Vernissageversuchung
Vernissageversuchung
Vehr-niss-sarje – fair-zoo-cchoong
Vernissage-temptation
“The urge to test whether paint marked “wet paint” really is still wet”
I am driving in the city, there is a police car in front of me. I think about how surprised he/she would be if I hit the police car. Now I am not talking about a full-scale crash. No, just a tap to let them know I am back here. Now I have discovered a word for just this kind of thinking. Vernissageversuchung!! It is my first thought when I see the “wet paint” sign – I wonder if it is still wet—I’ll just tap it to see… just ever so lightly touch the paint and sure enough --- it is wet. Now, what to do? Walk away ? or the other inexplicable thought—- I can make it better by rubbing it so that it blends into the untouched part. Neither of those choices is either possible or satisfying. One of my personal favorites is “no parking”. Surely that is for everyone else. The issue is I have a high percentage of parking where I am not supposed to and nothing happens, which only encourages me to ignore such signs in the future. Same with Do Not Enter – for everyone else.
Is it just arrogance as we travel through space in our self-absorbed mode of transport? Are all the warnings just for the other person? Are we that special? In need of constant reassurance or are we still children needing to test it out for continuing ed.? Think of the frozen pole. As many times as we see the kid’s tongue get stuck on the frozen pole, we are pretty sure it will not happen to us. At their earliest stage, babies start learning to distinguish themselves from outside objects. They soon learn not to put their hand on the hot stove. Now babies have an excuse after all they just showed up to the party. But what is our excuse when we do things that we know will have a negative result and we do them anyway. The idea that the world is centered around us as individuals come in various sizes. Touching the wet paint could be just curiosity, tapping the police car is just naughty and risky. Doing the wrong thing purposely is a combination of arrogance and self-centeredness arising from failure to distinguish the self from external objects. That is the baby’s excuse, for the adult, it is a feature of mental disorder -- narcissism, hubris, or just stupidity.
Somehow when we do something that we know will have a negative result, we do it anyway. Is it arrogance or selfishness involving a sense of entitlement, a lack of empathy, and a need for admiration---narcissism ---- sound familiar? Fill in the blank and you will define a long list of featured political and governmental leaders. The perfect example is Ted Cruz’s trip to Mexico while his entire state of Texas is in crisis. He had to know it was wrong, but he did it anyway. Clearly, the paint was wet and he chooses to sit on the bench. For most of us, the result is small and annoying but for people in power, the inability to recognize and heed warning signs has consequences well beyond cleaning the paint off of your fingers. The fact that they cannot or choose not to recognize their faults is a very big reason and perhaps the only reason to not put them in positions of power in the first place. However, we, too, touch the wet paint….
SONNTAGSLEERUNG zohn - tahgs - leh - roong
SONNTAGSLEERUNG
Zohn – tahgs – leh-roong
In the short time that I have been seeking understanding of how writers are published, I discovered most writers are willing to share their thoughts on the “how” of publishing and thoughts on how one improves their writing, In the time that I have been in the Bay Area I met two writers that have been seriously helpful. One lent me a book that I will focus on over the next several writings. Those who follow my blog will remember “Surdenfraudeh”.
I have been trying to learn Italian. As I have said it would have been better if I had started 50 years ago but I did not. In my study of languages, I found German to be a challenging and intimidating language. Given my German heritage, I was nonetheless interested. One of the unique parts of the German language is the combination of words that become a singular word with a meaning that can encompass complex emotions. Mark Twain said it this way “These things are not words; they are alphabetical processions.” In the next few weeks, I am going to explore some of these “alphabetical processions” and delve into how I relate.
The first word I have decided to explore is Sonntagsleerung. It is apropos as I usually finish my blog on Sunday evening and then schedule it to post Wednesdays.
I have been plagued by the Sunday depression for as long as I can remember. Most definitions of this condition indicate that depression comes from the anticipation or dread of the coming work week or a future event. For me, this definition is more akin to anxiety or dread as in a term paper is due on Monday; you are to appear in court; a bill is due; a client meeting and on and on. I am not sure that is depression as much as it is anxiety or just anticipation (like Carly Simon’s song by the same name) “We can never know about the days to come but we think about them anyway Anticipation, anticipation”) The Sunday “blues” or sonntagsleerug occurs because something has concluded. Sundays start out well enough. You sleep in a little; maybe linger over coffee a little longer; kids stay on the computer a little longer---Sunday mornings are stretched out and softer. That is, of course, unless you have decided you need to go to church, and then you have created a whole other source of anxiety and scheduling. Let me not digress. Sunday morning is generally pleasant and fun but as the day moves forward the conclusion comes closer. For me, that is when that feeling of maybe a bad piece of fish found its way into your stomach as it begins to feel unsettled. The bathroom does not hold the solution. It is just that feeling of unease: like a first date or your turn at the plate or you are about to give your speech. Whatever biological occurrence begins when things are just not settled it is that feeling that comes upon me Sunday afternoon. Then I start thinking about everything ending. Honestly, I try to think about Dr. Seuss’s famous line “Don’t cry because it is over, smile because it happened”. I gain some solace for the moment I recall these words but it is temporary relief.
It’s the conclusion of something you really enjoyed against the insecurity of something you might not, with a dash of loneliness for good measure.
I just cannot find the words to fully and accurately describe the feeling of depression on Sunday so I found one:
Sonntagsteerung
Father Time / Father’s Day II
Father Time
Time is relative to expectation. I spent Father’s Day with my youngest son and his fiancé. I would have, of course, enjoyed spending time with all of my children, however, given they live in different parts of the world, time and distance prevented that occurrence. We had a fantastic time together. Time flew by and then it was over. When each of my 5 children were born it seemed that there was nothing but time to enjoy their growing up. But now that they are adults the time, in retrospect, like my Father’s Day weekend just flew by. The speed at which time travels is a matter of perspective. When my children reach out to me or I reciprocate time slows down. When I don’t hear from them time accelerates. The speed of time is siloed in the experience associated with the event. I moved into a new home and would like to remodel it. However, the city and its regulations are making that process difficult. In this effort, time is moving very slowly and additionally frustrating. Once the project is completed and I look back I undoubtedly will remark on how much time has passed since I moved to this new location.
As a father of five, I have been extraordinarily fortunate. These individuals are well on their journey which like aleatory music will at times appear random but hopefully be rewarding. The unknown will slow time. For them, the process to this point may have appeared to take a long time yet as that journey proceeds time will accelerate and they will wonder where the time went. Along with speed, we forget much of that time. The more that I am able to see them and experience part of their journey time moves at a more leisurely pace. For my children who live a long journey away, time will move faster for without the luxury of witnessing their journey time will live in the past. My experience with my children has for the most part been an exhilarating journey full of accomplishment and pride. For those fathers less fortunate either through economic position or health, the time has moved slowly. If you could choose which pace time moves in this respect it would be a difficult choice. I want time to slow down; however, as their father, I only wish my children’s life path to be a smooth one.
This Father’s Day brought up a diverse set of emotions and curiosity as I reviewed the time I have been given to share the lives of these wonderfully accomplished individuals. The price one pays for the opportunity to excel and enjoy life’s experience is the speed at which time travels. For me, the time has moved at an accelerated pace. Yet the more time I allocate to those that I love and care for the easier it is to apply the breaks on time. One week after Father’s Day I am thankful for the time allotted to me to experience the incredible journey my five children are traveling.
Tick tock, tick tock
Happy Father’s Day
Last Sunday was Father’s Day in the US. There are similar holidays in countries around the world, celebrated at different times of the year. As an example, Italy celebrates fathers on March 19th. I have written about mothers and the incredible load they carry in the family. In a world trying, at least in some countries, to embrace broader equality, establishing well defined roles for Mothers and Fathers has been challenging. My prospective of what it is and means to be a father is determined in large part by my experience as a son. My experience with my father was not perfect but then I have not been perfect either. However, when you look at the entirety of his work my father was an valuable role model. He was an excellent father.
Fathers have a unique role in a child’s life. I am not establishing a value of importance or influence between mothers and fathers, but they are different and their influences are unique. Even if those roles are merged or carried singularly. Mothers role is all encompassing especially those mothers who work and raise their children. Even in families where child raising is shared, the father brings a certain power that is not better than, but different from the mothers. Mothers are kind, nurturing and supportive. Fathers present an image we are trying to measure up to or an approval we are trying to gain. This is equally observed by both sons and daughters. It is no longer the province of sons. For a father, this is a heavy responsibility that often can go wrong. Children need to have a father that brings a benchmark that is positive and of value. This Father’s Day I am thinking of my father as a father and about his son that became a father. My father passed away twenty-two years ago. He was an accomplished individual. Living up to those standards has been, at times, an uphill battle. . He was a respected attorney who was practicing law until the day he was taken to the hospital. He was in demand until the end. An accomplished tennis player, sailor, piano player and father. Although we grew up in a “traditional” middle class home my father treated my two sisters and I equally. We could all throw a baseball, play tennis, sail and most important achieve intellectually. He prepared his children to support themselves in the world to come. I was not afraid of my father but respected him greatly as he was well written and thoughtful. There was nothing “shoot-from-the-hip” about him. He was detail oriented and researched all subjects. I did not always agree with him, but his DNA and style of family governance remains with me. He was orderly and took care of his possessions . There was orderliness and then there was his order. I am not sure he knew exactly what I did as a career, but I wanted him to be proud of me. It is what fathers continue to bring to the family dynamic. We just want our fathers to be proud of us. Somehow, we just assume our mothers will be but our fathers need proof.
Parents set the stage and are watched and as children we observe their every move.
My father set a tone in the household and as I have aged, I have realized just how important his example was. He did not distinguish between male and female. It was equally important that his daughters were every bit as successful and as prepared for success as his son. Certainly, in male dominated cultures and households, that is not always the case. My sisters were also skilled athletically which is attributed to his working with all of his children on their athletic skills. He was detailed and organized. Perhaps a little OCD but, hey, a little OCD goes a long way. His interest in gardening and dedication to his roses has been engrained in his three children. He was brilliant, a certifiable genius. Now I am not claiming I received all of that but my two sisters certainly did – Stanford, Columbia, Law school etc., etc. His strong work ethic; moral compass; his advice wasn’t always the advice you wanted to hear but it was always even handed, non-judgmental and well thought out. He understood his role as patriarch and was always there to help you consider all the ramifications of the problem. He also understood importance of family and of being there when things came off the rails. He was not a wealthy man but when it came to family, health and education there was no budget.
I am hopeful that I have embraced many of these qualities as I am a father of five. So, on this Father’s Day I am thinking about my father and all he passed on to me consciously and unconsciously. What I miss most is his good counsel. Not the solution but the voice when I needed someone to talk to. I said the same at his funeral – “ I miss you dad, I miss being with you but most of all I miss your good counsel.”
Happy Father’s Day.
Emil Steck, JR. 1912-1999
Schadenfreude: shaa-duhn-froy-duh
The sense of enjoyment upon hearing the problems of others. “Jeremy had a feeling of schadenfreude when his ex-wife’s second marriage failed.”
My daughter mentioned this word to me the other day. I struggled to admit that I did not know the word; its definition, nor how to use it.
Schaden damage + Freude joy
Donald Trump’s coronavirus infection draws international sympathy and a degree of schadenfreude
When we first discussed it, I was amused as I thought about all the times, I have felt a sense of schadenfreude. When you experience failure and then that same failure is experienced by another you have a sense of pleasure at the failure but it also validates your own miscue. It proves that whatever you were doing had a real degree of difficulty and that failing was not so bad because others were also struggling.
The Trump example is something that many of us experienced as we fantasized about his failure and potential fall from grace. It is or was hard to hope for the worst in the middle of a pandemic and a failing economy just to smile at his failure. That is the catch 22. Wishing for his failure meant others had to experience the same. Schadenfreude wrested on the famous is a great sport as they have the bandwidth to sustain transitory failure. Wishing the same on a more common figure has consequences that are super unfortunate and potentially debilitating.
If I fail and now hope that you also fail, we have not advanced either cause. Schadenfreude is not exactly wishing for failure rather it is the enjoyment of failure. Taking pleasure in someone else’s misfortune is karmically bad.
Our society has learned to welcome the idea of joy through failure. The most benign is wishing for failure or gaining pleasure if the other person’s athletic team loses... Where does this put me when I wish that Joe Biden would succeed but I smile at Mitch McConnel’s failure. Defining success in terms of winners and losers has not been a successful way of advancing society as a whole. If we can only gain pleasure through the loss of another, this will eventually have a negative outcome for society. It is a second cousin to jealousy and that is a sad waste of time. To be jealous gives power to that person with whom you are jealous. That energy focus takes away from your ability to find your path or your achievement. Likewise, schadenfreude focuses on the joy of someone else’s failure. It doesn’t improve your life in any way. Conversely, it focuses your energy on failure and then finding joy in that failure. This sucks the air out of the positive energy to excel and achieve. If I am recognizing and celebrating the failure of one individual over another, I am using up time that could otherwise be constructively applied.
Although a humorous turn of phrase, schadenfreude represents an endemic problem with our society. If I am a Republican, I am looking for Democrats to fail --- schadenfreude. If I am a celebrity watcher, I am waiting for Kim K to declare bankruptcy --- If I am a Seattle Seahawks fan, I am waiting for the 49ers quarterback to be injured ---on and on ---the idea that we can get joy out of a failure is at the core of many of our issues. I am not trying to make the world better I am waiting for the other country to fail so I can get pleasure out of their missteps.
A more positive way to look at things requires empathy. I want the US to succeed and positively contribute to the world but I also want China to succeed as well. There are seven, about to be nine billion people in the world and most of them need help. I cannot receive joy because of their failures. Wishing for my competitor to fall on their faces might make me smile but it hurts so many other people. I have a lot of friends who have made money and have had successful careers. I cannot receive joy out of their failure or demise. What I want for them is to make the world better. I want them to receive joy not from failure but from success... Of course, I understand Schadenfreude because I am human and a failure where I also failed might make me smile but it has not benefitted either of us. We would have been better off solving the problem and thus improving both of our lives and those around us.
Ok, ok, I will continue to have a feeling of schadenfreude at “Moscow Mitch’s” failures —— ———- I am not that kind….
Locked Part II
…. It was not a one-time event. As a matter of fact, locking the keys in the trunk of a car, any car, became “my thing”. I was just afflicted with a teenage boy's lack of focus. It was generally the sound of the trunk locking that broke my reverie. Amazingly people continued to give me their keys in spite of my track record. As I got older, I graduated from the simple act of “keys-in-the-trunk” to more sophisticated forms of inattentiveness. In general, I had an unusually difficult time associating the day and time of a particular event with the proof of admittance to the event, i.e., a ticket. There is a silver lining created by events that do not require attendance.
My two sons and I have a particular interest in sports. Not an obsession but a broad knowledge and interest in all sports. Growing up in the San Francisco Bay area we were blessed with teams that excelled in sports. Think 49er’s, Warriors, Giants, Cal Bears, and the Stanford Cardinal. In addition, these two men are good at sports. We enjoy playing and we enjoy going to sporting events. My youngest son attended Michigan State University. A general violation of our Pac 12 allegiance but that is another story. In Eugene, Oregon, MSU had lost to the Oregon Ducks in 2014 when the two teams were ranked 7th and 3rd nationally. Marcus Mariota was the Ducks quarterback. It was not close: 46-27. The following year these two teams had scheduled a rematch in East Lansing. My youngest son was excited about attending a Big Ten school with big sports. My eldest son was living in Philadelphia at the time and was a stalwart supporter of the Pac 12, having gone to UCLA when they were a basketball powerhouse.
Given that as the background, we all decided that it would be super fun for the three of us to meet in East Lansing and go to the game in Spartan Stadium. A modest edifice to college football that holds 100,000 people. There are few things in the sports world as fun as going to a big game in a big stadium. So, it was decided – I would fly in from the west coast; Alex would come in from Philadelphia and of course, William was at school studying in East Lansing. I was in charge of getting the ticket because, well, I am always in charge of getting the “good” tickets. I called Richie, the ticket broker; bought great seats on the 50-yard line and Richie mailed the tickets to me. I promptly put the envelope in my backpack so as not to forget them. I have experience in locking keys in trunks; misplacing tickets and showing up on a wrong day, so I am cautious. The weekend arrived and we all found our way to East Lansing. That night we had a great dinner and agreed to meet the next morning for brunch as game time was not until 4:00 pm. With a clear head the next morning we met for breakfast and after I headed to the room to retrieve the tickets for the game.
As I mentioned I had put the envelope in my backpack so as not to forget them. What I did not do was open the envelope. I mean why would I do that as I knew the tickets were inside. They were inside the envelope, EXCEPT the tickets were for the Univ. of Michigan versus Oregon State game. Wolverines v. Beavers is NOT Spartans v. Ducks. Turns out the Oregon schools had both scheduled games in Michigan – Richie (ticket broker) had sent me the wrong game!!!! Again, my lack of attention to detail had not improved from the evening I retrieved the coats many years in the past. I was horrified and proceed to self-flagellate and just commonly beating myself up.
The Silver Lining
I walked down to Alex’s room; knocked on the door; entered the room and threw the tickets on the bed. Picking them up he instantly realized the problem. He turned to me and said. “I know how badly you feel, but I would not beat myself up too badly. Remember we came here to be together and that has not changed, the game is incidental. Let’s go to a sports bar, have lunch, enjoy the game and each other.” For all the parents or potential parents reading this----no matter how many children you have, how many occasions you attend, or how many issues you resolve it is that comment that makes it all worthwhile and rests softly in your heart forever.
I have had many occasions where I arrived on the wrong day, locked the keys in the trunk, or otherwise “ruined” the event. However, it never is the event. Our world has become or maybe always was event-driven and yet, it is not of lasting importance. It is the opportunity that the event provides. The opportunity to be together. Not on text, the phone, or Instagram; it is the special moment that allows us to reside in each other’s company. To embrace and feel the human interaction with those we care about. The nuance of body language; the unique tonal quality of the sly turn of phrase or just the physical closeness that “the event” has provided the backdrop. In the end, it was the best trip. It also secured a special foundation for me to become closer to my sons. It opened the door to a level of conversation that provides depth, understanding, and love.
Oh, Michigan State won.
Locked
Some things are just hard to forget….
My habit of being distracted leading to the wrong thing happening at the wrong time began many springs ago. Springtime in California is marked by a welcome warmth interrupted by a cold wind coming off the ocean. As the interior valley heats up, the chilly ocean breeze races onshore towards the heat of the interior. It is a time of bright sun and the beginning of the warm dry summer. As I have mentioned in previous essays, my older sister had to do everything first. It was in just such a spring that my sister announced her engagement. It was her only but she was the first in our family, however, there would be more. Remember the guy in the green MG and my younger sister and I throwing shoes out the window? – it was that guy. It is amazing that boyfriends and for that matter girlfriends never quite accurately reflect their parents. The boy/girlfriend is always so much better. Nevertheless, if you are the parent you have to make an attempt to be inclusive or at the very least meet them. It was on just such an occasion that my parents were meeting the parents of their daughter’s fiancé. In a moment of “how did he make that decision” my father who came from a land-locked state decided after graduating from Harvard Law to become a member of a yacht Club. This club would be the center of many family adventures and stories. I will not digress as this is about a very specific dinner which, for me set the stage for other such events. My parents invited the soon-to-be in-laws to dinner on a lovely spring evening at their club. For my grammar school self, there was nothing memorable about this dinner because it was boring ---The aforementioned wind came up and the outside dinner became quite cold and uncomfortable. This is before the outside heat lamps whose sales have sored during the pandemic. I was looking for something to do so my father took the risk of giving me the car keys and asking me to fetch coats and jackets for everyone to ward off the cold as dinner had not yet concluded. I still can remember the relief of being able to leave the table, wander around the building and eventually come to the car to perform my requested chore. A couple of important facts which will become obviously relevant: 1) Cars in this era had manual keys not attached -to-the-internet clickers. 2) You could jump-start a car but none of the electronics worked like the windows. 3) you could break into cars but not trunks.
Reaching into my pocket I retrieved the keys; unlocked the trunk of the car and picked out all the jackets and sweaters I could find. Balancing all these garments in one arm I slammed the trunk of the car and at that very moment without touching my pocket I realized that the keys were not in my hand or a pocket. They were in the trunk. They were in the LOCKED trunk. Horrified would be the best way to describe that sick empty feeling which overtook my entire being. The there-is-truly-no-way-out of this feeling. With my empty hand, I pounded on the trunk as if punishing it and me for locking itself. To say I walked slowly back to the dinner table would be a massive understatement. There was the hope, of course, that my mother had a spare key or there was a hidden key somewhere on the car or my father had an extra key -- none of these hopes materialized. After multiple “good -boys” and smiling thank you as I passed out the welcomed pieces of warmth, I whispered in my father’s ear the real result of his trust in his 10-year-old son to do his bidding…
Maybe because we were on best behavior in front of the new people; maybe it was resignation that it was done, but my father always surprised me when faced with an irritating problem. Granted he was not happy but there was no extreme admonishment for what I had done. After dinner he called AAA; a man came and broke into the car and managed to start the engine so we could head home --- a full hour away. Perhaps it was punishment enough that I had to sit in the back seat with the cold wind blowing on me for the hour-long drive. Remember the car could run but the electric window did not work. Somehow the service guy had managed to lower the window to unlock the door. He had started the engine but the trunk remained locked and the window open. I was locked in a pattern of inexplicable missteps that would continue into my adult life
(to be continued…)
Alone
The wind had been blowing hard for days. The actual temperature was 50+ but it was the cold that made your ears hurt. Not frostbite just that pain that made you wish you had that knit cap after all, no matter what it did to your hair. I was walking on one of those days, working on my 10,000 steps, when the faint sound of something other than the wind made its way through the cold. It was a somewhat plaintiff sound but with a rhythm that was distinctively the blues. It was definitely not John Coltrane or Sonny Rollins. He was standing alone on the cliff facing the imposing water of the bay, the Bay Bridge, and the hills of the Tiburon Peninsula. Playing his saxophone with feeling and, for him, he was equal to the aforementioned greats. The bay was a spectacular blue dotted with sailboats challenging the wind which was fresh but not dominating. In his singleness, he was playing before none and an audience of many. He was content as he performed before the unseen. My guess — this is his happiest moment. I am awe-struck by the singleness of us when juxtaposed to the background of many. As he played to the beautiful bay and the unseen admirers to the east, a quarter of a mile behind him Highway 101 was rushing people to their destination in single fashion with a destination of the numerous.
I ponder our desire to be together, yet our need to be alone. Is it our preparation for our solitary exit? Perhaps we only have the strength or the energy to deal with the one and not the many.
There is something comforting about being alone but, are we? Alone with his music yet playing to the world in front of him. Perhaps it’s the responsibility to the crowd that challenges us and requires so much effort. To be in a group, big or small, requires effort and focus. Alone the work is not as great or varied and the focus can be concentrated, perhaps purer.
Being alone and loneliness are two different things. Being alone can be contemplative, introspective, a chance to accomplish without interruption. Loneliness feels sad with no accomplishment, unhappy or uncomfortable with self
For me, the dichotomy is the comfort of being alone but I have great joy in being with others. I don’t want to be that cranky old guy. Perhaps it is becoming lazy, unable to muster the strength to deal with multiple human interactions. What is concerning is how much easier it is to be alone. The internet feeds into that. The unintended consequence is how much harder we have to work to be in the presence of others and that has negative consequences. Look at Washington DC and how hard it is for these people to work together or just to be with others in a meaningful way. Cocktail talk dominates the discourse rather than the effort of real conversation. It is easier to hide behind the keyboard. This gives the illusion of being with the group, but in fact, you are still alone. The control of how long the conversation lasts is in your hands. If they ask the wrong question - press delete, mute, or pause. Think how many buttons on the keyboard allow you to exit, but there is only one that says enter. There is always an exit when you are with the group but not when you are alone. Striving for that inner peace. Is our true purpose to come together, to be a community? Are there greater forces that pull us to be alone?
I have a party to go to…..
Popularity Contest
As early as grammar school popularity is a driving force as we conduct a life outside of the home. If we are lucky enough to have caring parents, we assume that other humans will like us as they do. How are we to know that being liked is not an immediate part of growing up. I wanted to be liked in school. Even in grammar school being liked was important. However, it is hard to find the right path to popularity. You can be a great athlete. Even in grade school the kids that were good at sports were generally liked. You could be good-looking or pretty. It is true the pretty girls were always popular. Puts a lot of pressure on them at an early age but they are popular. Good-looking guys were also popular --- good at sports was a big plus. If you were not pretty or good looking you had to find other ways to move your liked quotient up the scale. You could be funny. Making people laugh is always a good way to be popular. There were many hurdles to becoming popular and remaining so. One of the rituals in grammar school was choosing teams. Being picked number one, of course, was the true testament to your athletic ability and your popularity. Number two thru 5 was good, not perfect but you were definitely in the hunt. If it was baseball the popular meter needle really started to get buried after number 5. In baseball, you had nine chances or actually 18, if you weren’t picked by the first team you had a chance at the second team. If both team captains passed on you it was a double blow to your self-esteem. Suffice it to say I got picked because you had to get picked. Waiting for my turn to bat some of the kids thought they would be bullies and played that trick where one kneels behind you and the other pushes you so you stumble and fall. Stung by the idea that I was no better than number 9 I got into a fight with one of these boys after I was humiliated in front of the others as I fell to the ground. I think this might have been number one in a two-bout lifetime fight career. It was an early lesson that plays out in any sport --- the person that retaliates gets the punishment. I received detention and sent home. That wasn’t fun either as It was probably like going to the commissioner’s office. I don’t think Ms. Smith understood the complexities of being in grammar school and struggling to be liked. What was more crushing was the next day? The last day of school and my last day in grammar school as I was moving on to Junior High School. It was recess and I was playing some game with bean bags. In a not well-thought-out demonstration of end-of-school exuberance, I threw one of the bean bags up on the school roof. I claimed it was an accident but Ms. Smith was having none of it. She brought my fellow students into the classroom and said that I had done something disrespectful in throwing the bean bag on the roof. She gave me an opportunity to be contrite but she had already poisoned the well. She then told the class that they would determine what kind of citizenship grade I would receive for the year. The scale was simple enough. “1” was obviously the best, and “5” was citizenship failure. Much to my soon-to-be psychologically damaged self, my classmates all voted to give me a 5 in citizenship. I felt like the gladiator that could not kill the three-legged lion-- thumbs down.
If popularity was not important to me then why is this memory so clear when others have faded. What I remember is the event; what I don’t remember is the people that I thought were so important at the time. I remember my behavior and how unimportant my popularity was after all this time but what is important is how I could have behaved better and thus had a different result. After all of these years, I am rethinking the importance of being popular versus the importance of one’s behavior. Clearly, this event was important to me because I remember it above all of the other days in grammar school. For all of the effort, we put into wanting to be liked by our peers, their importance dwindles and evaporates as time passes. What remains is what we do. What we accomplish, how we treat others, and how we help make the lives of the people better. It really isn’t a popularity contest and when it is, it is soon forgotten. I don’t remember the people but I remember the lesson; what you do in life is what matters not the applause.
Popularity is fraught with conflict and a false premise. We vote for politicians based on some twisted sense of popularity as if they care about the individual. I think that energy could be better directed at kindness to others who are in need rather than those we wish will reciprocate our kindness by affirming our popularity. Popularity is ephemeral. The more people like us the more rewarding our lives will be. What is more likely is that they will forget and so will you. What makes our life better is the goodness we extend to others regardless of whether or not they pick us to be on their team or vote to give us a better grade.
Mothers
It’s easier to become a mother than it is to be one. There is no job that demands so much skill and receives so little training.
I have been blessed by being surrounded by a lot of mothers. I, of course, have a mother who we will talk about a little further on. I have two sisters and they are both mothers. They have seven children between them and two of those women are now mothers. I had two wives that became mothers. I helped with that part. They produced three daughters, two are now mothers with seven children between them. These children are all too young to be mothers but three of them probably will be... If motherhood could be measured by the success of their children, then the mothers that have surrounded my life are all incredible. If you measure motherhood by their personal success and accomplishments, they have all excelled. Finally, if we measure motherhood by their success at producing children that add value to mankind then they have all been outstanding. I know a lot about all of these mothers. I have a general and very specific knowledge of how they grew up. I have a good idea of what they enjoy doing and a clear memory of their achievements. I even have a pretty good idea of their disappointments and shortcomings. In short, I know a lot about these wonderful mothers except one… My mother. My knowledge of my mother is limited by the number of years that I lived under the same roof. I do not know anything about her growing up. Oh, I have pictures but I have no first-hand knowledge or memory of her in the formative years. I missed the first 30 years of her life. I knew the adult. My adult mother was a strong and exacting person. She had a very specific way of doing everything. She believed in the strength of women and her daughters are proof of that. Although she was a stay-at-home mom, she raised her daughters to be accomplished young women with diverse interests and accomplishments. Politically conservative she was socially accepting of all people with whom she connected. What I missed was my mother playing at the beach as a child. Was she athletic; did she have play dates; did she date in high school; did she date at all; a self-starter at school? I experienced the end result of growing up but not the experiencing of growing up. That is reading the story after the good part has been redacted. I know a lot of this information about all the other mothers of my life.
I understand that parenting is changing but while I was having children fatherhood was relatively simple to understand. The vestiges of hierarchy still existed. ‘Wait until your father comes home,’ was still an expression of potential dread or something big was about to happen. Motherhood is complicated and extraordinarily demanding. Nurse, cook, disciplinarian, chauffeur, coach, teacher, spiritual guide, counselor-in-chief, and consoler-in-chief. Oh, and she also has a career. My mother was all of these, like most moms she was not perfect and had her weaknesses. I know she liked to play bridge, she like her dogs, she was very particular about how she dressed and where she shopped for everything from food to clothing. But mostly she ran the show and we all deferred to her. I am in awe of mothers and all they do while still trying to remain attractive, fun, and relevant. It is a tall order.
On this day after Mother’s Day, I wish them a moment of quiet reflection on the breadth of their accomplishments and the depth of their abilities.
I still wonder what my mother was like in junior high Scholl or better yet don’t you want to know what she did that she never told her mother? It is that part of her life I will never truly be able to appreciate or know. I will just have to be content with knowing the adult mother.
Happy Mother’s Day
Will and Em
This week I was writing about the goal of being liked, but a couple of events happened that made me think about compassion and following your dreams regardless of popularity or how it might affect the desired outcome at the expense of your true self.
Story One:
My daughter Emily has been following her dream of being in the theatre. She started out thinking she would be an actor but the more she involved herself in this pursuit the more she understood the serendipitous and ephemeral nature of the beast. Instead of abandoning the goal she pivoted and expanded that goal to include all aspects of theatre – writing, directing, and acting. In addition, she and her partner developed a consulting business. Since their training was all about presenting yourself to audiences, they decided they could teach those same skills to people in the workplace. Women and men are required to present themselves to the public, whether that be before a board or colleagues. To add complication to this goal, Emily wanted to apply her skills, not in her native United States but in the United Kingdom. As in the U.S., the challenge to that journey is obtaining permission from the host country to stay and work on your chosen avocation. This week she obtained a 5-year extension on her two-year visa—a major accomplishment in a country trying to keep expatriates out. What is even more amazing is that this visa was granted on the merits of her accomplishments and confidence on the part of the British Government that she and her business would add value to their country. It is important to note that this is accomplished on a merit-based slog through The Home Office, not through the far easier path of marital bliss to a native of the U.K.
Story two
My son’s day job is working with clients to develop complex insurance solutions at a reasonable cost. Additionally, his other passion is ice hockey, a sport I often refer to as a “cult”. If you are involved at a high level, as he is, you are connected at all levels for life. Using this skill, he is the Head Coach of the Denver University Club Hockey team. This would be analogous to triple-A in baseball. These players are good.
Being a coach to 18-21-year-olds is a challenge by itself but when you pile on academics and being away from home, “coach” becomes an important mentoring figure for these young men. Turns out one of his players developed an alarming acceleration of his white blood cell count and went to the emergency room at a local hospital. This boy’s parents live in New Jersey, a four-hour plane ride if you can get one at 2:00 am.
William, without hesitation, accompanied this boy to the hospital and stayed with him throughout the night while the doctors tried to find out what was wrong. He communicated with the boy’s parents thru Facetime and text throughout the ordeal. When the boy’s mother arrived the next morning at the Denver Airport, he drove out to pick her up. She wrote a letter to the Chancellor of the University and I think she said it best. “…an amazing encounter I recently had with DU's club hockey coach, Will Steck. Will displayed a level of compassion and generosity for my family that was, quite frankly, shocking. I am still shaking my head in wonderment, and the thought of it brings tears of gratitude to my eyes”
Parenting is a challenging job, not for the obvious reasons but because you do not see the outcome for many years. In addition, it has little to do with you the parent, and everything to do with the individual child that you have brought into this world.
Obviously, I am exploding with pride at the accomplishments of these two individuals. Amazingly I have three others with equal resumes.
We are just here for a short period and as long as we are here why not pursue your goals with passion rather than convenience. And while you are at it, develop that sense of compassion and empathy. It will serve you well and those around you.
With gratitude…
Intrinsic Shopping
I bought a new jacket recently. It has taken a number of years for me to identify all of my weaknesses but clothing has always found its way to the top of the list. A desire for such an inanimate object certainly cannot be my fault. Not sure how much intrinsic value to assign clothing, but my mother certainly felt there was plenty. As I have written before we take our cues in life from the earliest days and our parents are the role models. My mother had a terrific sense of fashion and design. She took great pride in presenting herself at all times. When she left the house she was always put together. Think J. Lo, only red hair, Scottish, and without a recording contract. Shopping was important and where you went shopping was equally important. Of course, there was no such thing as “online” shopping, brick and mortar stores were the essential components of the experience. In Los Angeles, Bullocks Wilshire was the pinnacle of elegant shopping. The department store opened in 1929 and was the first and one of the finest examples of Art Deco architecture in the United States. It was glamorous shopping for another era’s rich and famous or those that wanted to be or just felt comfortable in those surroundings. There was intrinsic value in the building and the experience. Mom was a full retail shopper. I think she was convinced that if it was on sale there was something wrong. In a way she was correct. Either the company ordered wrong; ordered too many; missed the needs and desires of their clientele or had to get out of winter merchandise for summer. In a sense, even today when something is on sale something went wrong. But for mom things on sale were just wrong no matter the reason. Today I struggle with sale items. Hard to erase the DNA. Going shopping with mom at Bullocks was a fun day. If things went well you might get to have something to eat in the Tea Room. Just walking in the store with the symphony of smells from the perfume counter to sales clerks to that just new smell of all the new merchandise. It was nothing short of intoxicating even if you were only ten.
One day when mom was in a good mood; the house was in order; no school, we went to Bullocks Wilshire to shop for clothes for school. I was really not part of the selection process, I was just the recipient. That was fine with me as I was more interested in the enormity of the store and all the activity. My mother had great taste and she made great choices but not always. It was on this particular day that mom chooses a pair of black pants; a sort of Wayne Newton goes to Las Vegas black and white shirt and a hi rolled collared cardigan white sweater. I hated this outfit. I am pretty sure I looked and felt like a 13-year-old Neil Diamond without the hair.
Ever notice how your subconscious creates the circumstance that allows you to accept the events of the day. For instance, you are about to leave a loved one, especially after experiencing a particularly wonderful time together. No one wants to leave the party when it is fun, so you create the circumstance that allows you to leave --- like an argument. Notice how easy it is to separate when you are in disagreement. Well, I was about to create a circumstance where I could gracefully depart from this horrible outfit without hurting my mother’s feelings.
My friends and I took the bus to school. There was a stop right by our house — convenient. However, that is not where Sandy Manker caught the bus. Since she was cute and my friends were not it made a lot more sense to climb over the chain-linked fence in my friend Pat’s backyard; jump down in the dirt and walk to her bus stop. On this particular day, it had rained the night before so it was ripe for the unconscious act to unfold. Sure enough, as I climbed the fence I slipped and fell conveniently ripping the black pants and landing in the mud with my Neil Diamond Sweater and Wayne Newton shirt. Problem solved ----- I never wore those clothes again.
Many years later I was cleaning out my closet on the way to college and there was that white sweater – I guess it had intrinsic value after all.
My Parent’s Child
I had lunch with a friend a couple of days ago. We have known each other for many years. We are worlds apart in our political thinking, yet we have remained friends. During the lunch he mentioned how concerned he was over the shootings occurring across the country. This was particularly poignant as this was the day of the FedEx shooting in Indianapolis. What did I attribute this challenging breakdown in our civil society, he asked…?
By most standards I think my parents would be considered “strict” as parents. They were politically conservative but socially inclusive. They were consistent, loyal and honest, not only to their children, family, business associates, and those that performed services; but to their religious and political beliefs. Surely there were things about my parents that I did not like growing up and I promised I would conduct myself differently. True to that, I am a social liberal, have lived in multiple houses, in multiple cities and have had multiple marriages. However, I am still my parent’s child and at the core I am very much like them. I am loyal to the people around me and to the people that have helped me. I am a dedicated father and have made sure my children were well educated (of particular importance to my father). I believe in staying consistently connected with family, I am a stalwart supporter of my children’s life quests and generous to those around me and to those in need. All of these characteristics were learned behavior from my parents who were my first leaders.
As humans we are wired to seek leadership and to emulate those that are in leadership positions. Those that are not as fortunate as I was to have a core value system installed by parents will seek leadership elsewhere.
Elected officials are the leaders that appear to have the most influence. These elected officials, like my parents, are in a position of leadership. Their core value system is consistently on display. Their constituency watches and emulates their behavior. We are stuck in our current predicament because those leaders are not leading. Instead, they are in a continual rinse cycle of name calling, mistruths and most important, the process of making up stories to fit their narrative. What is lacking in the country is appropriate governance. Representatives and senators are too busy protecting their jobs and developing the story line that supports their falsehoods.
Our past and current leaders have given us, as a culture, the green light to disrespect, personally criticize and demean those we did not agree with. Tragically the current government is attempting to govern and move the ball down the field. They will fail not because of flawed ideas but because other leaders will seek to discredit rather than enhance governance.
There are voices seeking bipartisan (involving the agreement of two political parties that usually oppose each other’s policies) support, but what we need is collaboration. (the action of working with someone to produce or create something).
To my friend I said, the breakdown in our society is the lack of cooperative leadership seeking to collaborate to find solutions to our societal problems. We have a component of leadership in this country that is devoid of core values and insists on making up the story to fit the failures of their leadership. Until we regain and follow a set of shared values the shooting will never stop.
My parents are watching…...
THE PATH
The path is not always clear so be open to what comes your way. My father was an extraordinary attorney. His influence created a number of attorneys in my immediate family. Between my younger sister’s family and mine, there are 6 who are or were practicing attorneys. I was not one of them. One could have assumed that my path was clear. However, I was Influenced mostly by the ocean while I was going to college and started my professional career as a lifeguard.
Having graduated from a major university, I was forging my way into adulthood in a pair of red lifeguard shorts. One afternoon my father invited me to his office for lunch. This was not one of those fun father/son I-am-so-proud-of-you lunches No, this was more a “what the fuck” are you doing with your life lunch. My father would never use that word as we have discussed in previous writings. He was thinking I should pursue something that he could conceptualize; perhaps an attorney or an accountant or a loan officer. I was disinterested in such a path, I was having too much fun saving lives. That fact, of course, was picked up on immediately by my father. He pointed out that dragging a 200-pound football player out of two feet of water was not exactly a “Baywatch” moment or maybe it was exactly such a moment. Taking the hint that I should be pursuing other avenues of compensation-oriented work I applied to a bank. I was put into the loan officer training program which I disliked intensely. Interacting with the customers was fun, especially since I was in the Palisades office which drew in a certain entertainment clientele. However, that was not enough to keep me interested and I told my training officer I was going to go back to saving lives on the beach. There are people who come into your life and like a tug boat move your life’s ship in a different and more positive direction. Such a person was my supervisor. He set up an interview with the investment department of a large West Coast bank. The department was run by a gentleman people referred to as Dr. No. Somehow this pillar of the banking community thought I was made of the right stuff for investing the bank’s money through the trading of US Government securities. The other benefit to this job was we had to be in the office by 5:00 am, which meant we were permitted to leave around 3:00 pm. I was back on the beach by 3:30 pm. Either through ignorance or just dumb luck this seemingly innocuous event set me on a path that ultimately led to an arguably successful career in the securities industry as a Partner of the premier investment bank.
The “Ever Given” was stuck in the Suez Canal, there were plenty of people trying to assist and move that ship onto the right path and yet it was providence in the form of high tides and wind that set it onto the correct path. Accepting help from others is not a weakness. When you are open to the idea that the universe has a plan and there are people to assist there just might be smooth sailing ahead. Keep your eyes open and your head accepting of the possibilities. We do not always know what the universe has in store for us, but it does – so don’t close it out. There is not only one path to be taken in a lifetime. Hopefully, there will be many —— Be ready.
Rituals
Beginnings are fun; endings not so much. I like spring and fall. They are the beginning seasons which lead to the ending seasons of summer and winter. The pungent smells of spring reawakens our senses and announces the coming of life renewed. The musty smell of fall helps prepare us for the harshness of winter and life on pause. Most religions have been built around these dramatic changes in the world around us. Starting as pagan rituals, they became religious rituals. Easter Sunday celebrating the resurrection of Jesus; Passover commemorating the liberation of the Israelites from slavery and a new beginning; Ramadan is a holy month of fasting and introspection. There are others but the common ingredient is that spring represents the earth’s renewal and in their unique way religious rituals embrace this sense of introspection and renewal. The role of Mother Nature is still dominant in our decision making. Rituals are an important part of our lives. They can be as simple as a consistent time of dinner or the fact that we eat dinner as a family. Ritual gives us stability and dependability. What rituals are not or should not be are proof of our allegiance to an organization or a cause. Ritual is comfort, security and familiarity. In spite of the commonality of many religious rituals, religious organizations insist on things being done in “their” way. It is “their “ rituals that are the “true” rituals and their organization is the ‘true” organization. The leadership of these different organizations only see seasonal change through the lens of their rituals. The fence we build around our clubhouse only serves to keep our idea of spring and renewal of the human spirit inside. Founded on religious freedom and the separation of church and state our country seems to have lost the true meaning of those founding rituals. Like our religious beliefs we have allowed ourselves to close our minds. Let us hope that the freshness in the air; the brilliance of color and the new life of this spring will open us to renewal and a fresh start. Let this spring be a beginning of inclusion and growth. Perhaps our rituals will open our eyes for change rather than close them with familiarity.
Baby Making
Making children is the easy part, the challenge is in the raising. Written and spoken, advice is plentiful, but until you hold one of these babies in your arms, you never fully understand the journey you are about to embark upon. It is the uniqueness of this ultimate human experience that makes it so difficult. True there are valuable books, accurate suggestions, and well-meaning advice; but when you spend an entire evening trying to get your newborn to sleep; you realize that the books are really just adventure stories told by someone else. Your adventure story is a new experience because it is you who are experiencing it. My first-born daughter at 6 months had developed a high fever that would not weaken, when the doctor suggested I put her in a lukewarm bath to cool her tiny body down it sure sounded like a good idea until I actually did it. No amount of reading or training would prepare you for the physical and emotional trauma that that small event caused on parent and child. Every event requires so much thought and it is impossible to understand the ramifications of your mistakes until you start paying for “the shrink”. It is amazing how well our mistakes are remembered but, hey what about the time I did the right thing?
What is driving me to this line of thinking is the manner with which pandemic-caused problems for families are reported. Perhaps it can be said about anything that is reported in the headline-sound-bite-shortest-half-life news story cycle, but it resonates with me that the reporting on mothers and children is so far off the mark. There is nothing about raising children that can be replicated in the business or the governing world. Unless the parent chooses to neglect, issues with children cannot be put off until next week, or when you get back from vacation. A child’s needs are immediate. Whether it is hunger, injury, illness, emotional, or just a hug. The demands on parents are extreme. It is especially hard on mothers. No matter how we might try to equalize the pressure, it is always pounding in the woman’s ears. When it is reported that women have left the workforce in record numbers or they are huddled with their children in a refugee camp or they are bullied by their colleagues at home, at work, on the floor of the senate; remember these women are facing the most relentlessly demanding job at home. Don’t get me wrong fathers play a role and an important role. However, for most families, they are the relief pitcher who comes in the 8th inning to try to clean things up.
I have five children and no book ever truly prepared me for the visit to the emergency room, the emotional breakdown, or the accurate guidance when faced with one of your children in need. As a society, we underestimate at every turn the challenge parents face when raising children. We really cannot do enough to empower parents and especially women. All schools have sex education but that is the easy part as no one needs a degree to produce a child, but where are the child-raising classes. Where is the advanced education to help mothers in the workplace after their children have left the protective cover of the home?
So, the next time you have a bad day think of the mother of three who clothed, fed, dressed, settled disagreements, cleaned up after, did laundry, taught three different school grades to three different types of learning abilities, and it is only noon and there are 9 more hours of the same before she might be able to brush her teeth. Then think about the pompous hyperbole stricken elected representative who says we are doing enough. Is the baby-making still stuck in our heads????
Super Hero
Again, we are faced with more tragedy; empathetic statements are flooding the airwaves while power patiently sits waiting for the empathy noise to grow faint.
On Friday evenings, the NPR NewsHour, hosted by Judy Woodruff, reads five stories about people who have died during the pandemic. None of these people are large public figures, yet their stories are amazing. In little and big ways they touched their families and communities meaningfully. Sam Sanders has a radio show called “It’s Been A Minute.” At the end of his show, he plays recordings of people telling him of the most positive thing that happened to them in the past week. These people are thankful for a broad array of reasons, but it is the depth of their gratitude that grips the heart. I think of myself as an empathetic person and hearing these stories touches me deeply. My frustration is I don’t know what to do with that empathy other than feeling it. One’s ability to be empathetic, to understand, to feel the pain, to understand a differing view is a valuable skill. It is a necessary skill for selling and for building relationships. However, as a skill for change and execution of change, it is bludgeoned by the brute force of political power.
Another shooting, this time in Atlanta, and this time its people of Asian descent that are slaughtered. More telling and disturbing, all but one are women. There is sadness and empathy all around as we try to sort it all out. Sadly, nothing will be done about this in a meaningful way in spite of all the verbal empathy. It is the political power that carries the day. Power does not want anything done. Power looks for a way to maintain power. Power is not looking or suggesting a solution. Consider Rep. Kevin McCarthy (R-CA) at the border, he is neither empathetic nor a problem solver he is a power grabber. He articulates just enough falsehoods and innuendo to poison the conversation. The misuse of power keeps us in the shadows. My empathy my understanding of the heartache and pain of individuals is a challenge because it doesn’t lead to a solution. It is just a feeling. I don’t know what to do with my empathy. I vote in a way that appears to be solution-driven; I contribute in a way that expresses empathy but it is no match for power. Power is what keeps us from making real progress. The jobs associated with power are so desirable that holding on to them takes all the power of the individual sitting in the seat.
Power has no real empathy; it voices empathy but not it is not transactional. Power doesn’t care that Asians were shot; power doesn’t care about black lives; power only cares about staying in power. I love a superhero – they are not only empathetic but they have the power to create change. Their feelings and empathy become actionable. A superhero expresses ideals and empathy and then dispatches those that would block the path to an equitable solution. Their simplicity of purpose and belief attracts us and gives us hope —- a willing suspension of disbelief.
There seems to be a glimmer of hope that those holding the most power at the moment may indeed be transactionally empathetic, but it is an uphill battle and the headwinds against change are formidable.
The Middle Child
I am a middle child sandwiched in-between two brilliant Stanford-educated sisters. A lot has been written about the “poor” middle child, forgotten about while his/her siblings reap the rewards from the parents. That was never my experience although I enjoy using the self-effacing moniker of the poor middle child to get a laugh. My middle experience was largely one of humor and causing embarrassment for my older sister and torturing my younger one. I rather enjoyed my position of anonymity and lower expectations. By contrast the position I felt great sympathy for and was happy to not be was the eldest child. I was reminded of this difficult positioning when my older sister sent me an essay she had written. It was about growing up before there were others to compete for attention. There are a lot of things that being first is the desired outcome. First in the Olympics, first at the French Open, first in line for money are all good firsts. First to drive; first romance; first to get in trouble at school; first to take your SATs – those are not good firsts and not fun. I watched my older sister go through firsts on everything and it was never easy. I was comfortable in my middle-ness because she had done the heavy lifting. After all, she was the first for my parents and thus they had no experience in parenting a child through all of those difficult firsts.
Middle allows you to do things your older sister would have been put in the penalty box for days, but being middle it was just cute and funny. I am pretty sure it was not funny to the one who was first.
My sister was the first in our family to have a boyfriend. He was right out of college boy central casting. Picture a green MG roadster driven by a 6’2” tennis-playing fraternity guy attending we-are-just-like-the-ivy-league-Claremont College and he smoked a pipe. Really?? Who smokes a pipe? This first-ever boyfriend made the first-ever visit to our house for the first time.
Let me frame the picture. Our house was a cape cod two-story house with two dormer windows facing the front of the house and a circular driveway. Now don’t get carried away this is a small circular driveway. The middle child (that’s me) and the younger sister (who would be the person I talked into being my accomplice because) were running around in giggling anticipation of this first-ever event. The aforementioned boyfriend drives his MG Roadster up the driveway and my oldest, first-to-have-to-do- everything, sister goes out to meet him. In her mind, this accomplishes two things. One she doesn’t have to bring him in the house and two, she doesn’t have to deal with the middle and the youngest embarrassing her. Knowing that I was not allowed to interfere set my mind to thinking…. My little sister’s room just happened to have one of the dormer windows facing the driveway. This was the perfect vantage point to watch whatever was going on with my sister, the perfect college boy, and the MG roadster. While we were giggling and watching another brilliant idea popped into my head. As the dormer window would be the perfect launching pad, wouldn’t it be fun to throw shoes out the window? You know to see if they might notice and I was clearly not getting enough attention. Of course, the shoes were my younger sister’s because why would I throw my shoes out the window. Remember in Part II of “The Word” describing the speed with which my father extracted me from the party? Well, if you think he was fast you should have seen my mother. In a flash, my mother was in the room, the window was closed; the rain of shoes ceased and I was, well, back in my room. Most first older sisters spend their high school years arguing with their mothers; however, occasionally, the mother comes to the rescue and this was one of those times.
Years later this is a funny story but trust me if you are the oldest there is nothing funny about this story or any other story involving your middle child brother wreaking havoc on your already challenging oldest life.
So, like the Army you never want to be the best or the worst you just want to fit comfortably in the middle ---- life could be a dream sh-boom sh- boom
My First Crush Part III
Gardening was important to my father. His rose garden was his pride and joy. He was a brilliant attorney-at-law and dedicated many hours to his chosen profession at his office. He would come home and work some more from his make-shift office in the sunroom on the east side of the house he and my mother built. To the chagrin of my mother; but to the delight of the French Hand Laundry in Pasadena, my father would venture into his rose garden directly from the car without changing out of his suit. Occasionally on a Saturday, I was asked to help with other gardening chores. The roses were not for novitiates. It was on such a Saturday that I had a memory relapse.
As you will remember from last week, I had experienced a verbal malfunction at a luncheon with friends of my parents. Having spent the balance of that day and evening in my room reflecting on my misuse of language and in particular the word “fuck”; I cleaned up my public language in a manner that my parents deemed appropriate. However, senior moments are not solely the province of seniors. Sometimes younger people have lapses of memory. It was just such an occasion I experienced on a warm fall afternoon.
Our home had two very large maple trees in the front yard and even in warm Southern California, these deciduous trees lost their leaves in the fall. Since picking up leaves did not require the same technical skill as caring for roses, I was assigned the duty of raking up the leaves from said maple trees. Perhaps it has not escaped your notice that Maple Trees like Pine trees have a certain secretion of sap, the fluid that circulates in the vascular system of the plant. Maple syrup on pancakes is great but when it is on your hands and the rake you are holding; it is less than perfect. Thus, it was, while I was working on raking the maple leaves with my father in the same area, I registered my displeasure with the aforementioned sap --- “Fuck, this fucking sap is all fucking over me!!!”. A triple “fuck” in the same sentence. Oops, a senior moment of memory loss, but my father did not forget and after admonishing me for the use of the word “fuck” I was told to go to my room and think about my language
The Good News
No more raking Maple leaves!!!! All in all, it wasn’t a bad outcome.
My First Crush & The Word Part II
Sunny and 75 degrees with a four-foot swell and an off-shore breeze; a perfect day for surfing. Tragically, I was cleaning my room in preparation for lunch!!! Really?! I thought it was summer vacation. The only redeeming part was Charlene would be coming with her parents. My parents were not Victorians but they were in transition between full-on Victorian and the Greatest Generation. My father worked for Lockheed Aircraft toward the end of World War II. He and my mother definitely raised their children in a “proper” fashion. There were strict rules and those were adhered to at all times. One of those rules was general respect for the English language. After all, my father was an attorney and took great pride in his ability to write and his use of language. In spite of its versatility, the word Fuck was not on my family’s vocabulary list of useful or versatile words. In fact, I cannot recall a time when I ever heard my father or mother use the word regardless of its multiple functions. Here is a partial list demonstrating the true versatility of this one four-letter word.
Interjection: Fuck! I stubbed my toe.
Noun: I hit the fuck out of the ball.
Complementary: You are so fucking good.
Apathy: Who gives a fuck!
Fraud: They fucked me over.
Enjoyment: I had a fucking good time at the party!
Anger: Fuck!
Ignorance: Fuck if I know.
Displeasure: What the fuck is happening?
Resignation: I guess I am fucked now.
Suggestion: Get the fuck out of here.
Trouble: I guess I am fucked now.
Adjective: He is a fucking moron. That’s fucking stupid. Look at that fucking ______
It is the adjective form that ruined my day and my lunch with Charlene. They arrived…there was plenty of how are you; you look great; are you ready to return to school; summer’s almost over etc. The adults were seated at one table and the rest of us at the “kid’s table”. My younger sister, I have no idea where my older sister was, Charlene and her brother Charles. We were actually having a fun time chatting about this and that. I was feeling very accomplished as I was included in the conversation. I mean we were kind of like adults and the age gap was narrowing. Then I got ahead of myself. Newport Blvd was a modestly busy street, not horrible, but enough traffic that a blockage would have cause some inconvenience. As we were eating, I was looking out the window and I saw a truck backing into the middle of the street without regard to the oncoming traffic…. “Look at that Fucking Truck,” I said in an authoritative and incredulous voice to demonstrate my disappointment in the driver’s behavior and mental acuity. The next event happened at warp speed and Star Wars wasn’t even in theaters. My father instantly materializes at my side with a crushing grab of my arm and suddenly I was beamed into my room with a…” I never want to hear that word from you again”. Party Over!!!!!
I cannot remember if I had dinner that night but I do know I did not see Charlene again as by the time I had recovered from my embarrassment we had all returned to Arcadia and school. From my perspective, It all seemed so wrong, I mean what the fuck was that driver doing backing into the street like that? And, fuck, was grounding and exiled to my room in the middle of lunch with Charlene really fucking necessary.? From my father’s perspective --- Sure the fuck was!!!!
Once was not enough… The F-Word Part III