Marcia, her brothers and sister and his wife, Dot, do as well. I think we’re all hoping that his body’s defenses kick back in. I imagine, either way, it won’t be a gradual thing, but sharp turn either for the better (I hope) or for the worse – his body just giving up.

Omar and his family have been good for me. They gave me Marcia who has helped me grow into a better person and showed me what a loving, well-functioning family looks like. It was a great model for raising my two daughters (versus the model I observed growing up in my house.)

In addition to his love, Omar is one of the most intellectually alive people I know. He reads widely and thinks about things. I love having conversations with him. We could always expect to get into a deep family (and in-law) conversation instigated and led by Omar at holiday family gatherings. And, although he’s been slowing down over the last few years, it hasn’t stopped.

It’s been great to know and learn from Omar over the last 37 years or so. I hope we can squeeze out a few more walks and talks before our time together comes to an end. And I hope for more high-quality of life years for Omar. He’s a great role model.

*******

Written: December 7, 2007

So, Omar is dying. I knew this would happen eventually, but not so soon. I was hoping for another 10 years and rooting for him to make it to his goal of living to 100. When I asked about this goal last Saturday at the hospital, he said that he “wasn’t so sure that it was still a goal for him.”

Omar has been a blessing to my life. He gave me Marcia (with a little help from Dot, of course). And he welcomed me into a loving, caring and functional family – not something I had much prior experience with. I have tried to live up to the example that Omar and Dot set for a loving family.

We inherited traditions from Marcia’s family from singing meal graces to vacations in state parks. Many times I thought we were re-living Marcia’s childhood. And I enjoyed it. It healed the open wounds left over from my growing up.

More important, we inherited the traditions of intellectual curiosity and love. Omar was a personification of life-long learning. He was always the first one to read the newest biography, history or political book. After visiting him last Saturday, I started reading his latest book on Eisenhower. On Sunday, we had a nice conversation about it. Omar was sharp as a tack. (And I noticed in reading the book, that he was picking up and correcting all the missed editorial mistakes in the book as he went along.) Omar’s the smartest man I know. I’ll miss these conversations.

Omar was love. Marcia just called me to tell me that Omar is now back at home to die. Once the social worker left, he called everyone into the bedroom. They didn’t know why. It was to sing happy birthday to Dot. Through tears, they sang all three verses (the extra verses are unique to the Buchwalter clan). Even in dying, he’s loving others.

Omar was a champion of social justice. This I know less about, but I do know he marched with Martin Luther King in DC in the 60’s and that he cared passionately about justice throughout his life. He was a dedicated democrat and liberal for as long as I’ve known him and long after it was fashionable to be either. I admire him for the strength of his convictions.

Omar had six lovely children, which is probably enough. And I had a father who loved me (although he wasn’t always so good at showing it). But I also claim Omar as father and I know I’m not the only in-law that has done that, nor the only in-law that has grown as a human for knowing him.

Peace and love, Omar. We will miss you, but not forget you, as long as we live.

BART Brown: 2/11/06 – 1/30/2007, RIP

2009-05-06T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: February 4, 2007

So, less than a year ago I bought BART. He was a shinny, red 2004 Ford F-150 with an extended cab and extended bed. He stood about 6’3” and was wide and long – a Big Ass Red Truck (hence the name).

In the year that I had him, we loaded him with hay to mulch the road, loaded construction debris left behind by the contractor who abandoned my shop construction, trucked manure for the garden and trucked pallets left after moving six tons of stone. He got to take three trips to the dump – high heaven for pickup truck. Two were even necessary – one was just for fun. The fun one was ruined by the dump man making fun of the light load. “You could have just thrown that in your neighbor’s yard,” he said.

But BART was not always a good truck. In his brief life, he lost a side view mirror when he whacked it into a leaning road sign, scraped a car with his right running board trying to avoid rear-ending a car that suddenly stopped, turned and signaled (in that order), scraped his head on some low hanging pipes in the old office garage, backed into a guard rail trying to turn around in a tight dead-end road, backed into the Marketing VP’s car the first day in the new garage, and ground some more off the right side running board against a column the second day in the new garage.

He was also very thirsty, getting less than 14 miles per gallon in his 23,700 miles. I figure gas for the period cost about $4,200. That plus $1,000 for tires and the $9,000 difference between purchase price and sales price less than a year later made BART an expensive date. It comes out to $14,200 total, about $1,200 per month and $0.60 per mile. Yikes! I think I could have leased a Rolls Royce for that!

So, why did I need BART? We were in our new home and I thought we’d need a snow plow, for one reason. But I never could bring myself to purchase and store a snow plow just to plow the driveway. Having never plowed, it would have been a recipe for disaster to start with our tricky hill. Instead, I bought a snow blower (which I have yet to use).

I thought I’d be starting a glass blowing business for retirement. But that didn’t pan out. The energy cost (petroleum and personal) just didn’t make sense. And the retail end of the business has never lit me up.

I thought I needed something with leg room. But I bend my legs when I drive. If I need room to stretch them out (without going through firewall in most cars), I can always stop and get out of the car to stretch them.

So, why did I buy BART? For some unknowable, to me, emotional reason, no doubt. My Dad bought a blue truck in his late 40’s. I asked him why he bought it. He said, “Because I always wanted one.” Maybe that’s why I bought BART, not because I always wanted one, but because my Dad had one. (And mine was bigger, whatever that means.) Closer to the truth, though, is that I think I just wanted a truck at that time.

But that time has gone. I wasn’t driving into DC at that time. I wasn’t sitting in bumper to bumper traffic spewing pollution into the atmosphere as I idled, waiting to move forward. I wasn’t worrying about wiping out a small car or bicyclist as I changed lanes, hoping no one was in my blind spot. And I wasn’t trying to white-knuckle myself into and out of incredibly, tight, and over-parked DC parking garages.

So, it was time for BART to go and, probably as penance, I bought a Prius. It’s the most energy efficient and least polluting vehicle available. Do my legs fit? No, but they fold. Can I see over traffic? No but I can scoot right a little and look along it. Will it work on long trips? I guess that’s TBD. All and all, it’s the right car for the commute I have right now.

So, so long, BART, and to whatever you meant on an unknown level. And hello to the Prius, who may someday also have a name. If nothing else comes of it, at least now my daughters won’t personally blame me for global warming.

Dad’s Demise

2009-05-02T03:01:00.000-04:00

Dad had Alzheimer’s disease. It was a slow and ugly death. I wrote my way through it – emails to family and letters to myself. After he died, I put all the correspondence back and forth in chronological order. 103 pages worth. Someday, that will see the light of day. Meanwhile these snippets will have to do.

Written: September 30, 2002

Dear Family,

All of us are struggling with Dad’s horrible disease. It consumes us emotionally as much as it consumes him physically. It certainly preoccupies me in my daily life. Given the events Saturday night of Dad’s violence, the police being called and Sandy’s 3:00 AM drive, I’m even more preoccupied with the difficulty of appropriate care for Dad. So, not really knowing where this is going as I start to write, I feel compelled to get some thoughts down in an effort to be as objective as it is possible for me to be.

Although I’m not sure where this will take me, I know I want to be as frank with myself and others as I can. In doing so, I don’t pass judgment or criticize anybody -- we’re all doing what we feel is best for Dad. And Sandy has had an especially difficult cross to bear over the last few years in personally caring for Dad. I hope to help the situation with one-person’s view of the data. These are my opinions only -- I’ve not discussed this with anyone else. So here is my read.

First Dad has been at Xxxxx Xxxxx almost two months now. I believe he’s adjusted to the fact that he needs to be in a Retirement Home. He doesn’t talk about getting out or getting a ride home anymore. Dennis, Don and I have each taken him out for extended periods and returned him “home” without struggle or incident. He definitely belongs in an assisted-living setting. But I no longer think he should remain at Xxxxx Xxxxx.

Since he’s been at Xxxxx Xxxxx, he’s been assaulted, over-drugged, under-nourished and under-cared for. As far as the night staff is concerned, anyway, I don’t feel he is welcome at Xxxxx Xxxxx. This could happen in almost any retirement home, but the difference is we are all so far away that we can’t adequately monitor his care. We’ve all tried to do what we can. Don has especially been there. But even Don has an hour round-trip to make.

We need to be in a position that someone can visit Dad daily. This can only happen if he were closer to Springfield. I say Springfield because Dennis is there. Dennis has the time, flexibility and, I perceive, the desire to take on a big part of this duty. If Dad were near Springfield, he would still be accessible to Don from his work in Reston and be much closer to Valerie as well. It would be a two hour trip for me versus the current four hour trip, so I could help more often. Sandy would, of course be closer too. But the burden of daily visits shouldn’t fall on Sandy. Sandy has more than done her part in this regard. It’s time for the brothers and sister to step up to the plate.

Related to that, perhaps it’s time for the siblings to take a larger role in Dad’s guardianship. Sandy shouldn’t have to be the only one to have to make the tough medical decisions or face problems alone at 3:00 AM. She should feel comfortable that she can travel and Dad will be in good hands if something goes wrong.

I realize that the reality of finances may be playing a large part in the selection of an assisted-living facility. We need to discuss this frankly. Can Dad’s retirement income finance a, more expensive, Northern Virginia facility without leaving Sandy destitute? If it can’t, can and will we brothers and sister help financially? Alternatively, is there a Xxxxx Xxxxx-like alternative in or near Springfield?

As I said before, no matter where Dad is he has the potential to be assaulted, over-drugged, under-nourished and under-cared for without the family’s vigilance.

I think I’m now at the end. And I hope no one has taken offense. All of us are primarily interested in doing what’s best for Dad. His disease will continue to progress and what was a good decision at one time will not be a good decision later. We need to be able to talk about his care at each cross-road and make the best decisions we can as a family.

I hope we can meet as a family to discuss this once everyone has had a chance to think about it. Please let me know by e-mail that you’re willing to get together and talk. Meanwhile, let’s all keep Dad in our prayers.

Love,

Dan

*******

Written: December 24, 2002

My dad is dying. As I write this he’s in the hospital deteriorating. Last week he made it to his 75th birthday, but due to the Alzheimer’s disease, not all of him made it.

When looked at through the lens of our ultimate death, it’s a miracle anything ever gets done. The reality of our demise means that much of what we do in our brief time on the planet is meaningless and impermanent. Mankind works under the illusion that things matter and an illusion of immortality. Only if we suffer from this collective delusion, can we get so wrapped up in petty annoyances, our small plans and achievements.

Yet, cutting through the haze, something matters. What is worthwhile doing? How should one invest one’s life? The only answer that makes sense is to invest your life in small and large ways that make sense for future generations – for your children and your children’s children.

That’s why we’re building the house (and why we’re trying to build it as “green” as we can). Not only for our enjoyment, but for the future. That’s why blowing glass is enjoyable. Not only for the process, but for the results that will survive. That’s why I work – to help people now and future.

So, here’s to the adventure of 2003. Here’s hoping I make my highest and best contribution to current and future generations and invest in a life worth living. The adventure continues.

*******

Written: February 16, 2003

Dad died early Wednesday morning. The call from Sandy came at 3:00 AM on the 12th. We had warning.

Monday afternoon, Marcia called; telling me that the nurse at Leewood said the time was near. Dad was “mottling” (fingernails and toenails were blue and his color was ashen) and he was laboring to breathe. He was near death but no one knew whether it would be hours or days.

Donald and Darren rushed to Leewood. I didn’t. I struggled with whether or not to go and decided I could do no good by going. Dad was unconscious and I didn’t want to have another ugly picture in my mind of his demise. Anyway that’s what I rationalized.

What did I do? I kept working. I went a quartet rehearsal that night and traveled to Charlotte on business the next day. I got home from Charlotte Tuesday ~ 8:00 PM and debated again whether or not to visit Dad. I came to the same conclusion as I did on Monday and went home instead. The call came at 3:00 AM. Dad had lasted 36 hours in this final stage. What did I do? I went to work. And I went to work the next day too.

Friday, I sang a quartet gig on the radio in the morning and spent the rest of the day at the funeral home. And Saturday, after getting Emily on a plane back to Hanover, we went to the funeral.

The continuing to work thing is a little extreme. I don’t know if I get this from Dad’s work ethic or have developed this neurosis on my own. In light of the reality of death, it seems a little bizarre.

I was surprised by the relatively small turnout for Dad’s viewing and funeral. He had worked and lived in the same area all his life. I expected neighbors and co-workers by the score. There were neighbors and co-workers but by the handful. Mostly, it was the immediate family, his surviving brother and sisters, Sandy’s brothers and sisters, a few neighbors and a few co-workers from Fairfax County.

I guess the older and the more removed from work relationships you get, the less people there are who knew you and feel the need to show respects or celebrate your life. To my knowledge, only one gentleman (besides Dennis) was there who knew Dad in his capacity as a DC police officer (about 28 years of his life). And he also worked with Dad in Fairfax County.

After the funeral, my brothers, sister and I were carrying Dad in his casket down the steps of the church to the hearse. It was snowing lightly. To our right, six Fairfax County police officers came to attention and saluted. That got me. Dad would have liked that – being saluted and honored by his own – on duty, standing in the snow.

To me this moment captured something about Dad - doing his duty. He did his duty as a policeman, magistrate, deacon, trustee, son, brother, husband and father. He worked shift-work almost all his life, yet he sacrificed sleep to be where he was needed. That’s not all Dad was, but duty was an important part of the equation. And it didn’t seem to be a burden. He almost always had a sense of humor.

Dad and I had 52 years on the planet together. It wasn’t always ducky. And sometimes, I was the parent. But on balance, he gave me life, humor, strong values and, definitely, a work ethic. I mourn my loss.

Peace, Dad.

******

I couldn’t speak at the funeral. I just couldn’t trust myself to hold it all together. So, instead, I offered this for the funeral service program.

*******

Warren Brady Brown

1927 - 2003

In 1996, when I was 45, I felt the need to write about Dad. I wrote for myself, so I’d remember. But when I was done (well done for a year and half – you don’t want to rush into these things), I decide to give a copy to Dad. (I think I edited out a few sentences -- Dad was a sensitive man and I didn’t want to offend him).

I’m glad I gave it to him. We’re not an overly demonstrative family. This was my way of saying “Thanks and I love you, Dad.” He later told me he read it over many times and it “choked him up” which was his way of saying, “I love you, too.”

While it doesn’t capture everything about the father, husband and man Dad was, it captures my limited perspective to the best of my recollection. Reading it over seven years later, I found I couldn’t improve it. So here it is.

Peace, Dad.

Love, Danny

*******

September 27, 1997

Dad,

Thanks for the card and the phone call on my birthday last week. The message you left on my machine, “that you’re proud of me” means a lot (you’ll see why later).

Did you ever think you’d have a middle-aged son? (OK, past middle age). Turning 47 hasn’t been so bad -- I think I had my mid-life crisis last year and am set for a while. For whatever reason, it drove me to reflect and write some personal stuff about people who’ve had a big impact on my life. Maybe it’s so the great-grand-kids can find it someday and know something about me and my family. I kind of wish some of my ancestors had done this.

Anyway, you are, of course, one of those influential people for me. After all, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. I thought you might want to see some of the thoughts I captured when I set down to remember you when I was growing up (that’s why it’s in past tense).

I haven’t shown this to anyone and don’t plan to anytime soon. It was just meant for me to try to work out my mid-life crisis. It’s also meant to be positive -- I hope nothing offends you.

Anyway, here it is and thanks for answering the question in the last line!

March 1996

My dad was strict with his first child. Being a policeman in DC, he daily saw many wayward children and some of the worst parts of life. I guess he feared this for his own child and did all he could to prevent juvenile delinquency at home. As time went on, he eased up on my brothers -- the oldest always paves the way.

He always wanted me to call him “sir” but I just couldn’t do it. I think it’s because he started too late. Just a week or so, after I was born, he was off to Korea having been called back into the service through a clerical mistake. The inactive reserves were called instead of the active reserves. It didn’t even matter that the Army knew this was a mistake -- once the orders were sent, there was no appeal. By the time he came back, I could learn to call everyone else “sir” but not him -- he was always Dad -- sir just was too distant. (I learned the sir lesson well for everyone else, though. When in high school, my tuba teacher told me I didn’t have to call him sir. What did I say in response? “Yes sir.”)

Dad had a work ethic. If it were threatening snow, he’d park the car a mile and a half away, and walk home. He’d leave four or five hours early for work to make sure he got there. I only remember him missing work one time -- he had pneumonia. Seeing him so weak really scared me. It was almost as bad as the daily worries I had when I was younger, waiting for him to come home from work. I just couldn’t keep track of his schedule and knew at some level his job was dangerous. I remember the minutes seemed like hours waiting for him to arrive home and fearing he wouldn’t. Thank goodness, I had my dog, Smokey, to talk to about my fears. She was a great listener.

Dad was a solid citizen. He was involved in the community -- JC’s, an occasional volunteer fireman, a Sunday School teacher and a deacon. He was a responsible son. Even though he was not the oldest, he took responsibility for the family and his mother after my grandfather died. He was always there when his youngest brother got in some kind of scrape and took care of his mother visiting her almost every day until she went into the hospital the last time at age 93.

On top of this, he took courses toward his bachelors’ degree (earned after 20 years part-time study) and at one point was working three jobs. He would work his main job as a policeman, pump gas (if anyone remembers those days) when he was off and sell Kirby vacuum cleaners in his spare time. It was about that time he fell asleep driving on the 14th street bridge coming home from work on the mid-night shift and totaled the car. Besides glass in his scalp, he was OK. I think he was a little embarrassed, though, since he had just balled me out the night before for denting the bumper of the car he had just totaled. (I thought it wise not to point out this fact.) Why was he so driven?

I don’t know if it was the three jobs or the shift work that caused the accident. Dad says that when he joined the police department, he was told, he’d get used to the shift work after a while. Thirty years later, he was still trying to get used to working a different eight-hour shift every two weeks.

Besides the occasional car wreck, shift work took a toll on our family life. Many times, we’d go for weeks without seeing Dad as he tried to sleep during the day after working all night. When we saw him, I don’t think we were seeing him at his best. The scary part was having to constantly poke him in the sides to keep waking him as he drove on a long trip. The fun part was guessing how long he could stay awake in church and how loud he would snore.

My dad has a sense of humor. Although he’d laugh uncontrollably at Laurel and Hardy, his humor wasn’t jokes per se, but quick conversational wit. And repetition! It was funny when you finally figured out (after the 100th time he said it) that he wasn’t saying catch it after he threw you the ball but “cat shit.” Most the time, though, the repetition just drove us nuts -- it’s only funny in retrospect. I wonder if my kids will one day wonder why I say “close the door, you think we’re trying to heat all of Franconia!” (We live in Columbia). My brothers and I caught the repetition thing, however. Dennis says after beginning the same story for the third time “have I told you lately?”

The dark side of repetition was when he was trying to teach us a lesson. It seemed the broken record technique was all they taught in parent school when he was enrolled. It brought out the stubbornness and rebellion in me. Eventually, though, I would give in and change whatever behavior he was trying to get me to stop.

The most lasting lesson from my dad was one that was not repeated. I have vivid memory from when I was about four. I was dressed in my best clothes, and we were going somewhere in the car. As we approached Springfield, I must have been acting up. Dad turned and said something to me to stop the behavior and then said something that, I later realized, motivated me for about 40 years. He said “you want us to be proud of you, don’t you?” I don’t recall answering, but I do recall thinking -- of course I want to make you proud of me. That statement and the realization that most of my strokes came from doing rather than being, pushed me to constantly try to do more.

I’ve read that we raise our kids in reaction to the way we were raised. I try to tell both of my daughters that I love them just the way they are. No doubt, I given them some complex that will take them 40 years to recognize and work through. Whatever. I’m doing the best I can at the parent thing and I realize my dad did too.

People describe me as being driven, having a sense of humor and being repetitious. I wonder where I get this from? (Dad, have I made you proud of me yet?)

Kit Sfekas

2009-04-29T15:01:00.000-04:00

Written: Tuesday, July 1, 2002

Last night Marcia, Sarah and I stopped by the funeral home to pay our respects to Kit Sfekas’ family. Kit was Sarah’s soccer coach for four or five years and a Howard County judge. At the family’s request, Sarah wore her soccer uniform shirt. He left behind two daughters (the oldest is 16) a wife, and probably thousands of people in the community whose lives he touched.

The line to get into the funeral home viewing parlor stretched outside for 300 feet. Cars were parked everywhere. A traffic cop was needed. We waited in line for more than an hour to make it into the viewing parlor. I can’t imagine how crowed today’s funeral was.

Kit touched a lot of lives and, from my acquaintance with him, seemed to be a wonderful person. Yet he’s gone at 49. And I can’t make sense of it. Rationalization doesn’t work. What’s more, there’s just blankness when I even try to think about it.

My last conversation with Kit was early winter at an indoor soccer match he was coaching. Kit mentioned he was fine except for the sore throat he just couldn’t seem to shake off and that he was going to have it looked at the next day. Thyroid gland cancer. He battled for four months and lost.

He won’t see his daughters graduate, and they won’t have her father there. I’m sure each milestone will be difficult for the family.

But death happens. It’s natural and it’s inevitable. Why is it such a shock, such a surprise and such a loss? What are we here for?

Kit lived his life fully. The girls on the teams he coached will carry a little of him with them the rest of their lives. I’m sure he had as great an impact on the people he worked with as well. But is that enough? Is having thousands of people pay tribute to you at your passing enough? Is that what life’s about?

Kit died quickly at the prime of life. Just four years ago he had achieved his life-long ambition to become a judge. He had graduations, marriages and grand kids ahead of him that he’ll never see. That’s the tragedy. That’s the loss. That’s the shock.

Death is inevitable but there’s no purpose or meaning in an untimely death. Just sadness and loss.

Rest in Peace, Kit. God bless your life and your family. You are missed.

Pretending

2009-04-25T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: December 7, 2001

“Oh yes, we’re the great pretenders…” So goes the song.

We pretend that the things we do and say, and even our lives, themselves, have purpose and meaning. I’m sure that all melts away in the days and hours prior to death. What is one life in the scheme of eternity and the universe?

A work colleague recently learned his sister-in-law has been diagnosed with in-operable bronchial cancer. She’s in her mid-50s. Another colleague’s niece gave birth to a stillborn child. He had quintuple bi-pass surgery earlier this fall (at age 47). My mom is heading toward diabetes, my dad has Alzheimer’s, and my in-laws will be 83. It all makes me contemplate my personal mortality.

And when I go, what will I leave behind? I’m not a wealthy man who will leave endowments, a name on buildings and scholarships behind. I’m not a great scientist, artist or philosopher. I’m just an average Joe who is trying to provide for his family and contribute to the success of others whose lives touch mine.

Yet there are so many needs – hunger, environment, learning, health, violence…. How can I help in a way that benefits generations to come?

Who knows. Meanwhile, I’ll just keep pretending it matters – that my life matters – and stay in denial about the reality of my demise. I guess that’s what most folks do -- until they can do it no more.

Uncle Sonny

2009-04-22T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: September 13, 1999

Last week was a week of losses. In started off when Uncle Sonny died 6:00 a.m. Sunday and ended with Marcia and me leaving Emily at Dartmouth.

Leaving Emily, although a loss, didn’t feel so bad. It was a natural progression she and we have been preparing for her whole life. It’s a bitter sweet feeling -- we feel good for her, proud of her and we miss her. I guess mostly I miss the memories of Emily as a little girl and growing up. Moving to school underscores the fact that she is now an adult.

It’s different with Uncle Sonny. Although death is also a natural progression, it’s more final. We’ll never see him again. His death made me realize how much one person leaves a legacy in helping others. He gave me my first music lesson on the baritone he played. He modeled his musical talent for me in playing piano and singing. I think he was the spark that lit my career in music.

He left a non-musical legacy for me, as well. His fascination with space opened up this mystery for me. I remember walking down to the end of Tilbury Road to watch Sputnik go over. And I remember being under 10 and riding in the back seat of his car on an impossibly dark night with chills going up and down my spine as he talked about UFOs.

He also left his sense of humor. From making faces with his false teeth, to cars with hiccups to calling me “Uncle Danny,” he seemed to always have a humorous perspective on life. Even the discomfort of constant dialysis didn’t appear to dampen his spirits.

If this is his legacy to me, how much greater is it to all the lives he touched. And how much greater are all of our legacies than we imagine. Our everyday lives and the lives we touch are our greatest legacies. As I’m reading about in "Awakening the Buddha Within," right thinking, right speech and right actions – every day -- cannot be overdone.

Jim Conklin

2009-04-18T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: January 11, 1997

Jim was one of the best managers I’ve known. I learned a lot about managing with compassion, clarity and courage in working for him. I learned by listening to what Jim had to say and, more important, by watching what he did. Unlike many, his words and actions were in sync. He lived his beliefs.

But Jim was not just a manager. He was a model for living. He lived life with gusto and seemed to enjoy and spread joy wherever he went. I especially remember a trip we took to New York together to attend a Conference Board session on benefits when we both moved to LCS. We got there the night before and Jim took me to some dark, neighborhood restaurant in the basement of a Brownstone. The neighborhood was not exactly a tourist trap. I doubt it had seen a tourist for a hundred years or so. He thought the cab driver was ripping us off, so he just told him to stop and let us out. We walked the last ten blocks even though it was bitter cold and we were only wearing sports coats (but Jim was never cold, anyway). The tables were packed into a cramped room and I’m not certain the health department knew this restaurant existed. But it had entertainment! While we ate, a local Yiddish comedian told incredibly old and corny jokes. I can still hear Jim laughing at each one. It was contagious, I laughed too and I can’t help but laugh again as I remember Jim laughing.

Jim lived life well. I hope that part of him lives on in me as I try to learn from Jim’s life. I remember his management lessons. But more important I remember his life’s lesson -- to live and spread happiness and joy no matter what the circumstance.

Smokey

2009-04-15T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: July 11, 1996

My best friend, ever, was Smoky.

I must have been three or four when I first saw her. Dad was coming home from work and I was playing in the yard two doors down from my house. I thought it was unusual when he stopped to drive me the short distance home.

When I got in the car, I noticed a round, furry, gray ball in a box at my feet. I thought it was a new kind of toy ball until it moved. It was a puppy. My mom immediately named it Smokey.

Smokey was a mutt. I’m a mutt. We grew up together.

Smokey would listen to me like I’ve never been listened to since. I could sing to her, talk to her, tell her my deepest fears and worries and she never tired of listening or gave me less than her full attention.

She guarded me. She’d follow me on my treks and adventures in the woods -- never more than a few feet away. When I fell on my back in the yard “dead,” she’d come running over and lick my face until I came back to life.

Smokey taught me (and my brother Dennis) to smile. When she was nervous, she’d show her teeth in a grin. My brother and I taught this to others.

When she was out exploring the neighborhood and I called her she’d come running from miles away.

All she asked for is an occasional stomach rub. She’d lie on her back, put her paws up in the air and stick out her tongue. This meant you were to rub your foot on her stomach.

She died when I was a high school junior. Her back legs went first. She’d drag herself around the house with her front paws to be near me.

She was my friend. She lives in my grin.

Death is Becoming Too Familiar

2009-04-11T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: July 15, 1996

Last month I was remembering cousin Ronnie and trying to deal with his death almost 30 years ago. Ironically, his father, Uncle Steve Zurick, died, unexpectedly, last week. Steve was 72 and had driven himself to the hospital for minor out-patient surgery on a skin cancer. Before anything started, he had a massive heart attack in the wheelchair as he was being moved around the hospital. That’s the story of how he died.

Why is it we always need the story. The first question after hearing the news is “how did he die?” It’s as if by knowing, we can avoid going that way. If we hear enough ways that people die and can avoid them all, we’ll live forever!

I felt for my cousin Judy. Besides losing her brother, Ronnie, and her dad, she had lost her husband several years ago to cancer, leaving behind three small boys. Of the Zurick family, her dad’s death seem to have the strongest immediate impact on her. It will come to the others later -- they’re too busy being strong for each other.

I used to be deathly afraid of death. It was a mysterious stranger I didn’t want to meet.

• Great-grandma Nanny -- 1967
• Cousin Ronnie -- 1969
• Granddad Brown -- 1973
• Grandma Huffman -- 1986
• Grandma Brown -- 1990
• Granddad Huffman -- 1994
• Uncle Dick -- 1994
• Aunt Alice -- 1994
• Uncle Steve -- 1996

I know the questions to ask. I know what to say to the grieving. I know how to look up the obituary, order the flowers or make the memorial contribution. I know where the funeral home is and the undertaker nods to me as he recognizes a familiar face.

Death is becoming too familiar now.

Death of Dare-Devil Dan

2009-04-08T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: July 15, 1996

When I was in high school, I picked up the name Dare-Devil Dan at work one day by climbing on top a fifteen-foot-high, precariously stacked delivery of row boats and handing them down -- removing my own footing with each one. The name really fit. I was always doing something a little on the edge -- taking the metal power boat out to get the rowboats off the lake before (and during) approaching thunder storms; descending into the septic tank, ankle deep in septic tank contents to hand broken pumps up to the plumber (who refused to go down and get them); crawling up the spill-pipe and up the spill tower on a lark; and... we’ll, you get the idea. This all came to an end, abruptly, one day about twenty years later.

We were on vacation - camping in Nova Scotia when I decided to take a little swim. The park surrounded a mile-deep glacier lake. I decided to swim from the beach to a point I could see on the horizon. I’d been doing laps in the pool back home so I thought I was up to it.

Right before I dove in, Emily, who was 4, came running out of the water screaming. I had to pull a leech off her leg. This gave me pause as I contemplated how many leeches I could accumulate on my swim. Were there worse things, like turtles, that would be snipping at very important appendages? Being the dare devil that I am, I dove in the clear, cold, root-beer colored water and began to conquer the lake.

The trip over was uneventful. But the point was a lot farther away than I thought. It took a half an hour to complete the swim. I noticed that from the water, the earth’s curvature blocked the sight of the beach where Marcia and Emily were waiting for me. Once I got to the point, I decided to keep exploring and swim to the next point I could now see. I guess I was on some kind of exercise/conquering high. I made it with ease. But swimming back from the new point is when it happened -- the weather turned.

About half-way back, the wind started to pick up. A storm was brewing. At first, I took little notice of it. Gradually, I began to notice that the waves were getting quite large and it was difficult to make progress. After ten minutes or so of trying to make what had been a ten-minute swim, I took my bearings. I realized I had made no progress! I was exactly in the middle of nowhere -- half-way between the two points and going nowhere fast. The waves were getting bigger, I knew I couldn’t last forever, there was no one else around on this wilderness lake. I knew Marcia would have the Royal Canadian Mounted Police dragging the lake for my body any minute now. Then it happened -- I panicked.

I had always heard that you were not supposed to panic. I think “don’t panic” was a regular part of my internal vocabulary. I learned panic is not exactly under voluntary control. I could feel the warm panic in my chest and it was getting warmer. About that time, I later found out, Marcia heard me distinctly call her. I know I made no sound.

Miraculously, a canoe appeared a few hundred feet away! No doubt it is was piloted by some experienced outdoors-men on a month-long hunting expedition. I was saved! I called out to them in my calm, John Wayne voice. “Hi! Any chance of getting a little help?” The answer almost made that warm chest feeling come back, “We don’t know. This is our first time in a canoe.” I continued being John Wayne, “I could use some help. I’m in a little bit of trouble here.”

They responded that they’d try to help me. I watched as they flailed at the water trying to make the canoe come closer to me and contemplated whether it would be better to drown or to be beat to death with canoe paddles.

They came close enough for me to grab a line. They towed me to the opposite point. I was on land but I was wet, cold, tired and still a half-hour swim away from Marcia and Emily. I thought about walking the shoreline back, but I was barefoot, the shore was rocky and it would probably take all day. Marcia would panic.

Instead, I walked along the shore to the point where the opposite shore was closest and began my swim back at a hard angle away from my ultimate destination -- allowing for the waves and current to push my forward motion sideways to my ultimate goal.

I didn’t drown. But dare-devil Dan did. I realized that with a young child and pregnant wife, I needed to take a tad fewer risks from now on.

When Cousin Ronnie Died

2009-04-05T03:01:00.000-04:00

Written: June 17, 1996

A child dying is a tragic thing.

When I was a freshman in college, my cousin Ronnie, a senior in high school died. He was operating a backhoe on one of his father’s construction jobs, working on a steep bank. The machine tipped over and rolled over him, crushing his skull and killing him instantly.

The telephone rang. It was my mother giving me the news. (How did people learn of death before the telephone?)

I felt guilty. We had been at a camp together when were in elementary school. We both had poison ivy but he had forgotten to bring any treatment for it. I selfishly wouldn’t share my Ruli-Cream. (The salt-water pool cured both of our cases of poison ivy that week, anyway).

My aunt and uncle and Ronnie’s older brother and younger sister seemed to handle it well, by the time I saw them. I particularly remember my aunt Shirley remembering things Ronnie would have said and smiling as we talked in her kitchen after the funeral. But death changes the survivors.

Shortly after Ronnie’s death, my uncle retired from construction. He and my aunt changed churches and opened a religious book store.

Ronnie’s brother and sister are grown and have kids -- some older that Ronnie when he died. Whenever I see them, I remember Ronnie and wonder if there’s still the emptiness buried somewhere deep within them -- like it is in me.

I miss Ronnie.

Why I Write About Death

2009-04-02T19:13:00.000-04:00

From time time over the last 13 years, I've written about death. Usually, these writings are prompted by the death of someone close to me. When someone close to us dies, it, temporarily, snaps us into the the reality our own demise.

Sometimes I write to help me handle my own grief. But sometimes, it's just to contemplate the reality of finite time. It's not morbid curiosity, though. Death is part of life, as ironic as that sounds.

I think I best captured my general thoughts on death toward the end of 2002, when my dad was dying.

Written: December 30, 2002

I’m reading Steven Ambrose’s last book. He wrote it knowing he was dying of cancer. In fact, he dedicated it to his doctor and nurses. With my dad dying, death is on my mind. But I think it almost always is on my mind and on everyone’s mind (once they leave teenage years). Why is this so? Why do we read the obituaries? Why do so many conversations turn to morbidity stories?

I think it’s because we have an unconscious belief that by talking about another’s death, we affirm that we’re alive. Maybe we feel that if we talk about death, that it won’t happen to us! After all, what's the first question we ask? "What did he die from?" If we don't suffer from the same ailment, then we can assure ourselves of immortality.

I chide myself for continuing to dwell on this topic, but I think it’s misdirected chiding. Meditating on the inevitability of death makes life all the sweeter. It makes us conscious of how we’re “spending our life” (an interesting phrase).

The chiding comes from feeling that once I figure death out, I should let it go and move on to thinking about other things. The reality is death is the ultimate thing. I won’t figure it out. No one will. So, I’ll spend the rest of my life contemplating on how I’m “investing” my life.

The only thing that I'm sure of is that I want to earn a good return on my investment – to benefit people living now and in the future. That’s all anyone can do. Use the circumstances of time and place to do the best you can. It will be enough.

*******

The next series of posts will follow, in chronological order, past writings on death. Who knows, maybe there's a germ of value in this for someone.

L.E. and Nanny Brown

2009-03-30T05:25:00.000-04:00

My cousin, Dave Zurek, sent me a ten-page memoir on our grandparents lives. He said that he wasn't that much of a writer but once he started writing he just couldn't stop.

So much of what he wrote, I didn't know. As I read it and thought about it, it stuck a chord and sparked rhyme. I wrote the first line and, like my cousin, once I started, I couldn't stop.

*******

Granddad Brown was a railroad man.
He raised his family with the strength of his hand.

Feeding coal and sweat to an angry boiler,
Powering people and freight, down the line in good order.
Earning burns and muscle, pushed shovel aside
From Fireman to Engineer, his career did stride.
Driving engine and cars to Monroe back
Repeating the cycle -- little time in the sack.

Granddad Brown was a family man.
He held his family in the palm of his hand.

He moved to the country to feed his brood,
Raising crops and livestock to give them food.
To survive the Depression and grow seven kids
He became a police, when railroads hit skids.

When my dad was born – child number four --
The doctors gave up – they could do no more.
He was sickly, so given no food. For why?
He was put in a closet and left to die.

But Grandma Brown, a railroad man’s wife
Ignored the doctors -- nurtured dad to life.
Dad lived on years, full of might,
And honored his parents who won that fight.

Granddad Brown was a big-hearted man.
Left kindness and gentleness wherever he ran.

“If more were like him, this world would be better,”
For all, and to all, he lived kind -- to the letter.
What life’s legacy could be greater than,
“That Mr. Brown -- he’s such a nice man.”

His days on this earth were seventy-five,
But his kindness and humor are still alive,
In children, grandchildren and even beyond --
Generations born after he was gone.
Descendants living not by strength of hand,
But with kindness and character -- from a railroad man.

Making a Contribution

2009-03-27T05:11:00.000-04:00

What do you want to be when you grow up?

For most of my life, I’ve wrestled with that question. The part I’ve wrestled with most is making a contribution – doing socially important work.

When I was an orchestral musician, I struggled with the contribution I was making to society. I felt like a parasite – working for an organization that depended on philanthropic generosity for survival. Later, working in the defense industry, I felt uncomfortable being part of the “war machine.” When I moved to an investment management firm, I wondered about the unabashed avarice and greed of the money business. Finally, working for a shopping center developer, I pondered its contribution to fostering our materialistic culture of excess and consumption.

But what is socially responsible work anyway? Do only physicians, humanitarians and religious leaders qualify? I think not. There are many ways to do socially responsible work. In fact, almost anything that benefits humankind is, in some way, socially responsible.

The orchestra perpetuates the arts, benefits the local community and demonstrates a higher purpose for humans beyond daily existence. Defense work helps makes the world safe and protects the institutions of freedom and democracy. Investment management helps people save for retirement, education and other important family goals. Finally, building and managing shopping centers is part of merchandising that goes back to the roots of civilization. The marketplace is where people meet and interact. It is a forum for social exchange and intercourse. The marketplace is the nursery for civilization.

This is all true, but somehow still left me personally dissatisfied. Somehow my contributions just didn’t seem large enough. I read history, biographies and obituaries; I observed and marveled at my contemporaries’ accomplishments and suffered from, as someone coined the phrase, “identity envy.”

But now, at this late stage of my career, the wrestling is largely over. Here’s an example of some recent pondering.

Written: March 6, 2008

The funny thing is, I keep wondering why work, why improving things matters so much to people, when ultimately, life is finite. If we focus on that fact, there’s no reason or motivation to do anything except the minimum you need to do to survive and, perhaps, enjoy the pleasures and luxuries life has to offer. In this mode, you’d sleep, eat, and laugh your way through life. Just one big party.

So why don’t people live this way? Why do extremely wealthy folks like Warren Buffet and Bill Gates, support charitable causes with their time and money? Why do people care about others and the future? Perhaps there’s not a rational answer. Caring and giving are just built into our DNA – an altruistic gene, perhaps, to foster survival of the species.

As I waft into this pre-retirement stage of my life, I can see things that I think the me of ten years ago couldn’t see. I can see people taking organizational, job and personal issues way too seriously. I know that I did at that age.

Even knowing this, there’s no way to communicate to those a generation behind. If I were to tell the me of ten years ago, that it doesn’t matter, that every situation is not life or death, that there are more important things in the world than material success, the me of ten years ago just wouldn’t believe the me of now. There’s just some kind of invisible barrier.

Interestingly, people of my vintage, know what I’m talking about – life isn’t a rehearsal. People north of 55 are thinking about the next phase of life, of retiring, of putting their lives into some kind of perspective.

*******

In “repacking your bags,” Leider and Shapiro quote Rollo May from “The Courage to Create:”

“If you do not express your own original ideas, if you do not listen to your own being, you will have betrayed yourself. Also, you will have betrayed our community in failing to make your contribution to the whole.”

I believe this. More, I think I’m finally on the verge of internalizing it.

Written: October 16, 2008

What does it mean to contribute? Does it have to be some large, visible gesture? A perpetual legacy? Or can it be a footprint in mud – clear, deep, and distinct but temporary and erased by time and traffic.

My contribution is my work, my work is my meaning. I went into human resources to make things better for people. Individuals? Yes. Organizations? Yes, too. I do this by solving problems, helping the organization get out of its own way. After all, what is an organization but a collection of people?

Will my contribution last? Will it have meaning? Like invisible footprints before mine, mine too will disappear. But that doesn’t mean there’s no meaning in my step. Just as I don’t know who came before me, I’m invisible to a future traveler. But my footsteps, as the footsteps of that traveler before me, made the ground a little firmer, made the traction a little less slippery.

And that may be all that’s important. That may be enough. That may be meaning enough.

Voting for Obama

2009-03-22T07:53:00.000-04:00

I'm working through a backlog of stuff I've written that has never seen the light of day. Here's a recent example.

Written: November 5, 2008

Yesterday when I voted, I experienced something I’m sure many people experienced when I marked by ballot for Obama, I unexpectedly welled up. It happened again when I went back to review my ballot before submitting it. I just had to pause and look at that mark and take it all in.

What was it that affected me so? Was it the prospect of the end of racial divisiveness? Was it the miracle of the peaceful transfer of power to someone who represents the sins of slavery? Was it the “end” of the Civil War? Was it the remarkable course of events over the last 40 years from the civil strife of 1968 when I was coming of age to just 40 years later? Was it the pride in my country and the prospect of a more civil and human international future. Who knows? If I had these emotions, I just can’t imagine the intensity of feeling for an African American citizen.

The words of the day are that this is an “historic event.” And it is. I hope Obama will be the transformational leader that I think he is. I hope Obama will set us on a new vector for a peaceful, productive and pristine planet over the next 100 years. I hope Obama and his family will be safe from harm. But no matter what happens, we can’t go back. The new Norman Rockwell faces in the crowd – African, Caucasian, Asian, Hispanic – tell us so. It’s a new day for America. It feels good to be part of it.

Writing my Way off the Window Ledge

2009-03-16T21:08:00.000-04:00

Well, I’ve done the ostrich thing and buried my head in the sand for the last two weeks. During that time, I didn’t read a newspaper, an on-line news source or even listen to a radio news broadcast. Generally, it made me feel better – more balanced, more into my real life and less into worry and anxiety. And after looking at what the markets did, it looks like it was a good two weeks to be media comatose.

I’ve lived through recessions, bursting bubbles and the like throughout my working days and have generally been oblivious to them. But this one’s a Doozie! And it comes at a time when my income-producing runway is getting shorter. That and Marcia’s imminent retirement, makes me pay attention to this economic event. And as I pay attention, it’s hard to be complacent and serene as I watch our retirement savings melt away like an ice cube on a hot, July day. So, what do I do to cope? I talk -- well write -- myself off the window ledge.

*******

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Another day, another 7% drop in the stock market. It’s down 35% year to date, 40% off its high a year ago today and about where it was ten years ago. Wow. Interestingly, there’s no place to hide. It’s not like any other investment is doing better. Real estate sure isn’t looking good – especially when you factor in the risk. Only treasuries are a safe haven but it’s too late to cash out and move there. That just locks in losses.

How low will it go? When will it recover (if it recovers)? Nobody knows. This is an historic, global, economic event. And we’re all in this together. There’s nothing I can do, but realize that those who can influence change are working fulltime and doing all they can to fix the problem. And they have major skin in the game. The pilot of the aircraft has just as much stake in avoiding a crash as do the passengers. And I’m definitely a passenger on this economic flight.

Somehow, Marcia and I have survived other economic tsunamis in our lives, so with any luck, we’ll make it through this one as well. Meanwhile, Marcia and I are both employed, we have health insurance, we have our health and we have our wonderful family. We are blessed no matter what happens in the financial markets.

Finally, here’s a little tip from a New Dimension Radio program with Dr. Lisa Love. Her advice is to “surrender, align and contribute.” More letting go. Since I can’t control anything anyway, why not?

*******

Friday, October 17, 2008

Human beings are amazingly adaptable. We seem to be able to get used to almost anything and get used to it quickly. Gas was in the mid-$2 range before it shot up to north of $4 a gallon. Now, a few months later, when it’s near $3, we all feel that that’s wonderful. Never mind it’s probably up 20% from where it started.

The first time the stock market went down 700 points in a day, it felt horrid. I’m sure people felt that the end was near. But after it went up 700 points a day or two later, and then came back down the second time within a week, it just didn’t seem to be such a big deal. I personally, didn’t feel like jumping out a window (the second time, anyway). Instead, I changed my future retirement plan contributions to invest a stock fund, and started thinking about my eventual retirement plans in a new way – not as a number to hit, but as an age target (like age 99!). Whatever financial wherewithal I have when I get to retirement age will just have to do.

Besides the survival value, a lot of good can come out of being adaptable. By ceasing to strive and push against over-whelming force and trying to achieve things out of our control, we can return to living more fully in the present. We can experience each day and concentrate on what’s really important in life – meaningful work and rich relationships. We can concentrate on the big questions of meaning and contribution.

I suppose there’s a downside to being adaptable. That’s forgetting the pain. I used to think that pain-charged memories were long-lasting memories. But, now, I’m not so sure. Maybe that’s because at some visceral level, I feel secure. When you’re secure, you have no reason to hold on to painful memories and turn them into imagined present dangers. So, forgetting pain, adaptability amnesia, may not be a downside after-all, but another adaptability asset.

Like a tree in the wind, if we bend, we won’t break. Being adaptable has gotten the human race this far. If we’re fortunate, it will continue to serve us well in our future travels.

*******

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

High expectations, not just high but high and unachievable expectations create stress. It’s time to reframe and let go of unrealistic expectations. I’ve already established that I can’t control the market. If Hank Paulson and Ben Bernanke can’t, how could I!

So, in conclusion, surrender control. It will reduce stress eliminate striving and the ultimate results will be the same or better anyway. Letting go of the outcome will enable me to enjoy the ride and fully experience the mystery and adventure of each moment of each day.

*******

December 30, 2008

We’ll, I finally had to look at the carnage this year’s financial meltdown did to our retirement savings. Not pretty. We’re down about 32% for the year -- about what the Dow did.

Somehow, though, I’m not that distressed about it. Maybe because I had imagined that we had lost more. Maybe it’s because I’ve gotten used to the meltdown over the last three months. Maybe it’s because it’s only money and I’m feeling good about other aspects of my life -- my work, my crafts, my family and my plans. Maybe it’s because I have the prospect to recover over the next six to eight years. Maybe it’s because I’m gaining perspective on life and realize that it truly is only money.

What it does for me now, is take my need to work date out to my mid-60s. That’s not so bad as long as I don’t run out of my want to work, first. I’m certainly not ready to hang up my spurs at this point and, if I can keep it interesting, I won’t be ready any time soon.

I think all this wonderful perspective would be tested, though, if some of the more extreme scenarios like Dow 4,000 or Dow 400(!) materialize. That would be a whole new kettle of fish, not just for me, but for everyone!

Given the amount of money, effort and attention being paid to the economy, it’s hard to give these dire scenarios much credence. But the truth is that no one can predict the future – not even the low prognosticators. There’s no straight line projection of the present to the future. There’s no predicting unforeseen events (or else they wouldn’t be unforeseen, would they be?).

So, with any luck at all, some the government’s efforts will gain traction in the new year. I can’t imagine the early part to the year will be smooth sailing, but I hope things stabilize and improve as the year progresses.

So, here’s hoping for a recovery and a little (well) a lot better financial performance in 2009 and beyond. Meanwhile, all I can do is buckle my seatbelt (or adjust my savings allocation – which I’ve done) and go along for the ride.

*******

December 31, 2008

The last day of the year. At least from a financial market standpoint, it couldn’t have ended sooner. It turns out that we’ve gone through second or third worst market decline in 100 years. You have to go back to 1907 or 1931 to experience this level of carnage. The Dow is down ~38%, about the same it was down for the combined three-year slide of 2000, 2001 and 2002. That felt pretty bad, but this felt worse, first, because I was younger and on the upper vector of my career path – I had time to recover – and second, because it happened over three years not one.

All in all, though, it could have been worse. I’m with an employer I respect, the family is healthy, and I’m enjoying life. I’m looking forward to an enjoyable and productive 2009. With any luck, the financial markets are too.

*******

Sunday, February 22, 2009

It hard to watch your savings go down the drain and do nothing about it. But everything I read tells me that this is the right thing to do. The economy and, the human sentiment that drives it, are cyclical. I know this and feel it when it’s at the top. As Julius Westheimer used to say, “Trees don’t grow the sky.” It’s hard to remember that things are cyclical, though, when you’re in a hole. It’s hard to see any direction but down. Intellectually, I know that the economic cycle is just as much alive in bust times as it is in boom times, but on an emotional-level, it’s harder to believe.

So, how do I cope for what may be years before this turns around? First, stop obsessing on daily events and market movements. There’s no one event that will make things turn for the better and stay in a positive direction, so stop pretending as if there is one and looking for it. It may be five or more years before the economy and financial markets right themselves. Instead of watching the market and listening to the TV pundits every day, checking investments no more than once per quarter and no less than once per year is enough.

So, my advice to me is to avoid the daily collective malaise and hysteria (mostly reflected on TV and radio news) and have gratitude for all of blessings of my life – interesting work, wonderful family, good friends, creative outlets and a good life. The future will take care of itself.

Who could ask for more!

*******

Well, the world-wide financial carnage has continued so far this year. Even with the four-day upturn last week, the Dow is still down another 18% this year. But my little media holiday did help me keep things in perspective. The price, though, was feeling disconnected and uniformed.

In trying to discover the right balance between denial and hysteria, I think it will be along the lines of first, avoiding the breathless and sensational media reports during the work week. Their purpose is more to entertain and sell sponsors’ goods than to inform. But I don’t know whether that will be enough. It felt good to have a news holiday for almost two weeks. Maybe the right balance is to check into a couple of times a month. With all the sources of information we have today, it doesn’t take long to come back up to speed. I’ll continue the experiment and see what feels right.

Rhymes for Tough Times

2009-03-05T20:45:00.000-05:00

When bored or distraught, I write poems. Not poetry, just poems -- in the sense that there’s a rhyme in there somewhere. Interestingly, with the exception of Ogden Nash’s or Edgar Alan Poe’s works, I don’t like reading poetry. In fact I pretty much despise it.

So why do I write this stuff? Who knows. But somehow, at stressful times poems come fast -- almost writing themselves. And I feel better when they’re done.

Here are some examples.

The year I was turning 50, the company I was working for was failing fast. Not a good combination – hitting the big 5-0 with a job in jeopardy.

July 10, 2000

…but if my job goes away, could I find something new? No doubt, I could. I’ve gained a lot valuable experience over the last 17 or so years in my field and have a professional network that could help.

So...relax and let go...
Time will tell, the story will unfold.
Fretting about the future is illusory control.
No matter what happens,
No matter what my goal
If I’m really lucky, I’ll get to grow old.

*******

Next a time of boredom, but as an exception to the rule, a time a peace.

April 19, 2005

Here I sit “rotting away” in the New Orleans airport. I've been here since a little after 1:00 PM, waiting for a 7:45 PM flight.

Waiting in New Orleans

Unscheduled, unstructured, unlimited time.
No worries, no pressures, no loose fears that I’m
Supposed to be working, achieving, constructive,
Be driven, be busy, and always productive.

A small gift of time that is saved as it’s spent
Doing nothing, no nothing, that helps pay the rent.
For waiting is living and breathing is being,
Remembering joys of just looking and seeing.

So next time you lose time and miss a connection,
It’s not a disaster don’t throw a conniption.
Consider the lost time a gift and a gain,
Of hours of life that will not be the same.

A chance to remember just who that you are.
A chance to be warmed by a near yellow star.
Time spent in peace just being not doing,
Luxurious time spent merely pursuing,

The person and not the role that you play.
Remembering, centering, living the day.
And blessing the curse of a lost time jar,
For reintroduction to who you are.

Cell Phones

Plastered to the head,
Plugged into the ear,
Tethered to the belt,
When first was it we felt?

That it’s fine to be somewhere
We really aren’t at all.
To have a conversation
From the throne within a stall.

To share our half discussions
With the others on the bus
To make all others listen to
The importance that is us?

To look at someone in the eye,
While talking to another.
To talk out loud, yes very loud
With someone’s unseen brother?

Not long ago this type of thing
Would seem a tad bit loony.
Wide berth we’d give to anyone
Who seemed to be so gooney.

Alas, is past, the day of old
When humans were connected.
When mind and body, voice and soul
Were right where we expected.

But worse will be, is yet to come
Soon as we all can stand it.
Before we know the small cell phone
Is surgically implanted.

*******

Continuing the exception theme, here are two poems inspired by a rare absence of strife. I was one week out a stressful job of working for a company being sold and liquidated and two weeks away from beginning a new position.

April 25, 2006

Poem 1

Walking in the woods today,
I paused and let cares melt away.
I sat and noticed a cool breeze blow,
With no particular place to go.

It’s something I’ve missed for 45 years
Preoccupied with thoughts and fears
Focused on what could go wrong
Instead of singing life’s true song.

A song of joy and happiness,
A song sung softly and often missed.
But if you listen it’s always there,
Carried on a puff of air.

Poem 2

Pushing prodding making things happen,
Scheduling, controlling, keeping things snappin’,
It’s all become such a habit to me
And it’s cost me my serenity.

So take your hand off the steering wheel,
Go along for the ride and accept what is real.
Relax, and realize there’s more than one way,
To get where you’re going at the end of the day.

And get there, you will, not especially direct.
But the there may not be the there that you expect.
And you’ll get to a place far better by far,
By letting life drive as you ride in the car.

*******

Little did I know how much I’d be riding in a car as I began the next two years with a three to four hour daily commute. Little did I know how short my period of tranquility was to be.

November 17, 2006

When your career’s in a rut
Life’s a pain in the butt
Work’s too time-consuming
To spend bored or fuming

You think you know the score
There’s more less there than more
But you really are mistaken
Every day’s a road not taken

Within each pause, a twist
A turn unwatched is missed
No one knows the future state
So, adventure just appreciate

Nothing lasts forever more
No one cares about the score
Live each day with anticipation
With interest and participation

Before you know you are engaged
In the right place for this your page
In the book of life that’s being written
That, looking back, you will be smitten

By how much sense it did make
Somehow the right turns you did take
It comes together and serves a purpose
Even though your life’s a circus.

So keep faith, hope and the dream alive
Celebrate blessings that’s what I’ve
Decided to do to renew the excitement
And live each day with joy and delightment.

*******

I felt better, temporarily.

May 12, 2007

I know the score,
I know the game.
Now I can breathe,
And be entertained.

By the foibles, frivolities
And pseudo importance
The urgency sickness,
The rude impertinence.

By senior managers
Without exception.
Who live in a world
Without deception.

Of anyone else
But their own selves, for certain.
Not realizing others
Can see through the curtain.

It’s just not real life
But just playing a game.
So, don’t panic, just play
And you’ll arrive fully sane.

To your aim
Destination and ultimate goal.
To do good for others,
To live with soul.

*******

As you can see, I usually end up hopeful and optimistic. But it doesn’t always last.

July 18, 2007

You’ve done all you can
It’s out of your hand
The answer is part of some
Much larger plan.

So, stop the neurosis
Avoid the psychosis
Just live every moment
That here and now is.

*******

But I couldn’t help myself and turned optimistic once more.

July 28, 2007

Celebrate life, don’t give into strife.
Remember each day as adventure.

Be alert for the clue, you’ll know what to do.
To live life as gift not indenture.

*******

I ultimately served my time of career incarceration and escaped to a better world. But I still had a few slow days.

August 4, 2008

No more pressing
No more striving
Let go of control
Let go of conniving

Take things as they come
Be peaceful, be happy

And what comes is enough
It’s perfectly fine
So savor each day
Like a well-vintaged wine

Be grateful and happy
For the gift of each day
Leave love, joy and happiness
Along all the way

At the end of it all
It’s what’s life is for
Leaving peace, joy and happiness
As you walk thorough each door.

September 16, 2008

Not every day’s a break-through day
Think, write, talk and explore -- a little each day
And handle the challenges that come your way
And break-through or not, you earn your pay

So when slow times come, don’t boil and stew
Don’t flail in desperation for anything to do
Instead step back, take a long-term view
To contribution that’s true and authentically you.

*******

Since that time there have been no poems trying to get out. Things must be going well.

Worry About Worrying

2009-03-02T19:22:00.000-05:00

Dennis reminded me last night that when Dad was paying Grandma Brown’s bills for her, she would ask, “Should I worry, Warren?” Dad’s answer was always, “No, don’t worry.” But he was a second generation worrier. One of his favorite expressions when I told him of a problem I was dealing with (and had resolved, or I wouldn’t have told him about it) was “I was worried about that.”

I’m a third generation worrier. Twenty years ago, a work colleague of mine said, “You’re a worrier, aren’t you.” I can’t remember what made him say that, but, guilty, as accused. I’ve worried my way through my career. I’ve worried my way through job changes. I’ve worried my daughters through college. I’ve worried my way through life!

Sometimes worry has been helpful. It’s made me take action to avoid unpleasant consequences. But most the time worry has been inconsequential – there was nothing I could do to change the outcome. Now is one of those times.

My main worry (but being a pedigreed worrier, not my only worry) is the financial meltdown and what it’s doing to my prospect of retiring one day. Obviously, the entire world is in the same boat with everyone either being affected by the economy or knowing someone close who is. But what can I do? Nothing constructive. I’m along for the ride.

There is one thing I can do about this particular worry, though – unplug from the media that’s beating it to death.

I’ve unplugged a couple times in my life. When I was in college, not that I was plugged into the world, but I decide to literally unplug. I pulled the wire from the antenna on my car radio – my only connection with the world -- so that even if, by habit, I turned my radio on, I only got static. I found that being unconnected gave me a fresher perspective on life. I remember putting together little data fragments and predicting, the unthinkable, that Nixon would go to China way before it happened.

Later, about twenty years ago, I again unplugged from newspapers, TV and radio. I can’t remember why I did this, but as Mark Twain said, something important doesn’t necessarily happen every day. And when something important happened, I’d hear about it from others.

So it’s time to unplug again. Now days, it’s a little harder to unplug with access to on-line media. But to get our attention, media has to be ever more sensational. It screams to us that the sky is falling.

Is the sky falling? Has the economic cycle been repealed? Is this time different and we won’t have an up-turn at some point. Nobody knows.

So, as a third (at least) generation pedigreed worrier, what can I do? I can unplug – completely. I’ve tried the partial approach, staying away from financial news, but that’s proved impossible. Each media source wants to tell you that the markets are as low as they were in 1492 or the like. So, it’s time to unplug and just live my life. I may be a worrier, but I can find worries without all the help I’m getting from the media, thank you.

Finally, I’ve often thought that we as baby boomers have not had a hard life. Our grandparent’s generation who lived through the great depression and two world wars had it bad. We’ve just been whiners. For perspective, here’s something I wrote about twelve years ago, triggered by a video.

Written: August 23, 1997

I just finished watching the SHRM Portfolio VP Series video of Dr. John G. Stoessinger, the keynote speaker at SHRM’s 49th Annual Conference. I didn’t expect it to, but it struck something in me.

The last part of his speech was his life story. As a child, he fled Austria, then Poland, through Russia to China. He escaped Hitler only to confront Japanese domination and atrocities. After the war, through contact with an American Lieutenant whose shoes he was shining, he was encouraged to apply to Grinnel. He did and received a full scholarship.

Dr. Stoessinger could appreciate freedom. He could appreciate this country and the opportunities we have here -- things we take completely for granted. I got a small glimpse of this appreciation when I was in the orchestra and touring East Germany -- before the Berlin Wall came down.

For an encore, Sergiu Commissiona, our conductor and a Jewish refugee from Communist Romania, chose a passage from Copland’s Appalachian Spring. The passage was a setting of a Shaker Hymn. I don’t know if the audience appreciated the message of the selection, since the music and not the lyrics were captured Copland’s composition. I know it made our East German guide upset and angry every time we performed it. You see, the lyrics say “It’s a gift to be simple, it’s a gift to be free...”

What a powerful message. And what meaning it took on behind the barbed wire walls of Communist East Germany. A place where police toted machine guns; where Russian troops patrolled the streets; where bombed-out churches remained in piles of rubble and machine gun spray was visible on buildings 35 years after the war; where people traveled to Berlin to sit in lawn chairs and stare longingly at the West across the Wall 100 yards away (about as close as they could get without risking their lives to the watchful armed guards); where people risked their lives trying to escape by hiding in the engine compartments of trucks and busses; where people lost their lives trying to escape over the Wall.

It was also a place where, for a brief time, we lost our freedom. The East Germans took our passports and through a variety of subtle and not so subtle psychological tactics made us feel and understand what it was like not to be free.

Like Dr. Stoessinger when he arrived here for the first time, I felt like kissing the ground when I returned to the US. We take so much for granted in the things we choose to complain about; in the things that fill our newspapers and our daily lives. We just don’t get what a profound gift freedom is, the opportunities we have here and how fortunate we are to live in these times of peace and growing freedom.

It’s a gift to be simple and a gift to be free
And astonishingly amazing how unthankful we can be.
But when someone like John helps us see the light,
Clearly but briefly we see what’s right.

Some Distant Relatives

2009-03-01T14:37:00.000-05:00

Last week I read that a track of recently discovered fossilized footprints proves that our relative, Homo erectus, walked up-right with a modern human-like gait more than 1.5 million years ago. It’s mind-boggling to think how long we and our relatives have been around compared to the brief time of recorded history. I had a similar thought when I read about a different fossilized discovery last year a little closer to home.

Written: April 6, 2008

Friday, I read about a recent finding of human coprolite found in an Oregon cave. It takes human occupation of the Americas back a thousand years prior to this discovery – to 14,300 years ago -- around 12,000 BC.

It’s an amazing thing to think about from several perspectives. First, it’s mind boggling to think that prior to 12,000 BC, nobody was home in the western hemisphere. The Americas were just a big nature preserve. Second, it’s interesting to notice that we know when people came here, because someone took a crap in a cave. Even more interesting is that someone found it and recognized it for what it was. Finally, it’s amazing that we have the science today to be able to tell by sampling of petrified feces where the donor came from (through DNA) and what he had been eating.

Even more amazing than this though, is to contemplate the whole universe. The manager of the Space Telescope Institute spoke at Friday’s practicum. When the James Webb telescope goes up in 2013, we’ll be able to see back 15 billion years to the beginning of the universe. We’ll be able to detect other solar systems with habitable planets. And we’ll find out things that we didn’t know we didn’t know. Amazing stuff.

Given the immensity of time and the universe, it makes humans seem small and infantile. It’s amazing that we’re here and amazing in the short time we’ve been around what we’ve been able to learn. It’s also amazing how stuck we are in the mundane, in pettiness, in violence and in wars. If we as a species could only realize our insignificance and vulnerability perhaps we could pull together and have a chance to perpetuate the best things about our existence before the sun burns out. I doubt we’ll make it that long.

Economic Miasma

2009-02-14T11:59:00.000-05:00

Last night, I stayed up to watch the final Senate vote cast to pass the historic stimulus bill. Why? I have no idea. Perhaps it’s because I’m grasping at straws for a glimmer of hope that we’re getting out of this international economic mess. (How’s that for multiple clichés in a single sentence!)

I’ve made mistakes in my investing life – buying desert land when I could ill afford it in my early 20’s, and, later, investing "milk money" in high-risk car loans which turned out to be a Ponzi scheme. Thank goodness it collapsed before I put more money in!

Since that time, I’ve paid pretty good attention to risk and reward. I avoided the emerging market bubble in the early 90’s and the dot-com bubble earlier this decade. But this train wreck was unavoidable. This train wreck has affected people who were playing by the rules – working and saving, buying and holding, investing for the long term.

Like it or not, we all have to be money managers. The holes in the social safety net are too big and, for the most part, private pensions are non-existent. The problem is unless it’s your full time occupation (well, even if it is your full-time occupation) it feels more like gambling than investing. That’s because, so much of value is determined by human psychology and herd mentality than anything intrinsic. That’s why the cycle of boom and bust has not been repealed. As a matter of fact, when we hear comments that, "this time is different," at the height of the boom, we can be assured that the bust is coming. And the problem is that each generation has to learn the boom and bust lesson for itself. (If you need convincing read the classic: Manias, Panics, and Crashes: A History of Financial Crises, by Charles P. Kindleberger). It’s also why a Bernard Madoff can use our penchant for trusting those we know to pull off a massive Ponzi scheme.

What’s an individual to do? It feels really bad to just ride the bubble down and do nothing. It feels bad to watch 30% of your savings disappear. But sometimes it’s better to just stand there and do nothing. Sometimes it’s better to focus on the 70% of savings you haven’t lost. Here’s how I talked myself off the window ledge after a particularly black day.

*******

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Meltdown on Wall Street

Yesterday the DOW fell 777 points – its greatest point decline ever. While I’m trying not to focus on personal finances and material matters, this one was hard to ignore. Market moves don’t affect my daily life, but they do affect my financial security in retirement by devaluing my savings. I was mildly depressed last night.

This particular meltdown seemed to be the fault of Congress. After setting expectations that they had agreed on an unprecedented 700 billion dollar bailout bill, the House failed to pass it. That just seems dumb – setting expectations and then not meeting them.

These are serious times for all of us living these days. Not much would need to go wrong to trip us into another great depression.

While what happens in Congress or the financial markets is out of my control, I should realize that my individual circumstances are connected and aligned with the broader human community. It’s in everyone’s interest – worldwide – to have a functioning world economy and financial system. We’re all connected. I can take solace and security from that fact.

Having said that, it’s mistaken to seek security from external events. The only real security comes from within. Internal peace, harmony and tranquility are the assets to tap when circumstances and events go crazy.

So, although, the gyrations and permutations of the financial world go awry, I can still be peaceful and serene. Even though events out of my control frustrate my financial hopes and plans, I can let it go. There are other, more important aspects of life, specifically, serving others and making your near-world a little better place for the people in it, living a legacy and leaving something behind for the future.

Living a life of meaning and not achieving financial goals is far better than achieving financial goals and living meaninglessly. Building a life of meaning is also much more within my control than the financial markets. And it focuses on the only true source of security – that from within.

So live each day well
Don’t obsess
Over things outside --
The external mess

And focus internal
Where security lies
Live meaningful days
Life’s one, true prize

*******

So here’s hoping that the stimulus bill and the kitchen sink of solutions turns around the economic meltdown. Here’s hoping there’s another up-cycle and that it comes soon. Not just for people of my vintage who hope to retire, someday, but for those already retired, for those building a future and for the charitable causes that depend on the philanthropy of us all.

A Lonely Journey

2009-02-06T22:08:00.000-05:00

With unemployment hitting 7.6% -- the highest levels since 1992 -- and January job losses at the highest one-month rate since 1974, I have lots of colleagues in the job market and a few that would like to be, but are afraid to be looking right now. Even in better economic times, or maybe especially in better economic times when the perception is that jobs are available – just not to you, a job search is a lonely journey.

I’ve been on this journey many times in my life. First, after college, trying to enter the job market in a recession – kind of like today’s recent graduates. I muddled through two years until I landed stable position in my career field – professional tuba playing, no less.

Next having learned the lesson of the un-employability of a narrow specialty, I undertook a more marketable degree – an MBA. Once that was finished, I embarked on another one-year job search with a twist. I moved from orchestral tuba player to a human resources director position at a small financial institution.

In both of these searches, there were twists and turns and ups and downs, but since I didn’t write anything down at the time, I don’t remember much of the process or the pain.

Having launched my new HR career, though, and having hit mid-life (if you call mid-40’s mid-life) and having started to write to myself, I did take a few notes during a job search at age 47. It was another difficult one – trying to transform myself from a number two job in my field to the top job – VP of HR -- somewhere. It was a one-year adventure. Here’s what I wrote shortly after deciding to take it on.

Wednesday, January 14, 1998

A job search is certainly more than an objective decision. It sets loose an emotional menagerie -- loss, fear, excitement, adventure, disappointment, confidence, doubt and guilt.

Although there’s some staging to the emotional experience, there’s a lot of ebbing and flowing back and forth between emotional states. When the initial decision comes, there’s a sense of loss over the relationships and comfort of the current job. Then there’s guilt when you figure you’ll be less productive and loyal as you take on this new project along with your normal duties. Finally, there’s fear as you realize the danger that your current employer may find you disloyal and make a decision to do its own search for your position -- while you’re still there!

The other emotions wax and wane with the events of the days and weeks. There’s excitement when you first learn of a job or a headhunter calls. There’s disappointment when the headhunter doesn’t do what he said he’d do -- the interview isn’t set up, the return call doesn’t come back. (Most of these folks have to be conflict avoiders -- they seem to do everything they can to avoid giving bad news and being straight with people. It’s therefore almost impossible to get accurate feedback through the process.)

Another observation is that the job market is a pretty inefficient market. If employers and candidates both had perfect knowledge about each other, we wouldn’t need 6,000+ search firms. The lucrative returns for search assignments demonstrate the amount of “play” in the marketplace and just how inefficient this market is. For example, commission for stock trades where information is near perfectly available is expressed in basis points (hundredths of percent). A typical retained search costs 30%! And employers pay it with no guarantee of results.

Anyway, the results are not ultimately in your control. The activities are. The key is to do everything you can think of to produce success. By doing so, you set events in motion so that openings start to converge with your availability. Eventually, when the time is right, the Law of Intention and Desire takes over -- the universe comes around and gives you what you hope for and need. That’s been the story of my life. I affirm it will continue to be the story.

*******

And here’s what I wrote after I landed my target job.

Saturday, October 10, 1998

What a relief! I met with my new boss Thursday and feel good about all aspects of the job and the offer. Although, I don’t have the written offer yet, it’s coming next week. All that remains is giving notice, working out a transition plan, and trying to get some time off between jobs.

It’s been a long and stressful process. From November 21st 1997, the Friday after Thanksgiving, to October 8, 1998...six weeks short of a year...it’s really been a physically and emotionally grueling process. Outside my initial mailing in December to 228 search firms, I’ve probably averaged 10 contacts (letter, network call, interview) and ten hours per week (reading, writing, planning, calling). Over 46 weeks, that translates into 460 contacts. Added to the 228 mailings and rounded out, I’ll bet I’ve made between 800 and 1,000 contacts and spent the equivalent of three full-time equivalent months working on the search. I was serious about fourteen opportunities, from Tampa in the South, to Boston in the North and Omaha in the West. And, in most cases, they were serious about me.

And while I was conducting my search, I kept three jobs going (Division HR Director, Corporate Compensation & Benefits Manager, Interim Head of HR), served as treasurer on the church building committee and as a volunteer board member for a local non-profit. Boy, I earned this the hard way!

So what have I learned? I learned some valuable search tips along the way:

• Your highest value appears to be in your local market (where people know your current employer and can evaluate your contributions) and in your direct industry
• Never offer up a single “flag” in the interviewing process
• Put together a current compensation summary for the recruiter and let them make the offer you can then graciously accept
• Ask for a “pre-nuptial” severance agreement
• Ongoing networking is an integral part of the job of a successful businessman...you need to keep building and nurturing your network as long as you work.

I’ve learned (re-learned) things happen for a purpose and when they’re supposed to. If something doesn’t go the way you think it should, it’s because you’re not ready and there’s a lesson you need to learn. (Maybe that will make me more patient in future trials, but I doubt it).

For example, as excited as I was about one particular opportunity, it would have been a terrible mistake for me to work there. The culture is too formal and bureaucratic, the politics are ridiculous, and the commute unbearable. And, as another example, as sure as I was about my current position being right for me, by serving in this interim period, I’ve learned much more about the management style of the company. We are conservative and calcified as far as HR initiatives are concerned...continuing in this job would only lead to frustration.

But mostly what I’ve learned is the generosity of the universe. Some power outside me gave me the lessons I needed to learn when I needed them, put the right people in my life at the right time, gave me the will to keep going and orchestrated events to bring me to the job uniquely suited for me...the people, the culture, the challenge and the location. The awe and mystery of it all ...the exquisite sense of timing (when both my new employer and I were ready) and the irony of the job’s location -- after a national search, the job turns out to be in the same building I currently work... is truly amazing! (God certainly has a sense of humor).

In closing, I’m grateful for the kind and generous God who orchestrates my life and my family’s lives to be what they should be. Now, it’s time to re-focus on the contribution I can make...to my new company, to the people who work there and to the people who live in the communities we serve. That’s why I’m on this planet and why I’m where I am on the planet. I can relax, enjoy and make the most of it.

*******

Of course, it wasn’t all the peaches and cream I imagined it would be in my moment of relief and euphoria. In fact, it was just the beginning of a ten-year odyssey at the helm of HR for two public and one private companies, as the first one struggled with financial survival, the second one was purchased, taken private and liquidated and the third one was just a crazy place (which included that unbearable commute that I thought I had ducked in 1998).

Now, in the final projected eight years or 15% of my working life, I’ve down-shifted to a non-executive role and, Rip Van Winkle-like, returned to the employer I left 14 years prior to beginning this quest.

Although, no one knows the future (as my prognostication has shown, I certainly don’t), it feels like I’m in the right place at the right time and I thank my lucky stars for that. But, whatever the outcome, I know that I can adapt, survive and thrive.

We, as humans, are amazingly resilient. We can deal with whatever life throws our way. Even in our darkest, loneliest times, we can see a new day and a brighter future. Even in our darkest times, we can say, that we’re “looking forward to looking back on this.” And, looking back, although I never enjoyed times of struggle, I would not want to have forgone the lessons I learned by going through them. I’m sure this is true. For all of us.

Trying to Figure it Out

2009-01-28T12:42:00.000-05:00

Written: February 19, 2007

After 56 years on the planet, I’m still trying to figure it all out. Perhaps, I’ll be trying to figure it out until my time is gone. I guess everyone else is trying to figure it out, too.

As an aging baby-boomer, I get glimpses of wisdom from the generations that have come before. I hear my elders say things I don’t understand and can’t understand. Then I get older -- to the age they were when they said what they said. I have an “ah ha” moment and understand. I even find myself saying and thinking what I formerly just didn’t get.

My father-in-law is 32 years older than me. He’s reaching the end-game. He tells me that he’s not afraid of death. This I get, but not at the visceral level that I think he gets it. The visceral understanding, I believe, comes from the sense of having had a complete, full life. I was very afraid of death as a child, moderately afraid of death as a young adult and less afraid of death now.

Don’t get me wrong, death right now would be a disappointment. I think it’s because I haven’t done everything I want to do yet. I haven’t fully launched my daughters on independence (from me, anyway). I don’t feel that I’ve left my mark on the world. I don’t have that sense of completion. Maybe all of this only comes from getting older and letting go.

As I get older, the possibilities that were seemingly infinite suddenly get finite. I’m in good shape, but I’ve let go of ever being an athlete. I’m getting to be a moderately skilled glass-blowing craftsman, but I’ve let go of ever being an artist. I’m a good singer, but I’ve let go of singing in a renowned quartet. As I age, my world narrows in the slippery slope to oblivion.

The flip side of this narrowing of possibilities, though, is the narrowing of pretenses. I no longer feel I have anything to prove. I less and less feel obligated to do things, and more and more do the things I’m inspired to do. It gets down to finding your essence – your inner core and expressing that, somehow.

Why express it? I think it’s to benefit others – younger generations and future generations. Somehow, to me, that’s the meaning of life, the meaning of everything – to make things better for others and leave the earth a little better than you found it. And that’s what keeps me going.

My Mom's Dad

2009-01-27T20:17:00.000-05:00

Written: March, 1996

My grandfather died two years ago and I miss him. He was a simple, good man -- but I imagine that’s how we all romanticize our predecessors. His life was probably pretty hard.

He was twenty-one when he married my sixteen-year-old grandmother on October 30, 1929. You know what happened the next day. The story is, though, he never lacked work through the Depression. His first job was a laborer -- unloading box cars for Fruit Growers. To help make ends meet, he cut hair on Friday nights. (Doesn’t everybody’s grandfather have a real barber chair in his basement?) By the time he retired, he was collecting two pensions -- from Fruit Growers and from Addressograph-Multigraph.

Even with a 4th grade education, he could fix anything. He was a self-taught electrician and a mechanical genius (in my eyes) fixing those balky machines for the FBI, no less.

In his spare time, he built his own first house (out of Fruit Growers packing lumber) and raised three kids. Apparently, he was a pretty strict and suspicious father to my mother. The fact that he’d occasionally take a nip probably made things worse. But by the time his first grandchild came around (that would be me) apparently all his strictness was used up. I think, in his eyes, I could do no wrong. He used to slip me money in a handshake when I did something he was proud of.

By fluke of birth, he missed out on serving in both World Wars in his lifetime and I think he felt guilty about it. He gave some embarrassed, murky answer the one time I asked him as a child whether he had fought in the war. But he served. He was a lifelong member of the Franconia Volunteer Fire Department. He founded the Rescue Squad and was its first President. He drove the ambulance on many a mission and when my mother had a problem and my dad was working the 4 to 12 shift as a DC policeman he’d be there.

The one time this happened that I remember is when my mother stuck a knitting needle in her hand and couldn’t get it out. Mom can faint at the mention of blood so we needed someone fast. Even though I was not yet school age, I somehow made the phone call, granddad arrived and all was well in short order.

Granddad LOVED to hug his daughter-in-laws, son’s girlfriends, grandsons’ girlfriends or, for that matter, anybody’s girlfriend. I think he was kind of a clean, “dirty-old-man.” But his first love was grandma, Helen, who he was faithful to and pampered. Grandma, for example, never learned to drive. If she needed to go anywhere, Murn (the way my grandmother said my grandfather’s name -- Marion) would take her.

Granddad was an emotional man. When grandma died, he was lost. Just thinking about her would make his eyes well-up. (But he found another companion in short-order). After grandma died, he saw his own declining health and feared death. He couldn’t express his fear but would have periods on sadness and welling up almost every time you talked to him. Even before that, he could get emotional thinking of departed friends, what a good man my father was (after my mom & dad separated) or what a good man Mr. Brown (my dad’s father) was. He loved animals -- he trained a succession of squirrels (all named Charlie) to eat peanuts out of his hand.

Granddad was a competitive man. My brother and I learned before we were ten, that we were not to win at RA (a Parcheesi-like game played at the firehouse) and expect to have a happy granddad. Matter of fact, we had to be careful about even looking like we were getting ahead! He excelled at horseshoes. We spent many a summer evening watching him and my dad play or, later, joining in the game. I don’t see many throw the shoe with his left-handed, shoe-held-backward at one point throw.

Granddad was a story-teller (but he only had a few stories). We heard them over and over and each time they were a little different and more embellished:

- Picking corn from his neighbor’s field and roasting it there

- Finding Civil War mini balls in the freshly plowed field and using them for fishing weights

- Hiding in a tree to get away from Uncle Lud.

The saddest story was about my great-grandfather Lovett (grandma’s dad). He couldn’t tell it, ever, without breaking up. Great-granddad Lovett, worked at Fruit Growers too. He always saved half his lunch dessert (a cake of some sort) for his youngest son, Paul. On the day he was crushed by two box cars, severing both legs and bleeding to death, his final words to my granddad, who was there, were “take care of Minnie (my great grandmother), Helen (my grandmother to be) and Paul. When granddad looked in great granddad Lovett’s lunch box -- there was his legacy to Paul -- half a cake. I’ve never put the two together before, but maybe his dad’s tragic death is what led to Paul’s drinking problem.

Granddad thought that if Kennedy was elected, the Pope would be running the country. After Kennedy was assassinated, part of grandad's treasure was a shrine to JFK. He also believed the men walking around on the moon were responsible for messing up the weather.

Toward the end, my Mom and her brothers sold the house. By this time, granddad was no longer capable of taking care of himself. Sarah (who was 6) and I stopped by as Mom was gathering up heirlooms (mainly photographs) the night before they moved out. We were looking at some of the pictures and Sarah spontaneously broke out crying. Without it being spoken, she could sense the finality in the air.

At my mom’s suggestion, I took a final look around the home where he had raised three children and lived for 50 plus years. She thought I might find something I’d like to have to remember granddad by. I looked at the collection of the treasures of a life-time. I smelled his hat and suit -- trying to etch in my memory the man he once was.

The one possession that stands out is a bushel basket of outside water spigots among the assorted electric motors and spare parts. No doubt, living through the Depression, he never knew when there’d be a shortage of spigots and he’d be set!

What did I take to remember him? I few hand-tools -- his hammer, his pliers and a few well- honed knives. When I have something to do in the house, I use his tools and am, in some way, connected to him, my past and all those who came before him. Oh yes, the summer after he died, I built my first horseshoe pit.

September 11, 2001

2009-01-26T21:32:00.000-05:00

Written: September 23, 2001

The world has changed. The terrorist hijacking of four commercial airlines, the destruction of the World Trade Center and damage of the Pentagon has changed everything.

When it happened, our barbershop quartet was singing its first gig – a retirement ceremony at Fort Meade for an Air Force officer. When we arrived at the golf course clubhouse at 9:45, the MC of the ceremony, another officer, told us that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. We were in disbelief, but had to believe quickly – the pictures were being broadcast live on CNN in the next room. We watched a few minutes and then went to warm up. We were to sing the Star Spangled Banner for the opening of the ceremony. After seeing the Pearl Harbor-like footage live, it was all I could do to keep my voice from cracking as I became choked up with the tragedy and the symbolism.

As the events unfolded, even at Fort Meade, people were in a state of disbelief and denial. They continued to call foursomes for tee times all morning! Golf endures all, but I know for the rest of the week, I joined many others wondering about the significance of work and life, in general. I mourn for the dead, the hero rescuers, the bereft families and, especially, children who have lost a parent.

September 11th is a defining moment. It’s the start of a journey to an unknown destination. If it can be a call for world cooperation, greater civilization and an end to terrorism, the loss of life, although tragic, may not have been in vain. This is my strongest wish and hope for the future of the world.

When My Dad's Father Died

2009-01-25T18:17:00.000-05:00

Written: June 17, 1996

It was 1973. I was stuck in my own world of busyness -- in career limbo between selling real estate and trying to be a professional musician. It was a Friday night and Marcia came over to the apartment to make dinner. As we set down to eat, the phone call came that, at least temporarily, made everything else seem unimportant.

My aunt was on the line. She was trying to reach my father. It seems that my grandfather had a massive heart attack while tossing a small football back and forth with my youngest cousin. He was dead before the ambulance arrived.

Granddad Brown had worked 50 years for the Southern Railroad as an engineer. One of the engines he operated is now in the Smithsonian. He had retired the year before and was, to my knowledge, in robust health. I had no warning he was anywhere near the end. But worse than my shock, I had to find my dad and tell him.

I remembered where he was. My brother Donald was in the high school band and was playing at an away game. I skipped dinner, got in the car and set out to find him.

By the time I made it to the field, the game was in the second half. I walked back and forth the visiting stands until I found dad. He seemed happy to see me but must have wondered why I was there. I don’t remember how I told him but I know it was no more than three or four sentences. I don’t know how I expected him to react, but on the outside he seemed unchanged. He was probably in shock. He left the game to go help grandma. I think I took Donald home.

From that point on, Dad took over. He helped grandma make all the funeral arrangements and was the pillar of strength through the whole thing.

The second hard moment for me was trying to explain death to my youngest brother -- Darren -- who was four. I was driving him to grandma’s house when he asked “is granddad coming back?” This was an unexpected question but I had to answer. It brought the finality of death home to me.

But the hardest moment was when it was all over. I asked my Dad, how he’d been so strong through the ordeal. He said that he had to be strong to get everyone else through it but when it was over, he set on his bed and “cried like a baby.” That really got to me. Men didn’t cry. My dad had never cried. To picture him crying almost made me cry.

After it was all over, a surprising change happened in my grandmother. She sainted my grandfather. As long as I could remember, granddad and grandma lived in the same house but in separate rooms. They barely talked to each other. If they had to communicate, they used one of the children to convey the message. After granddad died, he could do no wrong and he was all grandma could talk about. Death changes survivors.

But life goes on. Grandma lived another twenty years praising all the wonderful qualities of Earl, my grandfather. Dad survived the grief and I returned to my self-absorbed life to deal with death another, distant day.

Working Through Bad Times

2009-01-12T22:46:00.000-05:00

As the year starts, it looks to be a tough one for employment. We’re living through what is, at minimum, a downturn in the employment market. It could be worse than a downturn, though. It could be one of the worst employment markets in 70 years – since the 1930’s. We won’t know until we’re on the other side.

Having been in the labor force since I was sixteen -- 42 years ago -- I’m experienced with down-cycles. I’m experienced with employment disruptions independent of up or down cycles. I say I’m experienced, but that implies lessons from the past that are applicable to today. Since every situation is different and no one knows the future, that may or may not be true. I should say I have experiences that may or may not be applicable to any future situation.

In 1972 when I graduated from college with a degree in music education, it turns out that my safety net – the education part of the degree – had more holes than safety. Even though I didn’t want to be a teacher, I majored in education because everyone knew, “you can always get a job as a teacher.” I guess the definition of “always” didn’t include 1972. Somehow I muddled through though as a freelance musician and real estate salesman. The real estate part went from boom to bust in 1974. Had I been paying attention, that might have been a lesson.

My next venture was nine years working for a musical institution which always operated in the red, was subject to perpetual labor strife and, thus employment insecurity. This lead to my longest period, to date, of unemployment – a four month lockout (contract dispute) in 1981. This wasn’t totally bad timing. My wife was returning to work after her maternity leave. So, I got to bond with my brand new favorite oldest daughter by tending to her every need and dressing her like a clown with whatever clean clothes I first laid hands on in the morning.

Although I kept busy by occasional freelance gigs and continued in my MBA coursework (toward a marketable skill, this time), toward the end of the labor dispute, I realized how important work was to me. I need to be productive. I need to contribute. Being out of work was making me crazy. Maybe it’s the man thing of having your identity and sense of value wrapped up so closely with your work. Who knows? I just know I was feeling worthless being out of work at the time.

Since that time, I’ve changed careers and, in spite of some dicey times, have not been unemployed. How have I gotten through these dicey times? Writing to myself to keep my head on straight.

Around the end of the last century, I spent some time working for a failing company. The payroll function reported to me and for a year, I never knew if we were going to be able to fund the payroll until the day the checks were cut (we always did, but just barely). Since it was a public company, many mornings the bad news hit the newspapers before the workday began. It wasn’t a dot-com company but had a dot-com operation. It was in trouble before the dot-com bubble burst and the bursting bubble made it worse. Needless to say, it was a tough situation and a period of job instability. How did I endure? For one thing, I wrote an article (not published) on working for a company in troubled times.

Once I jumped ship from that company I had a nice five-year run with a public firm, which, at the end, was purchased and liquidated. Again, a lot of news came from the press instead of internal communication and the last four months were pretty uncertain times for everybody. That’s when I discovered the value of bad poetry. Here’s what I wrote in January 2006, while stuck in a holding mode watching two bidders publically battle over the company while we could do nothing by watch our fate unfold:

Waiting Mode

There are times in life when it’s best to wait,
When nothing is done to operate,
When doing something is worse than not,
When less is more and more’s a jot.

It’s hard to wait and let unfold
While time goes by and your life’s on hold
To take your hand off the steering wheel
And go for the ride while your fate is sealed.

But life is a cycle of ebbs and flows
Of stopping sometimes wherever it goes
Of pausing and waiting and watching and looking
While whatever’s happening just keeps on cooking.

So welcome these times of peace and of pause,
And have faith and hope that they’re there because
An exciting new journey is about to start
On a calling, an adventure you will soon depart.

Live every day while you’re watching and waiting
Notice and learn while anticipating
The new life that’s coming that’s meant to be
The excitement and service and joy you’ll see.

In service to others today and tomorrow,
In some small way to mitigate sorrow.
To immerse in joy, humor and peace
And let go, relax – even more -- release.

To a beneficent world with a grand design
To a world created with you in mind.
A puzzle immense, complex and unique
To be completed by you as the missing piece.

*******

Somehow that made me feel better.

Form the frying pan, I unknowingly jumped into the fire. I landed a new job and, for the first time for me in a job transition had the luxury of three weeks off between jobs. (My usual pattern was to take a weekend off between jobs.) It was a position where I thought I could make a difference, but the gild came off the lily early on.

Day 23

Sleep deprived, driven and striven
I sometimes doubt how much I’m givin’
How much I contribute, am I earning my keep?
But how much can I do in this my fourth week?

The commute is a bear and the transition a bore
The problem is that I’ve done it before
Diagnose the case and first year uncertain
Until a track record will lower the curtain.

On the test, the trial, the judgment, probation
To acceptance, to partnership to standing ovation
To be a key member of the leadership team
To be held by all in the highest esteem

Then back to real life to balance, enjoyment
Where my whole life is not just another employment
Because real life is not just a dress rehearsal
You live it once with no reversal.

And making money for someone is not the purpose of life
But serving mankind, bring joy, ending strife
To as many a person alive now and coming
To leave a gift to the world becoming

A place of purity, joy and peace
A civilized world where struggles cease
Where everyone lives a joyful life
And lives each day without any strife.

It’s a dream no one man can ever achieve
But a dream, none-the-less, we must conceive
A dream we must make real, alive and existent
And while it is not, we must be persistent

So do all you can to make the day better
To give love and laughter as gifts wherever
And whenever you see a chance to improve
And in this way you will help to move

The world, little by little, to a better place
And leave some small gift for the human race.

*******

It helped for a while but didn’t cure the situation. My personal Hell is to be bored to death. And I was. No matter how hard I applied myself, I couldn’t make things better. Here’s how I tried to rhyme my way out of it.

November 17, 2006

When your career’s in a rut
Life’s a pain in the butt
Work’s too time consuming
To spend bored or fuming

You think you know the score
There’s more less there than more
But you really are mistaken
Every day’s a road not taken

Within each pause a twist
A turn unwatched is missed
No one knows the future state
So, adventure just appreciate

Nothing lasts forever more
No one cares about the score
Live each day with anticipation
With interest and participation

Before you know you are engaged
In the right place for this your page
In the book of life that’s being written
That, looking back, you will be smitten

By how much sense it did make
Somehow the right turns you did take
It comes together and serves a purpose
Even though your life’s a circus.

So keep faith, hope and the dream alive
Celebrate blessings that’s what I’ve
Decided to do to renew the excitement
And live each day with joy and delightment.

*******

It didn’t work.

Saturday, January 20, 2007

The strain, the drain
The pressure on the brain
Of doing things again and over
Not deciding, stuck, moreover

Moving slow with no direction
Nothing done, but with perfection
Re-deciding past decisions
In the face of more derision

Why can’t we move the damn thing forward?
Without the stress and effort horrid
It shouldn’t be so awful hard
To execute and play the card

That you are dealt,
Place bets, move on
There’ll be another hand
Anon!

So choose, take action
Select, decide
Just move forward
Begin the ride.

*******

But I endured.

July 28, 2007

Celebrate life, don’t give into strife.
Remember each day as adventure.

Be alert for the clue, you’ll know what to do.
To live life as gift not indenture.

*******

Ultimately, I was fortunate to obtain employment where I’m able to help make things better for the people who work there -- what I really like doing. The time between interview and job offer was driving me nuts, though. As therapy, I reworked my poem from January 2006 and turned it into a never-to-be-heard song of hope.

Beneficent World (12/4/2007)

There are times for everyone full of strife
With dark dead-ends just devoid of life
It’s hard to know then just what to do
When darkness seems all that’s facing you

But life’s a cycle of ebbs and flows
The darker the night, the brighter the glow
Of light, of brilliance and a great new day
Our problems resolved in an elegant way

So when you’re lost and can’t make a move
When time has stopped and you can’t be soothed
Remember the pain of a former day
And the power that lead to a better way

A beneficent world with a grand design
A world created with you in mind
A world created with excess heart
Unlimited paths to surprising new starts

Let go, believe, have faith because, The pain’s the lesson that gives us pause
To see the world’s beneficent design
A world created with you in mind.

*******

Somehow through all the dark times, I came up with hope and faith. I didn’t start there, but always ended up there, regardless of how dire the circumstances. Will this help me in the future? Will this help anyone else? Who knows?

The one thing I do know is that the future is not a straight line projection of the past. Continual boom to bust economic cycles tell us that. Until someone suspends human greed and fear, until someone solves the problems of “irrational exuberance” (Alan Greenspan) and irrational apprehension, we’ll see these cycles of boom and bust.

With any luck we’ve learned from the past and some of the tools in the government’s tool kit will mitigate this particular down-turn. Meanwhile, since no one person can change the market, how does an individual get through tough times? For me, it’s been a combination of hope, faith and action – seems like the American way.

Getting A Little Perspective

2009-01-08T20:53:00.000-05:00

Written: November 25, 2007

About 230 million years ago dinosaurs first appeared. They hung around for 130 million years or so before leaving the scene about 65 million years ago. Somewhere after that some ancestors of mammals appeared eventually getting around to developing into cousins in the human evolution with the appearance of homo something about 2.0 million years ago.

About 250,000 years ago homo sapiens arrived on the scene. About 75,000 years ago some event almost wiped us out leaving, by one estimate 1,000 specimens and 100 breeding pairs left. That’s why we’re so close a family, I guess.

30,000 years ago Neanderthals exited, stage left, I presume. That gave us about 20,000 years to think about starting civilization as we know it, which our forefathers begin in earnest 10,000 years ago. About 5,000 years ago, someone figured out how to write and, thus, started off recorded history.

So, given that almost everything written has been in the last 2% of homo sapiens visit, and that we’ve only been civilized 4% of our time here, it’s hard to get too excited about the “history” of the last decade, century or millennium, for that matter. And if we are as successful as our dinosaur friends and last 100 million years or so (not likely given current trends), at 250,000 we’re just getting started -- .25% of a projected 100 million year stay.

What are the implications from being the new-bees here? First, I think it’s a little arrogant to be so sure of ourselves, our various and conflicting religious orthodoxies, and our alleged supremacy on the planet. Heck, we just got here (as Kurt Vonnegut says).

Second, I think we need to reflect on the role our evolution has played in preparing ourselves (or not) for life in these times. (I was going to say “modern times” but as soon as say that, it’s dated. This will look like the dark days 100 years hence.)

Mark Buchanan reflected on this second point in his book, The Social Atom. He makes some interesting points relating to understanding people in organizations and communities:

- The brain is the physical product of millions of years of evolution and bears, in its structure and function, the traces of all that history. It certainly didn’t evolve to solve mathematical problems, steer automobiles, or judge the sense of risky financial investments. It certainly didn’t evolve to see through forests of complex statistical reasoning. (page 59)

- We are not rational calculators, but …adaptive opportunist. What really makes the conscious part of our mind powerful isn’t logic but the ability to adapt – to take a step based on one rule, idea or belief, then to adjust depending on the outcome. (page 63)

- We are not rational calculating machines, but biological pattern recognizers who are able to learn from our mistakes. (page 110)

- Management theorists insist that some companies are more adaptable and resilient than others, and this has more to do with “organization” than with their better employees. (page 13)

- …at the core of the modern competitive firm we find that social cohesion created by cooperation is the main engine of success. Companies that succeed for long periods do so by sustaining the cooperative spirit in their employees and therefore gaining from their hard work. (page 184)

The core chapters of his book describe collective human behavior as adaptive, imitative and cooperative.

Food for thought.

First Post

2009-01-04T13:19:00.000-05:00

Although this is my entry into the blog-a-sphere, I’ve been writing – to myself and for myself for some time. It was my mid-life rite of passage. Instead of buying a sports car and trading in a perfectly good wife, I started writing some of the stories of my life to date.

Once I had that out of my system, I continued to keep a journal with sporadic entries, usually around some difficult time or issue (usually work-related) that I was dealing with. After thirteen years of these musings, the printed version is about four inches thick.

Most of it was written to help me get clear in muddled, complicated situations. Most of it would be of no interest to the world at large, so it will remain in my desk drawer. Some of it may find its way here in the interest of dialogue with my contemporaneous community – whoever that may be.