Joe Strupek: Still Thinking

Tuning In or Tuning Out?

Thu, 08 Feb 2024 13:00:00 GMT

“We can put a man on the moon, but we can’t get a radio to play inside a tunnel,” my father growled when whatever AM station he was listening to on the car radio disintegrated into unintelligible static as we entered an underpass dug through a Western Pennsylvania hillside.

A half-century later, we’re struggling to put a man, a woman, or anything on the moon, and AM radio, once as standard on a new car as tires and a windshield, may go the way of ashtrays and window cranks.

Manufacturers want to move away from AM because of meager listenership and the static interference from EV's electric motors, making the band unlistenable. They say drivers can stream it through listening platforms if they want to listen to AM. Or pay for it. But Congress is trying to force them to continue to provide AM radio as a standard option in new cars. Proponents of the AM Radio for Every Vehicle Act of 2023 say it remains the backbone of the Emergency Alert System and still provides necessary information to communities and individuals.

I haven't given much thought to tunnels or AM radio for years. Hillsides are as rare in the Midwest as a decent slice of pepperoni pizza, let alone one big enough to dig holes and drive through. And the last time I regularly listened to AM broadcasts, Bill Clinton claimed he wasn’t having sex with that woman, and OJ Simpson said he didn’t kill one.

KDKA was my go-to station in the 60s and 70s. Like it was for most Western Pennsylvanians. It's also the historic genesis of broadcast radio. It generated the first commercial radio broadcast on November 2, 1920, announcing the presidential election results between Warren G. Harding and James Cox. Harding won. In August of the following year, they aired the first play-by-play broadcast of a major league baseball game between the Philadelphia Phillies and the hometown team, the Pittsburgh Pirates. The Pirates won. I enjoyed writing that . I don't get the chance very often.

I woke up every morning to the antics of morning drive-time legend Jack Bogut . In the afternoons my pocket transistor radio was tuned to the station’s playlist of pop hits, evenings were for Pirate baseball, and, after heading to bed, I would pop an earphone in to eavesdrop on KDKA’s talk radio hosts. The conversations were less extreme than today’s talk radio, and the conspiratorial tin-hat callers were more entertaining than alarming. AM radio was also a connection to a broader world. Because of something called the ionosphere and a cooling lower atmosphere, we tuned in stations from all over the country at night. AM radio also introduced us to DIY, with many of my friends and I building our own AM radio sets from kits. Today’s youngsters build superfast gaming computers; my generation built a radio that, if you were lucky, received two stations and only gave you minor electrical shocks. Then FM came along and introduced static-free disco and rock and roll, and before long, I was part of the group that helped FM unseat AM as the first choice of radio listeners.

Recently, when I saw the news story about auto manufacturers getting ready to erase AM radio off their window stickers and Congress’s move to stop them, I was surprised AM radio was still a thing. I assumed that with satellite and streaming services, AM and FM radio were slowly going the way of 8 track tape decks . I was wrong. (At this point, my family is copying those words for later use). Ninety percent of adults still listen to the radio, and of those who do, only twenty-nine percent of their listening time is dedicated to streaming. Most of the time, they're tuned into AM or FM and listening in their cars. Only about a third of radio listeners still choose one of the 4500 remaining AM stations nationwide. FM is still the reigning king since it rose to prominence in the late 70's.

Once again, I'm in the minority. I rarely listen to the radio, streaming most of my music and information. And if I do listen to a radio broadcast – yep – it's streamed. In the car and out. Intrigued, I took a return trip down the AM broadcast highway. I was in Montana and parked alongside the Madison River after sundown, enjoying the sight of a star-filled sky absent the intrusion of artificial lights. My rental car still had an AM radio and a good old combustion engine, so there was no pesky EV static. I took a tour up and down the dial and connected with stations in Alberta, Saskatchewan, Los Angeles, and Denver, among others. The accompanying static and fading signals, radio-style news stories, locally produced commercials, and the familiar voice pattern of AM broadcasters (even in French) were nostalgic. I found myself missing the old radio band and considered reconnecting. I remained tuned to one of the stations on my drive back to town.

The following morning, when I got in the car and started it up, I was hit with a blast of static from the still AM-tuned radio. The distant signal was lost to the sun’s interference. I didn't search for a closer and clearer one; my nostalgia was lost to convenience. My phone reconnected via Bluetooth, and I brought up a Spotify playlist.

Although I have a renewed appreciation for radio and its relevance for most of the country, and even if AM radio remains vital to our emergency alert system, requiring manufacturers to keep AM standard in all cars seems like government overreach. If drivers want AM, they can purchase the option or stream it. The government should spend their time on more important things.

Like putting us back on the moon. If we were ever there in the first place. I heard an interesting story on KDKA late one night in the 70’s about NASA staging moon landings…

Arnold's Advice

Fri, 12 Jan 2024 14:00:00 GMT

“What are those little red things?”

“Tomatoes.”

"Really? I didn't know they made them that small."

It was the first week of January, and I was standing at a salad bar. Like gym regulars, those of us who visit salad bars are surrounded by people early in the new year we’ve never seen before—the resolutionists who pledge to diet and exercise.

I leaned close and dropped my voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“They’re not as good as the big juicy ones they slice up and put on double cheeseburgers. But you’ll get used to them.”

Their shoulders sagged like the wilted lettuce on their plate.

I've never been much for New Year's resolutions. Not because I'm perfect. Far from it. I've started, stopped, reworked, and restarted countless self-improvement regimes. Sometimes inspired by an idea for a new project, a change in career direction, or a personal goal, and other times frightened into action by a doctor’s warning or upset by a pair of tight pants I swore fit fine the week before.

As part of the process, I’ve read hundreds of self-improvement books, joined gyms, downloaded apps, attended seminars and lectures, and subscribed to countless newsletters. Some worked and some didn’t. Some of the lessons stuck, and others slipped away.

I still pick up a self-improvement or inspirational book now and then, but fewer than I used to. Sooner or later, you reach a point in your life where the person you are is the person you are. I'm there. I still need to re-sand the rough edges, re-evaluate and re-energize from time to time, and I do still try to improve myself. But for the most part, in the immortal words of comedian Flip Wilson's drag persona Geraldine, "What you see is what you get.”

Enter Arnold Schwarzenegger .

Arnold needs little introduction. A Mr. Universe, Hollywood star, former Governor of California, and ex-husband of a Kennedy, he’s a global icon. Although his career and notoriety span much of my life, he’s never been a celebrity I paid much attention to. Though I have seen a few of his movies. The Running Man is a favorite. Arnold’s framed hero pitted against Family Feud legend Richard Dawson’s evil game show host , and of course, his classic sci-fi thriller, The Terminator. The original. Not the sequels.

I knew he’d written a new book, but I didn’t have any interest. Then I heard his interview with Marc Maron, on Marc’s WTF podcast.

Arnold was funny and engaging and soon after I listened, I bought the book. Arnold writes about what he believes are the seven tools for life. Most self-improvement books follow a familiar pattern with an attempt to provide a unique twist. Arnold didn’t break new ground, but his life story is fascinating, his experiences in Hollywood and government insightful, and his anecdotes inspiring.

The last tool of the seven resonated the most with me. It grows out of the book’s title, Be Useful . As Arnold tells it:

“It doesn’t matter how young or old you are, how much or how little you have, how much you’ve done or how much you have left to do. In every case, giving more will get you more. Want to help yourself? Help others. Learn to start from that place, and that is how you will become the most useful version of yourself – to your family, to your friends, to your community, to your nation…and to the world."

As I read those words, I could hear Arnold saying them in his familiar German accent. The voice that brought us one of the most famous and often quoted movie lines of all time from The Terminator.

“I’ll be back.”

When I thought about it, I realized he was right. I feel most successful when I feel useful. Teaching, helping someone reach a goal, volunteering with non-profits and community groups. Contributing to someone else’s success.

So, in the New Year, whether you’re a resolutionist or someone like me who makes a mid-course correction when the mood strikes, take this important step. Either to yourself or out loud - in your best Arnold Schwarzenegger impression - say the words that could change your life, the lives of others, and maybe even the world.

“I’ll give back.”

Thinking about the salad bar exchange, I realized I missed an opportunity to be useful. Instead of tormenting the new dieter, I could have helped ease their journey in search of better health and instead of the cheeseburger line said, "The little tomatoes are so much more delicious and nourishing for you.”

But sometimes, I enjoy being a nuisance.

Hey. What you see is what you get.

Stalled in the Wave of Crises

Thu, 30 Nov 2023 18:00:00 GMT

“You never want a serious crisis to go to waste.”

Rahm Emanuel, then chief of staff to President Barak Obama, said this in the wake of the 2008 financial crisis. He explained, "And what I mean by that it's an opportunity to do things you think you could not do before."

We are currently letting an abundance of crises go to waste in this country and missing the opportunity to address longstanding social and economic ills. We face crises in homelessness, health care, opioid and fentanyl addictions and overdoses, immigration, mass shootings, mental health, climate, and, at any given time, various aspects of our economy. To name just a few.

Before I retired from a career in communications and public relations, I spent nearly two decades studying crises and helping to resolve them. There are varied approaches to crisis management, but in its simplest form, if faced with a crisis; you admit there’s a problem, analyze it, figure out how to fix it, tell people what you’re going to do to fix it, and then, well, fix it. And do it as fast as possible.

But there’s a stage in the process that, although it doesn’t appear in any list of best practices, shows up anyway. I call it the "hand-waving phase.” This is when conversations collapse into a cacophony of bureaucratic back and forths, and progress grinds to a halt. Hands around the room start shifting blame, waving off responsibility, dismissing the fact there is a problem (usually the wave of the person or area whose fault it is), and hands fly across keyboards in a race to develop the magic message point that will make it all go away.

Fortunately, this stage doesn't last very long. Unfortunately for this country, we seem stuck there, waving our collective hands at the overabundance of problems.

As more people set up homes in alleys and doorways, while temperatures rise and the costs of medical care continue to climb, and as migrants stream across the border and bullets spray around the rooms, the hands keep waving faster and faster.

Why are we mired here and unable to break free?

In my experience, the hand waving ends when someone takes charge. They may not fully understand the problem, have an idea how to solve it, or know the right words to say, but they dare to step forward. They're leaders.

And this is where our crises response falls apart. Because, as a country, we’re suffering from a broader crisis that connects all the ills we face.

A crisis in leadership.

There are several people and groups, both government and private, who individually and together can help resolve our crises, but their actions have collapsed into denial, blame-shifting, defensive posturing, and hollow messages. No one is stepping up to take charge. They don’t need to have all the answers, take blame or responsibility, or carry the burden alone. They just need to lead.

The petty, political gamesmanship of our government representatives impedes progress on any issue. We can't expect them to lead us when they struggle to lead themselves. Corporations deny any responsibility for society’s ills and hide behind walls of excuses built by lawyers and accountants, and attempt to salve their collective conscience with donations and sponsorships. Spiritual leaders have all but vanished, and our educational institutions are tied up in the ivy knots of their own struggles to remain relevant.

Martin Luther King, Jr., a man who did not shy away from leadership, said, "The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.” The people and organizations who can lead us through our crises are standing on the sidelines, waving their hands.

Rahm’s boss in 2008, President Obama, recently told a group of young people the challenges we face will require a new generation of heroes. How much longer can we wait for someone to lead us? There’s a reason why you address a crisis fast. Because the longer you take to resolve it, the bigger it becomes, and the more likely it is to cause irreparable and irreversible harm.

At least we might keep the temperature down with all the hand-waving.

Just You?

Thu, 05 Oct 2023 13:00:01 GMT

Before leaving on a trip to Montana, to break free of the Midwest to wander the real west for a couple of weeks, someone asked who was going with me. When I answered, "No one," they recoiled in shock. Then, in a tone more appropriate if I’d told them I intended to make the trip by walking naked cross country, they said, "Just you? You're going alone?"

I’m used to it. I get it a lot. I like traveling by myself and doing things unaccompanied. And I don’t think I’m alone in this.

Pun intended.

Many people find this hard to understand. In a world where everyone is expected to accept and accommodate individual preferences and differences, people who prefer doing things themselves are too often considered social heretics. Unless they can offer what is considered a reasonable explanation for wanting to be alone, they risk earning labels like anti-social or hermit.

A few years back, when I spent a mid-winter week in a remote Wisconsin cabin solely in the company of books and my Newfoundland, Jake, a co-worker dubbed me Ted Kaczynski, aka the infamous Unabomber. Save for our unkempt hair and beards; the similarity ends there. I took a breather from work to catch up on some leisurely reading and walking with Jake in the snowy woods, and Ted spent his time brooding over technology and plotting ways to kill people.

I could explain my solo trips by claiming to be an introvert.

I am.

I know because I was forced to take one of those corporate psychological inkblot tests, share the results publicly, and then wear it like a branded steer with a rancher’s mark burned into its hide. The difference between me and one of those branded cows is they got to go on their merry way grazing and dozing, while my brand was waved in my face by people who couldn’t believe I didn’t agree with their brilliant idea, so it had to be because I was one of those.

I might say I need to be alone because of anxiety.

Which I have.

A counselor told me. I sought their advice after spending too many years wondering why I could speak in front of hundreds of people without a problem but had to sit in the parking lot psyching myself up to walk into work in the morning like I was headed for a root canal without anesthetic. They recommended meds and looking for a new line of work. Running a bait shop didn’t pay as well, so I just took the meds.

I’m sure the combination of the two contributes to my preferring my own company. But I do really like spending time alone. I always have.

Growing up, one of my favorite television characters was Lenny, of Lenny and Squiggy fame, from Laverne and Shirley . Not so much for the character, but the name on the back of his jacket. Lone Wolf. I coined that as my CB handle in the 70s.

Breaker 1-9. Anyone got their ears on?

Although I treasure time with my wife, family, and friends, there are times I like being alone. To read, write, fish, listen to music, take a walk, watch a movie in a movie theatre, wander the aisles of a store, enjoy a meal in a restaurant, have a drink at a bar, or simply think. Even at times when I could easily reach out to any number of people to join me in some of these.

Since I retreated from the corporate cacophony of meetings, buzzwords, and committees, I spend most of my time reading, researching, and writing. Alone.

And I love it.

But I don’t live in isolation.

While in Montana, I shared a meal with friends and fished a few days with one. When I'm not there, I relish the company of my wife and family, I join up with friends to share stories and laughs, and I get pleasure and satisfaction from sitting on the boards of three non-profits, which come with their fair share of meetings and social interactions.

One afternoon during my trip, I stopped in a local saloon in my adopted hometown of Ennis to unwind with a beer, some chicken wings, and a book on my phone's Kindle app. Another patron at the bar, who I purposely sat three seats away from when I entered, couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to engage in a prolonged conversation with him about his spiritual interpretation of a mountain in Wyoming, his observations of the differences between fishing the wilds of Alaska versus the west, and the evils of social media. When I told Chris the story, she suggested I think of a better line to extricate myself from these situations versus the one I finally resorted to in this one. Although he required a heavier approach, I agree with her that taking the Lord’s name in vain and covering a fair amount of the seven words George Carlin said you couldn’t say on television shouldn't be my go-to.

I think I have a solution.

In this understanding world where everyone is encouraged to freely express who they are, and no one can openly object or condemn them, those who like being alone should be warmly accepted. Without having to explain why.

Does anyone care to join me on this?

I’m just kidding.

Leave me alone.

Hard to Bear

Thu, 07 Sep 2023 13:00:01 GMT

If you haven’t seen an episode of the television drama Yellowstone or don’t watch it regularly, you’re still likely aware of it. The show created quite a Western culture buzz and was the first jewel in the television crown of its creator, Taylor Sheridan. The show revolves around a fictional Montana ranch and the family who’s owned it for generations.

I’m a fan.

A big one.

It's not a realistic depiction of their lives if you talk to ranchers and cowboys. Real ranches are less opulent and don't use helicopters for transportation; the work is more grueling and less profitable, and there's no place where they can take someone who gives them trouble, and the offender disappears without a trace. An area the show calls “the train station.” But television isn’t reality. And the show’s “ Sopranos in cowboy hats" storyline and larger-than-life characters are entertaining.

And the scenery.

Oh, the scenery.

This year, the television drama has created some drama of its own with behind-the-scenes squabbles between its star, Kevin Costner, and Taylor Sheridan. Their spat and the Hollywood strikes have delayed the completion of the show’s final season . Accompanying the show’s drama, its namesake park is experiencing some theatrics.

The park was created in 1892 with President Ulysses S. Grant’s signing of the Yellowstone National Park Act . It was the country’s first national park, and today is one of its most popular. Over three million people visit Yellowstone annually, marvel at its beauty and wonders, and enjoy seeing wildlife up close in their natural habitat. Elk, bison, moose, and grizzly bears, among others, appear along the park’s roads and wander nearby fields.

There’s a scene in Yellowstone ’s first season where Costner’s character, ranch owner John Dutton, confronts a group of tourists who talk and laugh while taking pictures of a grizzly bear feeding just a few yards away. In response to his warning, “Get back before that thing eats somebody,” the tour guide calmly says, “It seems friendly.”

And therein lies the problem.

Although the wildlife in Yellowstone seems oblivious to the hundreds of people who swarm around them, they aren’t tame.

And they aren’t friendly.

Just because they’re conditioned to the presence of two-legged animals doesn't mean they welcome them. It's like your crazy uncle at Thanksgiving. It's okay he's in the house. You just don't want him sitting next to you at dinner.

Grizzly bears and bison aren’t billy goats and dairy cows, and Yellowstone isn't a petting zoo. But every year, despite the repeated warnings posted throughout the park, printed in Yellowstone literature, and accompanying all the area’s websites, some people still try to get as close as they can to the animals. They're aware of the danger. But their common sense goes on vacation when they see one of these furry creatures lumbering nearby.

An Instagram account collects photos and videos of these people in action. It’s called Tourons of Yellowstone .

Get it?

Tourons = Tourists + Morons.

Morons might seem like a strong word until you watch the videos of Yellowstone visitors approaching a grizzly bear or an elk to prove their bravado or get a better picture. They think the rules don't apply to them or believe the authorities are being overcautious. Outside of the Instagram posts and other social media references, there are news stories seemingly every day highlighting the idiocy of another touron.

If they were the only ones in danger, I would say let Darwin’s theory of natural selection do its thing and skim the debris off the gene pool. A khaki-clad tourist, sunglasses perched on their head, armed with just a smartphone and a stainless-steel thermos of water, is no match for an angry grizzly or an enraged buffalo. But they put other visitors, as well as the animals themselves, at risk. Officials have tried to deter would-be tourons through arrests, fines, lifetime bans and jail time, but the stupid, senseless acts continue.

As someone who has enjoyed the park and lives part of the year in the neighboring Madison Valley , my beer and chicken wing infused blood boils when I see the videos or read the news stories. Something needs to be done to stop people from approaching and treating wild animals like they’re the neighbor’s Golden Retriever.

Erecting fences between park visitors and its residents would interrupt the animals’ migratory and feeding patterns. Prohibiting people from leaving their cars would punish the many because of the acts of a few and violates President Grant’s idea of Yellowstone as a “pleasuring park for the benefit and enjoyment of the people.”

But there could be a more effective deterrent and solution to end the madness. One we can borrow from the fictional Yellowstone world. If you’re caught violating the park’s regulations on approaching animals and maintaining safe distances, you won't be arrested, fined, jailed, or banned, and you won't be ridiculed on social media.

Sneak up on a grizzly bear or slide in close to a bison, and someone will drop you off at the train station .

Tourons ride free.

Oppenheimer's the Bomb

Thu, 10 Aug 2023 13:00:01 GMT

This week marks the 75th anniversary of the United States dropping the first atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The bombings ended World War II but started a nuclear arms race whose missiles loom over us today. Christopher Nolan’s recent release, Oppenheimer, tells the story of J. Robert Oppenheimer, the father of the atomic bomb.

Photo credit: Los Alamos National Library

I rarely watch a movie in the theatre, content to wait for digital rentals or arrivals on streaming platforms. I have a pet peeve about seeing movies in theatres. Other people. But there are some movies you can't wait for. I’ve anticipated the arrival of Oppenheimer since I saw the trailer .

In preparation, I reread the book on which the movie's based, American Prometheus . I wanted to gauge the accuracy of Christopher Nolan's adaptation. I read Kia Bird's and Martin J. Sherwin's Pulitzer Prize winner when it was initially published, but that was nearly 20 years ago. I'm old, and my recall isn't what it once was. If you intend to read the book, and I recommend it for anyone interested in the history, keep this in mind.

It’s long.

And dense with detail.

Really long and detailed.

I dropped the paperback and hurt my foot.

Armed with a refreshed knowledge of the great scientist's life and the creation of the bomb, I was ready. On a recent Sunday afternoon, I settled into a theatre seat, cradling a bucket of butter-soaked popcorn that cost almost as much as my first car, and waited in anticipation. What unfolded was a two-fold experience. In the film's epic nature and my first encounter with the IMAX format.

Too many filmmakers play fast and loose with the facts when making biopics, historical movies, and “based on a true story” films. They completely erase the lines between fact and fiction and rewrite history to serve their own purpose. Nolan never strayed far from reality. Some historians have taken issue with some details, but I forgave him these minor sins so he could contain the narrative and move the story forward. However, although Oppenheimer and Albert Einstein knew each other, their interactions in the film never occurred. Nolan’s creative license made for some poignant scenes, but they should be treasured for their cinematic rather than historical value.

The movie accurately depicts Oppenheimer's life, the development of the world's first atomic bomb, and the furor that engulfed him afterward. It sparks thoughtful consideration of whether the bomb's use against Japan was necessary, its impact on global power and relationships, and the shadow it continues to cast on our lives today. It also offers lessons in leadership.

There’s Leslie Groves's courage to select Oppenheimer as project lead against the advice of nearly everyone who ever worked or interacted with the brilliant but eccentric scientist. And Oppenheimer’s ability to form and steward a team to develop and build the bomb. It's also an accurate depiction of the sinister nature of ego, expertise, politics, and the pursuit of power that pervades governments and businesses.

The movie would be a valuable teaching tool if it weren’t for what earned it an R rating. I’d never seen the actress Francis Pugh, who portrays one of Oppenheimer’s lovers, in a movie before. Now, there’s not much of her I haven’t seen. Nolan lays the actress bare in scenes that could have been omitted or shot differently without leaving holes in the story or damaging the narrative. These few minutes guarantee the unedited movie never sees the inside of a classroom.

As a film, it’s a work of art. The cinematography, writing, and acting elevate it to almost masterpiece levels. It earns all its accolades, and there's little doubt it will walk away with numerous awards for everyone involved.

Watching the movie in the IMAX format wasn’t my first choice, but a friend insisted it was THE way to view the film. And I was curious about the technology.

The simplest way I can describe the experience is big and loud.

Really loud.

Really, really, loud. And really big.

Oh my god, it’s loud. And so, so big.

Maybe it’s because I’m old. But sound should be heard, not felt. It shouldn’t jiggle my popcorn, vibrate my seat, or make me wince and instinctively reach for my ears. I also felt like the screen would fall over, and the movie would swallow me. Another friend told me the IMAX format is meant for action movies, sci-fi, and comic book sagas. Fair enough. I’m safe. I don’t watch any of those.

The movie’s three-hour length put my bladder to the test. My discomfort aggravated by my IMAX-fueled shaking seat. In the days of yore, long movies included an intermission. But like I said, I'm old. My apologies to the man I almost knocked over sprinting to the bathroom at the movie’s conclusion.

Overall, I highly recommend the movie. Looking beyond the typical star rating system and using one of my own, I would give the film 5 Ts in the IMAX experience.

T rue to its source material, T hought-provoking, T heatrically majestic, but be aware of the T itillations and T ympanic membrane assaults.

Weather Apps and Aches

Thu, 27 Jul 2023 13:00:00 GMT

My grandmother claimed the bursitis in her left shoulder predicted the weather. I thought about this one morning as I sat outside on the patio, sipping my morning coffee and checking the weather on my phone. I looked at the day's local forecast and then the following week's long-term forecasts for a town we planned to visit. The day would be clear and warm, and we could look forward to an excellent week on vacation. I had everything I needed to know in a couple of minutes. Among the things technology has made so much easier and more convenient, accessing weather data is one of the most helpful. Outside of Instagram recipes of course.

It wasn’t until the introduction of the telegraph in the 1800s that people could share real-time weather conditions across the country. This helped to identify approaching weather patterns and led to more accurate forecasts. Before then, weather forecasting was mostly looking up at the sky. People relied on the wind direction, their knowledge of how seasons progressed, and the historical weather data collected in the Old Farmer’s Almanac .

Newspapers began printing daily forecasts in the mid-1800s. The first radio weather broadcast was in 1931, and regular television weather broadcasts began after World War II. For many decades these television weather broadcasts were core to our existence. You’d tune in to the news during dinner and leave it on in the background, ignoring and talking through all the stories of murder, mayhem, and political intrigue until someone shouted, “The weather’s on!” and then everyone went silent.

For an immediate forecast, you’d ask, “What’s the weather outside?” Or open a door to check yourself.

I learned other ways to make predictions too. Animals are helpful. Cows eat more before an approaching cold front, the number and frequency of cricket chirps gauge temperature, frogs croak louder before a storm, ladybugs swarm ahead of warmer weather, and sheep huddle together when there’s rain on the way. And, of course, there’s the most famous animal weather prognosticator of them all, Punxsutawney’s groundhog, Phil . And there are creaky joints, like my grandmother’s shoulder. Grandma claimed the ability to predict different weather patterns based on how her shoulder felt. A little stiff, some rain. A sharp pain, break out the snow shovels. A local news station promoted the accuracy of their meteorologist, Joe DeNardo, in ads proclaiming, “Joe said it would.” Grandma mimicked it and announced her bursitis’s success by exclaiming, “The shoulder said it would.”

The widespread availability of cable television, followed by Clinton vice-president Al Gore's invention of the internet, made accessing weather forecasts much easier. The Weather Channel was with us twenty-four hours a day, and save for the early days of dial-up modems and web page load times you could measure in hours; we had real-time access to forecasts and meteorological data around the country and the world.

Now, in our pockets, we have immediate access to detailed data, radar, forecasts, and alerts to potentially dangerous weather patterns. But like all good things, there's a downside. For weather apps, it’s the creation of self-proclaimed weather experts.

While watching a baseball game at a local establishment recently, someone who didn't want to remove a hand from their beer or a chicken wing to check for themselves, asked what the next day’s weather would be. One of these homegrown meteorologists regaled us for an entire inning about national trends, approaching weather patterns, and how the tallest building in town creates its own weather. He eventually gave us the next day’s forecast, but only after a lecture on how climate change impacts his tomatoes.

My morning reverie about the weather was shattered by someone cranking up a lawn mower and my Great Pyrenes barking to alert me a butterfly had entered our backyard air space. I decided to move inside and stood up from the chair. My rise was slowed a bit by a twinge in my arthritic right knee.

I made a mental note to close the windows before I left the house. Regardless of what the weather app said, there was some rain coming.

Joe’s knee said it would.

Off the Grid

Thu, 29 Jun 2023 13:00:00 GMT

“1997.”

“98.”

"Nah. It was 95."

Six of us were seated around the fire ring at our campsite, debating the year a movie premiered. Everyone laughed when someone finally said, "I'll Google it."

We were deep in Ontario’s Quetico Provincial Park and lost cell service when the outfitter dropped us off with our gear and canoes a few days before. If there was an emergency, we had the capability to communicate our location with first responders via satellite, as well as access to some limited texting, but we were essentially off the grid. Cut off entirely from fake news, keto recipes, and cat memes.

Photo Credit: Paul Vellella

We were on a seven-day fishing trip. We canoed and portaged fifteen miles into the park the first day and a half. For those unfamiliar with portaging, it's when you make repeated trips back and forth across narrow, slippery, rocky, boggy, uneven trails up and down hills carrying your canoe and all your gear from one lake to another. When you’re not gasping for breath, inhaling lung fulls of mosquitos, swiping at ticks, praying you don’t fall and break a leg or have a heart attack, you’re cursing yourself for not making sure your water bottle was filled before you started the hike, and wondering why in the hell you’re torturing yourself in the name of fun and relaxation.

The answer came when we arrived at our destination. A lake where the fish rarely see another person and grow to sizes people rarely see. It was the best week of fishing in my life.

Five of the six of us kept phones to take pictures. I powered mine off and left it in my friend's truck, and took my photos with a waterproof digital camera.

My phone is usually in a pocket or within reach from the moment I wake up until I go to bed. Its presence is as much a part of me as my glasses, watch, wedding and class rings, and hat. I rely on it for news, weather, music, movies, podcasts, Pirate broadcasts, connecting with family and friends, Instagram, Twitter, an occasional digital book, and sometimes even as a phone. It keeps me company while I eat lunch, wakes me from my nap, alerts me when someone's at the door so I can either retrieve a package or pretend I'm not home, and delivers short videos of stand-up comics that without them, would force me to spend time with my own thoughts.

At the beginning of the trip, I instinctively reached for it occasionally, but it wasn't long before the distractions of trying not to die, catching fish, and breathtaking views took its place.

Without access to meteorological information, we had to look at the sky for the weather. When I cooked, I tracked time with my watch or relied on the ancient art of meal preparation - “Looks done to me.” The only thing I binged were granola bars, crackers, licorice, and water sucked through a purifying LifeStraw until my cheeks hurt. With the work required around camp and the great fishing, there was little time for reading. On the one day I didn't fish, I read a paperback I had packed. Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago . Nothing says relaxation like tales of Soviet prison camps. The seven-day news and social media fast was cleansing.

During our trip, there was a fire ban because of Canada’s dry conditions, and most of their firefighters were helping combat the country's wildfires. So, we kept cans of insect repellant in the unused fire ring to pass around in weak attempts to keep the raging hordes of mosquitoes at bay. I lost so much blood to mosquitoes that week they now appear as relatives in my “23 and Me” profile.

In between squirts of Off , we talked about families, sports, food, television, and movies. If our campsite had been on the grid, a Google search would have settled the debate about the film's premiere date but probably derailed the conversation with the distractions that inevitably accompany picking up a phone. Instead, we agreed on a date based on someone's memory of which one of their wives they saw it with and someone else connecting it with their team's playoff loss. Which, between cries for more bug spray, fed further conversation.

When the outfitter picked us up, we were more interested in the cans of cold beer he brought than any news he shared. After we returned to town, I wanted a shower more than I wanted to power up my phone. When I did turn it on, it only took a few minutes to see there were no emails of any real importance, and everyone in the family was well.

Back home, I walked out of rooms without the phone and didn't miss it. I'd learned you can survive, and even thrive, off the grid. But the habit is returning. I find myself reaching, tapping, and scrolling for no real purpose. Losing focus and valuable time.

I decided to go off the grid again for a while to combat the habitual reach. On a recent afternoon, I left my phone in the house and spent some time on the deck. Just me and Alexander Solzhenitsyn. And a visit from some annoying relatives. I made a mental note that when I returned to the grid, I’d Google the best way to get rid of mosquitoes.

The True Crime

Fri, 26 May 2023 13:00:00 GMT

Before the 1995 spectacle People versus OJ Simpson was tagged as the trial of the 20th century, another trial held the title. It was the 1935 trial of Bruno Richard Hauptmann for the kidnapping and murder of Charles Lindbergh, Jr., the nearly two-year-old son of the world-famous aviator Charles Lindbergh. The recent anniversary of the child’s body’s discovery sent me down a winding path where I discovered the crime of the 21st century.

The case has woven its way throughout my life and rests at the intersection of two streets where I’ve hung out the most. History and Crime. As a young boy, one of the first books my grandfather gave me was Kidnap: The Story of the Lindbergh Case , written by George Waller and published in 1961. In college, pursuing a degree in criminal justice, one of my lead professors was Jim Fisher, a former FBI agent, private investigator, lawyer, and writer, and one of the most engaging teachers and storytellers I have ever met. In 1987, a few years after I graduated, he published The Lindbergh Case: A Story of Two Lives , the first book on the kidnapping to include a thorough analysis of the NJ State Police files. He wrote a follow-up book The Ghosts of Hopewell: Setting the Record Straight in the Lindbergh Case , which debunked many theories on the crime that have at their core the innocence of Hauptmann or claims he did not act alone. Eleven years ago, I performed in a community theatre production of Hauptmann , a play about the case. I’ve continued to read the occasional book or article and watch a documentary or two.

Somebody took the boy from his bed on March 1, 1932. Left behind were a ransom note and a homemade ladder used by the kidnapper to climb in and out of a window. In the following weeks, the kidnapper sent multiple letters, and eventually, Lindbergh paid $50,000 in exchange for information on the boy's location. The information was a ruse. On May 12, the badly decomposed body of Charles Lindbergh, Jr was discovered about four and a half miles away from the family home. He died the night of his abduction and was left there.

The investigation continued, but it wasn't until 1934 that police arrested Hauptmann after he passed some of the ransom money. He was tried the following year and sentenced to death. Some of the extensive evidence against him included the testimony of eight handwriting experts who identified the ransom notes as written by Hauptmann, a piece of the kidnapper's ladder made from a piece of wood taken from Hauptmann's attic, and the $14,000 of ransom money in his possession. The balance of the cash Hauptmann invested in the stock market and spent on a lavish lifestyle, which did not align with his years of unemployment. He lost on appeal, and on April 3, 1936, Bruno Richard Hauptmann died in the electric chair.

The newsletter prompted me to dig around online, rewatch two documentaries, a 1989 New Jersey public television production, and a more recent 2013 PBS episode of Nova, and read through both of Fisher’s books and Waller's.

The evidence clearly implicates Hauptmann as the kidnapper and killer. Although there are theories he didn't act alone or wasn’t involved at all, and some others of a “Bigfoot landed a flying saucer in my backyard” variety, there has never been any solid evidence to support them.

Out of curiosity, I looked to see if Hollywood had produced any dramas about the crime. In today's world, you can't seem to have a crime or tragedy without a "Based on a true story" retelling. I found two. A 1976 made-for-television movie, The Lindbergh Kidnapping Case , and a 1996 HBO production, Crime of the Century . Both are available on YouTube.

The 1976 movie was a relatively straightforward presentation of the case with the usual dramatizations and conjecture included for entertainment value. It starred Anthony Hopkins as Hauptmann. While watching it I couldn’t help imagining Hauptmann telling his police interrogators that he once ate a census taker’s liver. The HBO movie was a crime of its own, perpetrated on the reputation of the police and prosecutors. It presented a fictionalized case that Hauptmann was an unwitting recipient of the ransom cash, and the New Jersey State Police, the New York City Police, and the prosecutor all conspired to create false evidence against him, and the only man who wanted the truth, the governor of New Jersey, was silenced under threats of his political death.

While watching this movie, I repeatedly yelled at the screen. Things like "that's not right," "oh, come on," and "that never happened" strung together with words more appropriate for watching a Pittsburgh Steelers/Baltimore Ravens football game.

I also searched true crime podcasts and video streaming channels, which in recent years have exploded in number. I found an episode on a proclaimed crime expert's YouTube channel with nearly 9,000 views, so I watched it. If I shouted angrily at the HBO movie, I sat mute with disbelief for all of this stream’s 56 minutes. The expert included the HBO movie as part of their very limited research and claimed it was well done. But according to them, Fisher’s 1987 book was too long and contained too much information. Because when you’re researching a murder and a man’s subsequent execution for it, you don’t want to spend time reading information when you could be watching a nearly 30-year-old fictionalized version of the event.

Before this expert began their disjointed discourse that plays loose with the facts and makes broad unfounded assumptions, they shook their digital paper cup and pitched for donations, subscriptions, and book purchases through their Amazon affiliate page. At the episode’s conclusion, they concluded Hoffman was involved, but he couldn't have acted alone and then identified who they believe assisted him. In the comments section of the episode, viewers thanked them for clearing up the case and praised them for their research and analysis. I wouldn’t be surprised if many of them went and wallowed in the HBO movie slop.

During my digging, I found a recent news article about the case. A woman identified as a freelance researcher is working with a screenwriter and film producer to create what she described as the “definitive documentary” on the crime. Late last year, she sued the state of New Jersey in Superior Court to gain access to the envelopes, letters, and ladder so they could be subjected to DNA analysis, which wasn’t available at the time of the original investigation and trial. It was dismissed by a judge who said, "The state's open records law is not the vehicle by which a citizen can march up to a museum and demand that the custodians of historical artifacts and documents surrender the state's treasures for analysis, alteration, and destruction." I didn’t find a record of an appeal.

After my performance in Hauptmann, Chris bought me the actual front page of the April 4, 1936 edition of The Boston Herald , which declares in a two-line bolded headline:

Bruno Hauptmann Executed

Dies Without Saying Word

The word the world wanted and expected to hear was a confession. Even after his conviction, failed appeals, and a promise from the governor to commute his sentence to life if he confessed, Hauptmann maintained his innocence.

For grins, I took ChatGPT for a ride on the subject. I'm sure it won't be too long before someone applies this technology to true crime if they haven't already. I asked if Hauptmann had an accomplice in the Lindbergh kidnapping and murder. The response (the emphasis is mine) read:

“While there have been theories and speculations about the possibility of an accomplice in the Lindbergh kidnapping, Bruno Richard Hauptmann consistently maintained that he acted alone in the crime . There was no concrete evidence found indicating that he had an accomplice, and no one else was ever charged or convicted in connection with the kidnapping and murder of Charles Lindbergh Jr.”

There’s the intelligence taking over our world.

In an interview when The Lindbergh Case was published, the reporter asked Fisher why some writers purported the verdict was incorrect and Hauptman was innocent. His answer could easily apply to true crime books today. He said, "They did it for the same reason that Hauptmann stole a child – to make money. If they truly believe what they wrote, they are either charlatans or fools. They are weaving the kind of stories found in supermarket tabloids."

Fisher said he didn't write the book to upset Anna Hauptmann, who made it her life's mission to try and have the case reopened, and her husband exonerated. "But I can't change history to save her feelings."

The continued questioning of Hauptmann's guilt and efforts to re-investigate and re-try the case is an example of the true crime in true crime. The seemingly endless number of podcasts, documentaries, docudramas, books, and articles on the topic. Some are thorough well-sourced searches for the truth, but others are crime stories manipulated to deliver someone's political or social message. And still others are weak attempts to cash in on the genre's popularity. And like junkies, many true crime addicts aren't discerning where they go to ease their craving and consume whatever's available without bothering to determine if its facts are contaminated or its information diluted. Too many people want to change history to put some change in their pocket. And too many people are willing to give it to them.

The crime of this century is true crime itself.

A Retail Regrouping

Thu, 20 Apr 2023 14:00:06 GMT

Black Ticonderoga Number 2 pencils. Nothing unusual about those. Except I didn't expect to see it written there. Chris and I hung a notepad on the side of the refrigerator where we keep a running list of what we need from the grocery store. Then on Tuesdays, I tear it off and play bumper carts with the other oldsters at the local grocery store's senior discount day. On the list, in Chris’s handwriting, were these pencils. I don't know why I clarified it was Chris's handwriting. Because if it were someone else’s, this would be a totally different piece about the paranormal entity occupying our house with particular stationery needs.

Photo Credit: polarpencilpusher.home.blog

The ask interested me, but I had forgotten about the pencils by the time she got home from work. Forgetting is something I repeatedly do throughout the day. I also grumble about getting out of my chair to answer the door or get something, and no matter how often I ask them, the dogs never tell me what they're barking at. But during dinner, Chris mentioned the pencils. Our son Jonathan told her those were the best pencils for sketching and drawing, one of her hobbies. She checked a couple of stores and didn't find them, so she put them on the list on the off chance I might find them at the grocery store.

I picked up my phone. It's not unusual for me during dinner to check the weather, type a reminder, search for something neither of us can remember (what was the show we used to watch with that person from the movie we saw that time when the babysitter burnt the kids chicken nuggets?), or open the Ring camera to see what the dogs are barking at. After a few swipes and some thumb-tapping, I put it down.

“You’ll have them tomorrow. I found them on Amazon,” I said. With such pride, you would have thought that instead of buying them online, I planned on making them by hand.

“I was going to check Amazon eventually, but sometimes I just like to shop,” she replied. She likes wandering the aisles to see what else she might find, which to me is the equivalent of someone telling me they like to stick themselves repeatedly in the thigh with pointed sticks or voluntarily watch a Nicholas Cage movie.

Outside of groceries, I go to a physical store for whiskey, books, and fishing gear. Even then, I get most of my books and fishing gear online, and I'll buy from a local merchant if I need something specific and fast. If I have to go to a larger store, and it has the capability, I’ll check their inventory online to make sure they have the item I want. I’ve surrendered most of my retail existence to algorithms. Wandering aisles for me is clicking ads in social feeds or websites’ recommended lists, or considering their "customers who bought this item also bought these" suggestions.

I needed a birthday card for someone, so the next day, triggered by our conversation, I decided to get one at Target and wander the aisles and browse. I’ve never spent much time at Target, but I’ve seen too many memes about people going there for a tube of toothpaste and leaving with a three-hundred-dollar tab, so I promised myself I’d buy just the card.

I toured housewares, sporting goods, books, electronics, pet supplies, toys, infants, and music. I got some ideas for cookware, a new reading lamp, some toys for Carter, and some things for the latest grandbaby, Hudson. I also found a better deal on cat food and dog treats. I wondered if anyone but Colleen Hoover and James Patterson are writing and selling books, and I laughed to see there were more albums than CDs, something I haven’t seen in over 30 years. My walk also triggered some gift ideas.

Then, on a whim, I checked out school and office supplies. And hanging from a display rod was a row of Black Ticonderoga Number Two pencils , and much cheaper than what I paid for them.

I left the store grumbling about the pencils. Distracted by my internal pencil purchase flogging, I was nearly out of the parking lot before I realized I forgot to buy the birthday card and had to return to the store. I'm not adding Target and other department stores to my regular stops, but I will do a bit more brick-and-mortar shopping and browsing in the future.

Now the dogs are barking. They won’t tell me who it is, but I think it’s the Amazon driver dropping off the pencils. I'll get them later. I don't feel like getting out of my chair.

He Put the Grand in Grandfather

Thu, 23 Mar 2023 13:30:00 GMT

I became a grandparent for the second time recently. On March 16, Hudson Bradley was born to my son Jonathan and his wife Ashley and joined his brother Carter. When Ashley was pregnant with Carter, she and Jonathan asked me what I wanted him to call me once he was born. I initially joked I wanted to be named Carl, but there was no question what name I wanted.

My father’s dad died years before I was born and only exists for me in stories my dad tells. But Mom's dad was always around. For the first twelve years of my life, we lived in the same small town, then for six months in the same house while our new one was being built, then only a short car ride away before I left for college and started down my own path.

My grandfather attended my little league games and band concerts, spent birthdays and holidays with me, was there for my graduations, danced at Chris and my wedding, and lived long enough to hold both of my kids. We fished together, listened to Pirate baseball games on the radio, and sometimes made a trip into the city to catch them live. He played the game well enough that they invited him to join the team as a young man, but he had to pass because he had to support his family. At that time, being underground in a coal mine paid more than being above ground playing baseball. His formal education ended in the eighth grade, but he was a lifelong reader. His books and willingness to share them with me sparked my interest in history. Some of those books sit on my shelves—a few with notes written inside from him to me.

After he left the mines, my grandfather became the janitor for the local Catholic parish, responsible for taking care of the church, rectory, convent, and school and driving the bus that gathered the school kids from around town each morning and took them home every afternoon. He held the job well into his 70s. Growing up, I sometimes accompanied him while he worked. One of my biggest thrills was being allowed to clip his massive key ring on my belt—a joy second only to being allowed to use them to open the doors myself.

He was a kind and gentle man. Big in height and heart. He didn't have much, but he was willing to share what he had. I think of him often. His pictures hang on the walls of my office and den, and I frequently wear the wedding band he wore when he was a much younger and thinner man that my grandmother gave me after he died.

I wish my grandsons could have known him. But he would be 112 today. An unlikely age for anyone to reach, let alone a man with black lung and other health issues. We were blessed with him for many years, though. He lived to age 89, and his mind was sharp to the end.

I have many things in common with my grandfather. A love for dogs. A taste for beer, cigars, kielbasa, and sauerkraut. The Pirates are still my team, and I always leave the house with a hat, a pocketful of pens, and something to write on. And there's always a book close by. But the thing we share I treasure most is the name Grandpap. I chose it to honor him and keep him close.

It's music every time I hear Carter say it. And I look forward to Hudson saying it too. Carter never had any problems pronouncing it. If Hudson does, we have a temporary fallback.

He can call me Carl.

A tip of the hat to Richard Belzer

Fri, 24 Feb 2023 14:00:00 GMT

Do celebrity deaths sometimes make you pause? Whether recalling a favorite performance, remembering the impact or influence they had on your life, or the gut punch it gives to your mortality when you realize they were either the same age or not much older than you. For me, one of those happened recently with the death of actor and comedian Richard Belzer. He was 78 so we weren’t close in age, but there were things about him that resonated with me.

Photo credit: Associated Press

One was his comedy. He started his stand-up career in the 1970s when my interest in comedy began. I don't recall his specific jokes or routines, but I appreciated his sarcastic style. Another was his television character Detective John Munch. Not Belzer’s John Munch of the New York City Police Department as he portrayed him in Law and Order: SVU from 1999 to 2016. But the original appearance of Detective John Munch as a Baltimore City Police detective in Homicide: Life on the Street from 1993 to 1999.

Homicide was based on David Simon’s book, Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets . As a reporter, Simon had access to Baltimore’s homicide unit for a year and wrote the book about his experience. Belzer’s character, Munch, was based on a real-life Baltimore homicide detective, and he carried his trademark sarcasm into the role. The stories, along with the ensemble cast that included Yaphet Koto and Andre Braugher, made a top-notch series. In my opinion, it is one of the best cop shows ever produced. The show isn't available on any streaming platforms. Several times over the years I came close to buying the entire season on DVD. I never watched much Law and Order: SVU , so Belzer's Munch, for me, lives in Baltimore.

Another thing I noted about him was his writing career. Most news stories of Belzer's death qualified his literary work as conspiracy theories. Belzer, often with the help of a co-writer, wrote five books on subjects he thought the public was misled about, most notably the deaths of President John F. Kennedy, his brother Robert, and actress Marilyn Monroe. Earlier this week, I borrowed two from the library, Dead Wrong: Straight Facts on the Country’s Most Controversial Cover-Ups and Hit List: An In-Depth Investigation into the Mysterious Deaths of Witnesses to the JFK Assassination .

I’m familiar with many of the connections and coincidences Belzer says are evidence Oswald didn’t act alone, that Sirhan Sirhan wasn’t solely responsible for Bobby’s assassination, and Marilyn’s death was a homicide not a suicide. The books are well written and organized, and detailed footnotes and appendices support Belzer's theories. His ideas are as well presented, if not better, than some history books I’ve read. But, because of the nature of the work and the stereotype that anyone who questions the facts surrounding a well-accepted version of historical events is a tinfoil hat-wearing bunker-building loon, it’s not considered history.

Belzer’s theories may not ultimately hold up in a court of law or the court of public opinion. But people like him who question and probe the truth as defined by governments and businesses inspire others to pull back the curtains of authority. Maybe Belzer wasn't a historian, and his work academic history, but he refused to believe something just because someone in charge told him it was so. Or wasn't so. Want to talk about UFOs, anyone?

Belzer’s last words are reported to be, “F*** you, motherf***er.” They might have been directed at the fates that took him. Or maybe it was a message to those he thought lied and covered up to suit their purposes. Either way, you can imagine Richard Belzer and John Munch going down, middle fingers extended to anyone and everyone.

Belzer wore the different hats of actor, comedian, writer, and researcher. But he didn’t wear one made of tin foil.

Rest in peace Richard Belzer. Thank you for making us laugh, and through your work as Detective John Munch and your research, you taught us there's a place in this world for cynicism and questioning authority. In your honor, I finally bought those DVDs.

Haunted by Work

Fri, 03 Feb 2023 14:00:00 GMT

In late 2019 I retired from a corporate career. When I walked out of my office and swiped my badge to exit the building for the final time, there were things I looked forward to leaving behind. Mundane meetings, jargon and buzzwords, the bureaucracy of business, and the intrigue of corporate politics topped the list. For a while, my life was free of pointless presentations, seemingly endless conference calls, talk of targets, bandwidth, and wheelhouses, with promises to circle back. But now they follow me wherever I go.

Photo credit: Vintage Everyday

Within a few months, the coronavirus and the subsequent efforts to contain it sent everyone home, emptying offices everywhere. Working from home was no longer a luxury but the way of doing business in a pandemic world. But when the virus became more endemic than pandemic, people didn't return to their cubicles, conference rooms, and call centers. Like a derivative viral strain of its own, the workforce infected locations that used to be corporate-free.

The places I went to read, write, and relax, like coffee shops, restaurants, libraries, and parks, are all now workspaces. Nowhere is free from the plague of remote workers. While waiting for an oil change in a customer lounge, I unwillingly sat in on a quarterly results call. Standing in a grocery store checkout line, I listened to a performance review in front of me and a job interview behind me. One afternoon, eating lunch in a shop that used to attract local college students with its free Wi-Fi and soda refills, I found myself surrounded by people wearing headsets talking of synergies and holistic approaches between bites of their sandwiches.

Having spent thirty-five years behind a desk, I understand and appreciate the dynamics of employer/employee relationships and the challenges of keeping and maintaining a motivated and engaged workforce. I realize the months spent managing the impacts of a global pandemic shattered the misconceptions of remote work and liberated people who, for too long, felt chained to the corporate mothership. They don't want to surrender a more flexible and accommodating work environment.

But selfishly, I would like to leave my house without walking into everyone else's workplace. I never imagined spending the second chapter of my life forced to wrap myself in a noise-canceling headphone cocoon.

On a recent overnight stay, I was enjoying the hotel’s complimentary breakfast and morning paper when my concentration was broken by a plea for someone to unmute. At a nearby table someone sat in front of an open laptop participating in a video conference. Also forced to attend the meeting along with me were a couple on their honeymoon, a family of four, a long-haul truck driver, and a man trying desperately to understand how to operate the waffle maker.

Walking to my car after breakfast, I looked across the street and saw a corporate office building - windows dark, its parking lot empty. The sight sparked a left-over remnant of my corporate creativity. Maybe the companies burdened with maintaining unused and unwanted office space could offset their costs by leasing space to those of us looking to escape the employees they set free.

I never imagined I would ever find solace in a cubicle or a conference room. But I also never thought my afternoon retirement latte and crossword puzzle would come with a side of PowerPoint. If no one is going back to the office, maybe I should.

A January Enlightenment

Fri, 20 Jan 2023 14:15:00 GMT

After celebrating under the bright lights of the holidays and raucously ringing in the new year, January can be a letdown. Decorations are dismantled and shelved, vacations end, people trudge back to work and school, and the weather’s damp and cold. Even with the promise of a new year and the possibilities for fresh starts, the days of January can feel heavy with fatigue, like the hangovers that plague its first day.

On a recent grey January afternoon, I sought refuge in an exercise that always cheers me – research. Armed with a search engine and Wi-Fi, I did some digital digging through some history, connections, and coincidences in this dreary month.

January was named after Janus, the Roman god of beginnings, endings, gates, and doors. Robby Krieger, guitarist for the iconic rock band The Doors , was born in January. Many other cultural and historical figures have birthdays in January. Benjamin Franklin, Betsy Ross, Joan of Arc, Martin Luther King, Muhammad Ali, Dian Fossey, Alexander Hamilton, Douglas MacArthur, Janis Joplin, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Elvis Presley, Edgar Allen Poe, and Jackie Robinson were a few. Presidents Millard Fillmore, William McKinley, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and Richard Nixon were all born in January. Franklin Roosevelt was the first and last president to assume a fourth term in January 1945. January birthday boy Richard Nixon authorized funding to develop a space shuttle in January 1972, and fourteen years later, in January 1986, one of these shuttles exploded on liftoff, killing all the astronauts on board.

Elvis appeared on the Ed Sullivan show for the last time in 1957, and his live worldwide satellite broadcast from Hawaii took place in 1973. Both were in January. Viewers in the United States had to wait until April to see it because of a conflict with the Super Bowl, which in those days made its appearance in January. The big game's tradition of a solo halftime performer began in January 1993 with Michael Jackson . Almost ten years before, Jackson's hair caught fire on a January day while filming a Pepsi commercial. Jackson was married to Presley's daughter Lisa Marie from 1994 to 1996. In a dark twist, Lisa Marie died this month, January, and will be buried alongside her father, grandparents, and son at Graceland, her father’s iconic Memphis mansion.

Edgar Allen Poe was born in this month in 1809, and thirty-six years later, in January 1845, his dark masterpiece, The Raven , appeared for the first time in The New York Evening Mirror . This January saw the Netflix streaming premier of the movie, The Pale Blue Eye , in which a young Edgar Allen Poe appears as a West Point cadet. Although Poe attended the academy, the story, although engrossing, is fictitious.

Hill Street Blues premiered in January of 1981 and made television history with its ensemble cast and intertwining storylines weaving their way through multiple episodes. Another ensemble cast with a series-long story arc premiered in a January. This time in 1999. The saga of The Sopran os takes place on the other side of the crime story tracks and created the bad guy as good guy protagonist in James Gandolfini’s portrayal of mob boss , Tony.

Famous real-life mob boss Big Al “Scarface” Capone died in January 1947. Of all the criminal enterprises the notorious gangster was involved in, he was prosecuted for tax evasion. He spent part of his sentence incarcerated on Alcatraz Island. A prison that opened, you guessed it, in a January. One of Capone's criminal enterprises was bootlegging, which prospered during the country's dry period brought about by prohibition, which was signed into law in January 1919. Famous crime fighter Elliot Ness's pursuit of Capone’s bootlegging operation was fictionalized in the 1987 movie, The Untouchables , which starred Kevin Costner . Costner was born in 1955…in January.

January figures prominently in United States history. The states of Georgia, Connecticut, Michigan, Kansas, Utah, New Mexico, and Alaska all came under the stars and stripes in Januarys. Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation in January 1863, and Congress passed the 13th amendment abolishing slavery in January 1865. Lyndon Johnson appointed the first black cabinet member, Robert C Weaver, to oversee the Department of Housing and Urban Development in January 1966.

During the first month of 1961 President Dwight Eisenhower severed ties with Cuba, leaving newly elected President John F. Kennedy holding the bag containing the plans that led to the Bay of Pigs fiasco. Lyndon Johnson unveiled his vision for a Great Society in January 1965. In January 1968, the Tet offensive, one of the most extensive offensive campaigns of the Vietnam war, was launched by the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese Army and caused more Americans to begin questioning the war's continuation. Three months later, Johnson said he would not seek re-election to focus on ending the war. The official end of the war didn't occur until January 1973 with the signing of The Paris Peace Accords.

In January 1991 Congress authorized President George Bush to invade Iraq, which he did, and during one late January night the world watched the war unfold on their television screens through the cameras of CNN and the eyes of their reporters. In January 1998 President Bill Clinton emphatically told the world he did not have sexual relations with Monica Lewinsky , and the following January his impeachment trial for telling this lie under oath began before the US Senate.

In January 1964 the US Surgeon General published the first government report stating cigarettes were hazardous to smokers’ health. Two years later, in January 1966, the government forced manufacturers to begin placing warning labels on cigarette packages. In January 1971, the last cigarette ad aired on television.

This research could have kept me occupied for the remainder of the month. But I got distracted when I learned the first canned beer was sold in January 1935. This got me thinking about having a cold one myself. Beer drinking is a joy I share with one of my favorite actors, Paul Newman. Born in…January. My January isn’t dry and now it’s no longer dreary.

Cheers to a fascinating month.

2022 By The Numbers

Thu, 29 Dec 2022 14:00:00 GMT

The end-of-year lists arrived this month—tallies of the year's best books, movies, television series, and songs. For me, those were Small Things Like These , Barbarian , Yellowstone , and Cold Heart . Yes, I know the Elton John/Dua Lipa duet was released in 2021, but I didn't discover it until this year. There were also the lists of celebrities and notable people who passed. These tripped my nostalgic trigger. Gallagher’s first comedy album was my first comedy album purchase. Franco Harris’s recent death during the 50th anniversary week of the Immaculate Reception , and just days before he would stand before his fans to have his jersey retired, was unsettling. Tony Sirico and Stuart Margolin created two of television's iconic characters, Tony as Paulie Walnuts in The Sopranos and Stuart as Angel Martin in The Rockford Files. Howard Hessman, WKRP’s Dr. Johnny Fever , fueled my dreams of being a drive-time DJ one day. And Bernard Shaw’s professional television journalism is missed in what passes today for TV news. The appearance of all these lists inspired me to reflect on my year. For me, it was a year of big numbers.

A few weeks into the new year, my blood pressure hit a record peak. What the doc in the box called “a bit high,” the medical websites defined as “make sure your affairs are in order, a stroke is coming.” My regular physician changed my blood pressure medicine and reviewed the other big health numbers in my life. These included my weight, calorie intake, sodium level, and the number of times I ordered a meal through a drive-thru speaker. This year I lowered all those numbers and finally drew up the will I delayed for far too long.

I spent a lot of time in the company of music. Spotify sent me a video at the end of November recapping my 2022 listening habits. With a month left in the year, my listening time was already 19,281 minutes, which is more than 71% of other Spotify users. That's 2,994 songs and 1,789 artists across 52 genres. My top artist was Miles Davis, and I was in the top 5% of his listeners. I don't know what concerned me more. The fact that Spotify collected and shared this information with me and probably every advertiser and partner they have. Or that I had already listened to September by Earth, Wind, and Fire over 30 times by December.

Archives re-opened this year, which allowed me to kick my research into a higher gear. Through visits to various libraries and collections, I gathered over 13,000 documents related to the life of John Ehrlichman, author, artist, and Richard Nixon’s domestic policy advisor. I was happy to see Douglas Brinkley, in his 2022 book Silent Spring Revolution , give John the credit he deserves as an environmentalist.

Together, Chris and I put up a big number in 2022 and clocked 35 years of marriage. We also hit big numbers individually when each of us turned 60. We spent a weekend sharing a large number of memories and laughs with Samantha and Jonathan and their spouses, Jake and Ashley, in a Wisconsin lake house they rented for all of us.

This year I noticed something about the decorations for milestones. There are just two-color combinations for birthdays after 50: black and gold or black and silver. It's as if the gold and silver represent a reward for reaching the age, and the black is a reminder the final curtain is creeping up on you. (Please see the previous will reference.)

The length of our marriage represents a successful partnership based on love and respect. Our varied interests, views, thoughts, and ideas have created a unique balance, even in our appearance. I'm frequently mistaken for a man at least 70 and Chris for a woman barely 50. Which, averaged together, equals our actual age of 60.

The largest number of the year is one I didn't calculate, but I know is very big. In a year that began with my daughter’s wedding and included moments with friends and family, reading and writing in the company of my dogs, fishing lakes, streams, rivers, and an ocean, and spending time with Chris, it was the number of times I reflected on how blessed I am.

Here’s to the big numbers of 2022, and looking forward to what 2023 will bring. And hoping the will stays in the safe.

Dear RJ

Fri, 16 Dec 2022 14:00:00 GMT

Mr. RJ Scaringe

CEO, Rivian Automotive

Dear RJ,

You don't know me. I'm not an employee, shareholder, truck owner, or one of the 114,000 people waiting for you to deliver one of Rivian’s electric vehicles. I'm a resident of Normal, Illinois, home to your single manufacturing plant. One of the roughly 132,000 people who live in the Bloomington-Normal area. Two towns that heralded your arrival like the citizens of Messina welcomed General Patton in World War II. He brought them hope for peace and democracy. You brought us hope for economic development and an opportunity to play a role in the exciting field of EV technology.

A year ago, our local newspaper, The Pantagraph , selected you as its 2021 “Newsmaker of the year.” The first Rivian pickup for customer delivery had just rolled off the line, and your stock went public, almost immediately making your company one of the most valuable automakers in the world. Rivian brought life to a manufacturing plant abandoned by Mitsubishi, created thousands of new jobs with the promise of thousands more, and was heralded by one of our economic development leaders as “the gift that keeps giving.”

You brought a level of excitement to this area usually reserved for the grand opening of a new chain restaurant, a bumper corn crop, or an Illinois State University football win over Eastern Illinois. The arrival of Rivian has rocked our economic world with a massive shot in the arm for our real estate, rentals, retail shops, restaurants, bars, and hotels.

But what a difference a year makes.

I’ve never been much for investing in individual companies, except for a brief period during the nineties dot.com build-up when I opened an online trading account and turned thousands of dollars into a pocketful of loose change. Almost overnight, I exchanged a planned Disney vacation for a family trip to a local amusement park. But I almost bought into your IPO. If I had, this year’s vacation might have been a day trip to the state fair in Springfield.

In a little over twelve months, Rivian stock is down 84% from its peak, you ticked off customers already waiting too long for the delivery of their trucks by instituting an on-again/off-again price increase, your production targets jerked back and forth like the mechanical duck at a carnival shooting game, and you had to recall every single vehicle you ever made. This week you broke off an engagement with Mercedes Benz that lasted just a little longer than a high school crush.

Granted, the world’s economy is in flux, the capital markets are tight, and new companies are expected to spend at a high rate to get themselves off the ground. But the billions of dollars pouring out of Rivian’s corporate coffers gives the appearance that you’re burning through cash like a drunk frat boy buying tequila shots on spring break. Only this hangover will be felt by our local economy and the thousands of people who left their jobs to join your company.

You're a bright man, and I'm sure you have a plan. But your CFO's explanation that the Mercedes break up "reflects our process of continually evaluating our major capital projects, while taking into consideration our current and anticipated economic conditions" sounds less like words of encouragement than it does corporate speak, masking boardroom mayhem.

In 2019, the town renamed the road to your plant from Mitsubishi Roadway to Rivian Roadway. Reflecting a move from a dark past to a brighter future. I hope Rivian’s future is as bright as the one you promised. If not, Rivian Roadway could become this town’s highway to hell.

Don't Shoot the Message

Wed, 30 Nov 2022 14:00:02 GMT

You know when you’re standing in line at your favorite coffee shop, and the person in front of you threatens to pull out all the barista’s facial piercings because the shop ran out of almond milk? That's called shooting the messenger. Taking out your frustrations on the person who delivers the news instead of who or what caused it. In this case, slamming the poor soul who's been pouring lattes since dawn instead of the person whose job it was to order it, or laying the blame on supply chain issues (the pandemic, the war in Ukraine, an Elon Musk tweet), or the almonds who refused to give up their milk. We’ve all done it. To the spouse who delivers the news that the dishwasher, three days out of warranty, just vomited sudsy water all over the kitchen. And, we've all had it done to us. Verbally gutted by a child for telling them the rain washed away a planned day at the park.

There’s another version of this. Where instead of misdirecting anger at the messenger, wrath is leveled at the words themselves. Before the midterms, when the Democrats were preparing for a full shellacking and were looking for somewhere to preemptively point blame, they leveled their crosshairs on their party’s message. Then, after the midterms, when the Republicans failed to pull off the full shellacking, they shot their message. Party leaders, pundits, and columnists on both sides of the partisan fence said the parties chose the wrong words, put them in the incorrect order, made their sentences too long, too short, added too much detail, or didn’t add enough, and failed to create a message that resonated with people.

Anyone who has worked in communications or played a part in creating a message knows how the process works and can imagine what occurred.

Party bigwigs hired the best and the brightest in political messaging and then charged them to “work their magic.” Then, after the wordsmiths crafted a workable and presentable draft, they shared it with the party. In the olden days, these meetings would take place in a drab conference room over bitter coffee and two-day-old bagels slathered in room-temperature cream cheese. Now, these get-togethers probably occurred virtually from attendees' homes, where the bagels might be old, but the coffee was fresh, and the cream cheese chilled. The meeting invites initially went to a small group representing various departments within the party bureaucracy. The group gradually increased as the original invitees forwarded the invitation to others, not because of what they could add to the discussion, but because they wanted strength in numbers to advocate for a position. The group eventually grew from the size of a soccer team to a number that would fill a World Cup stadium.

Then, mimicking the chaos of four-year-olds playing soccer, the group kicked the draft up, down, across, and over the virtual conference room table for hours. The communicators would never tell the party administrators how to organize a campaign headquarters, wire an auditorium for sound, or hire interns. But people whose job originally was to check the message for factual accuracy and policy alignment deemed themselves experts in communication. Some of them because a college psychology professor decades before praised them for a two-page essay on schizophrenia, and others because they have a working knowledge of Microsoft Word. The editing dissolved into tense discussions over comma placement, sentence length, and the insertion of obscure jargon. After the meetings, the editing continued in an endless series of reply-to-all email messages with attached Word documents whose tracked changes and inserted comments resembled the manic ramblings of the schizophrenic who was the subject of their college psych papers.

The communicators then worked their real magic, resurrecting a coherent message from the ashes of the editing bonfire, and submitted it for approval to the party’s decision-makers. The final version resembled the initial draft as much as DaVinci’s, The Last Supper , resembles a kindergartener’s crayon drawing of a horse. Because unless everyone who touched it could recognize at least a smudge of their editing fingerprints, they would damn the document and its contents in enough sidebar communications to ensure it would reach the ears of the approvers, who would then reject it, regardless of its artfulness.

Once the message was approved, the party mouthpieces ran to the microphones and cameras, and the communicators limped away to spend the evening slumped on bar stools downing double vodkas. Swearing they would never subject themselves to another group editing trainwreck, while at the same time scrolling through their messages looking for the next writing assignment.

Even with this Dr. Frankenstein approach to message creation, communication pros usually create something more human than monster. But just as the most talented surgeon can lose a patient, the most creative communicator can butcher a message.

In this case, I don’t think the problem with the Democrats and Republicans is their message because it accurately reflects who they are. Both parties are dominated by extremists who refuse to consider, for even the briefest of moments, the views of others and who label anyone who doesn’t blindly agree with them as demons or heretics determined to ruin the country. Instead of leaders in both parties pausing to think about what they represent, taking the steps necessary to broaden their appeal and approach, and putting the country's needs above misplaced idealism, they appear intent on just hiring different communicators to try and mask who they really are.

Somewhere, more of messaging’s best and brightest are putting down their vodkas to respond to requests for them to work their magic again. Unfortunately, there isn’t enough word wizardry to make the nation’s political party monsters appear human.

Everyone's asking, but is anyone listening?

Wed, 12 Oct 2022 13:00:01 GMT

Dear Business Owners,

I never thought anyone could exceed the volume of electronic correspondence shoveled on me by direct marketers, phishing fraudsters, and panhandling politicians. But your never-ending flood of customer service surveys has done it. My inbox is jammed with emails asking me how you did, interrupted only by the occasional note from a lawyer wondering if I ever drank the water at Camp LeJeune. There’s a survey included with all my register receipts, and also as part of my call center interactions. If I completed all these surveys, I wouldn’t have time to make more purchases to get more surveys. So, I’m going to answer all of you collectively here.

Photo Credit: smartkarrot.com

How are you doing? Not so good.

We've all heard the tired service mantra, "The customer's always right." But anyone who's ever worked a single day dealing with us knows this piece of propaganda holds less water than the excuse, “I must have missed your text.” We're not always right, and sometimes our demands are unreasonable and border on insane. We've all seen the videos of the Karens and Kens and their incredulous behavior. In these instances, a taser doesn't seem like an unreasonable customer response tool.

But most of us aren't like this. A sharp tone might creep into my voice, and I might clench my jaw or roll my eyes. But these are rare. My asks are simple. A little courtesy, some value in exchange for my money, and no unreasonable inconveniences. But regardless of how many surveys I fill out and the honesty of my responses, nothing changes.

I am not ignorant of the problems created by the global pandemic, and I understand the economic pressures you're under and the supply chain issues you face. I fully appreciate the fragile nature of employee/employer relationships and the great resignation and the quiet quitting.

Many of you increased your options like take-out, delivery, and curbside pickup. You expanded online capabilities and allowed employees to escape from the confines of the cubicle corral and work outside the office. I recognized the reality of the situation. Like the Rolling Stones say, "You can’t always get what you want.”

I adjusted to limited hours, decreased services, smaller selections, and longer wait times. But in my patience, I seem to have been forgotten. I'm sidelined by the tug of war between you and your employees and tangled in your web of excuses.

What were supposed to be temporary fixes have become permanent solutions. I'm expected to continue to adjust my calendar to align with the frequent and random changes in your hours of operation, just so I can contend with poorly trained, disinterested, and sometimes discourteous employees.

Every day I’m met with door signs warning me of staffing issues and website pop-ups apologizing for decreased services and options. I spend long periods listening to pre-recorded messages telling me how important I am, even though my wait time will be longer than normal. I silently pray that when I do connect with someone, the line won't go dead, and they can help me. By the way, longer than normal should be measured in minutes, not by the number of newspapers and magazines I read to occupy myself.

But the pandemic has waned, and you've had three years to respond. Many of your other challenges are not new and are part of the cyclical nature of business. To be successful means adapting to the realities of the marketplace.

There’s a scene in the movie, The Fugitive , where the escaped, wrongly convicted killer Richard Kimble, played by Harrison Ford, comes face to face with his pursuer, US Deputy Marshal Sam Gerard, played by Tommy Lee Jones. Kimble declares he didn’t kill his wife, and Gerard responds, “I don’t care.” The marshal isn’t unsympathetic to Kimble’s plight, but it's not his job to determine guilt or innocence. His job is to bring Kimble to the people whose responsibility it is.

To those businesses still telling me about their staffing issues, labor problems, and supply chain kinks, "I don't care." It's your job to address them. Not mine. There are restaurants, stores, service providers, and product manufacturers who don't expect me to share responsibility for managing their business. They made considerable effort to adapt to challenges that didn't just appear overnight. I am willing to be patient with mistakes, misunderstandings, and miscommunications with businesses who don't greet me with warnings of what they can't do but show me what they can.

Starting today, I will not take the time to answer your emails, complete online and in-app surveys, answer a register receipt survey, or ask to talk to a manager in hopes it will affect some change.

I’m just going to quietly leave.

The Rolling Stones were right. You can't always get what you want. But they also understood when they added, "But if you try sometimes, well, you might find, you get what you need.”

Maybe We Shouldn't Call Saul

Thu, 15 Sep 2022 13:00:01 GMT

Television audiences love a good anti-hero. The flawed protagonist who, as opposed to the more conventional hero, is out for themselves or those closest to them. Fellow citizens be damned. Oscar Wilde wrote “Life imitates art far more than art imitates life.” In the case of the anti-hero, reality once again mimics the unreal.

Photo Credit: Sony Pictures/HBO

The anti-hero was born in The Sopranos patriarch, Tony Soprano. A husband and father trying to put food on the table and money in the bank (or duffle bags in the attic) to support his family. A man who just happened to be a mob boss. We found ourselves rooting for the character who used to be the bad guy. Sure, he's a thief and a killer, but come on, it's tough raising a family nowadays. Marching behind Tony down television’s main street was a parade of villains we couldn’t help but cheer for.

There was Frank Underwood and his wife Claire in House of Cards. There wasn’t anything they wouldn’t do to attain and keep power. Their deceit was over the top, but watching someone topple and trample politicians and powerbrokers is fun. Vic Mackey may have been a crooked cop in The Shield, but he still put away or buried the bad guys. Ozark gave us Marty Byrd, another man just trying to raise a family who believed drug cartels are just as deserving of creative accounting as greedy corporations. Patty Hewes in Damages was just a woman trying to make it as a lawyer, putting it to all those men who had been putting it to women for ages. Then there are the Duttons, Yellowstone’s ranching family. They are doing whatever it takes to protect their land and livelihood while simultaneously trying to keep some good old-fashioned wild west values alive. Like roping, riding, and the occasional backstabbing business deal seasoned with a murder or two.

In August, we said goodbye to the plain vanilla frosting Cinnabon manager, Gene Takavic, aka shyster supreme Saul Goodman, aka tortured sibling, cooky conman, struggling lawyer Jimmy McGill, in the series finale of Better Call Saul. A character gifted to everyone by the crowned prince of anti-heroes, Walter White. Breaking Bad’s cancer-stricken chemistry teacher turned meth kitchen executive chef.

I loved Jimmy McGill/Saul Goodman. I couldn’t help but fall for a regular guy looking for a break, weighed down by an overbearing brother, struggling to get inside a system that locked him outside. He was someone I could have a drink with—a bottle of beer in his hometown of Chicago or a tequila shooter in his adopted Albuquerque.

These folks aren't real and only exist in the world behind our screens. Unfortunately, our love for anti-heroes has crossed from fiction to reality. We've allowed real-life anti-heroes in business and politics to attain positions of power and influence. We ignore evidence of their rule-breaking and moral and ethical failings because they’re taking on the individuals and institutions we feel powerless to take on ourselves. We turn a blind eye, hoping we might benefit from their actions.

In the fictional world, anti-heroes eventually pay the price before they destroy everyone and everything around them. Their creators bring us to a point where we sometimes demand it ourselves. Sure, I loved Saul. Until I didn't. A crack in our kinship after his brother's death became a total break when another body hit the floor midway through the final season. It was the same for Walter White and me. I sympathized with him at the end of Breaking Bad’s first season. By the time the final episode of the series aired, I was yelling out loud, demanding his comeuppance, like a football fan screaming over a missed call.

Because, regardless of how much we've enjoyed their antics and gotten some guilty pleasure from seeing them stick it to those who need sticking, they're villains. And villains should be held accountable. Even if their victims aren't real. But the victims of our non-fiction anti-heroes are real—the people, principles, and progress of a proud nation.

It’s time we demanded the same accountability for our real-life anti-heroes as the creators of our fictional anti-heroes deliver to theirs. Before they destroy everything and everyone. And it’s time to lock anti-heroes behind the screen in their world. We need some real heroes in ours.

DIY=SOS

Thu, 01 Sep 2022 13:00:00 GMT

There’s this idea that as our children leave the nest and rent or purchase their own nests, we fathers show up on move-in day, toolbox in hand. There to take on everything from loose screws and dripping faucets to building cabinet space and redoing floors. Then afterward, anytime a son, daughter, spouse, or partner mentions a misfiring appliance, squeaky board, or dreams out loud of remodeling a kitchen, we immediately say, “I can help with that.”

Not this dad. The simplest tasks challenge me, let alone undertaking a remodel any more extensive than replacing a table lamp. For decades my running joke is I consider home improvement to mean getting three estimates. Do it yourself projects for me are making coffee and sharpening pencils.

My father tried to teach me. He started with the easy stuff – getting tools, holding boards and flashlights, and making beer runs. I mastered beer retrieval but struggled with proper tool identification and steadying lumber. Whenever a flashlight was involved, my aim was way off his mark. Based on my performance with the basics, he never even attempted to allow me to wield a hammer or saw. I didn't mind. Whether it was disinterest, lack of aptitude, or a combination of both, it wasn't my bag. After one particularly exasperating episode involving me not being able to find some sort of screw and its corresponding driver, he shook his head in frustration and said, “I hope you get a job someday that pays you well enough so you can hire someone to do this for you, or you’re screwed.” Fortunately, I did, and I wasn’t.

I'm not a complete home maintenance and repair washout. I've done a fair amount of landscaping, painting, and even some wallpapering, but drilling, sawing, fixing, and hammering? Not so much. I've assembled furniture, but I still can't quite get A to align with B, and every assembly requires at least one tear down and reassembly because I put the right one where the left one should be. My wife, Chris, has taken to unclogging drains, repairing leaky faucets, hanging shelves, and replacing loose and broken handles and pulls. An attack on my masculinity? Hell no. You go girl!

Obviously, I wasn't a role model or teacher for my kids. But I passed along other skills. Contractor evaluation and selection, negotiating installation charges, and of course, beer retrieval. My son-in-law's father is quite handy and an excellent carpenter on top of it, so my daughter is doing fine. And last year, she rolled up her sleeves and tackled redecorating and rebuilding projects herself after they moved into a new house.

If genetics and environment were the controlling factors science claims, you would think my son Jonathan would be a broken, misshapen chip off the old home maintenance block. But the offspring of a man who avoids touching walls and once spent eight hours replacing a single four-foot board on a deck and in the process broke three saw blades, stripped half a box of screws, and was asked by a neighbor if he knew any words other than those with four letters, is a master of doing it himself. He has torn out walls and designed and built a deck from scratch. There isn't a repair or remodel project he can’t tackle. When I ask him how he does it, he says, " YouTube .”

There might be something to the instructional capabilities of YouTube . But shortly after we were married, Chris bought me the entire Time Life Home Repair and Improvement set of books. The do-it-yourself YouTube of the '80s and '90s. I tried. But after a particularly disastrous and expensive self-repair attempt on a water heater that required a professional plumber's intervention, she sold them at a neighborhood garage sale and hid my socket set. In Jonathan's case, my father's DIY DNA skipped me but clung to him.

Recently Chris and I took advantage of his skills and had him remodel our laundry room. As expected, the new floor, cabinets, counter, lighting, and shelves look great. I assisted in the areas where I'm proficient—pulling out my credit card to buy supplies, picking up lunch, and disposing of cardboard.

There was a point where he was working in a tight corner, and there wasn't enough light for him to see what he was doing. I grabbed the Maglite I keep handy and fired it up over his shoulder, happy to help. After a few moments, he heaved a heavy sigh, leaned back, and said, "we're not spotting planes. I'm down here."

Yeah. My dad's DIY DNA.

He figured out how to hold the light himself while I got him a beer. I’ll stick to my strengths.

The Value of a Free Ride

Thu, 18 Aug 2022 13:00:00 GMT

I'm not particularly nostalgic, but I'll take an occasional trip down memory lane. Recently I learned to appreciate these mental journeys a little more.

Photo Credit: John Hopkins University

I subscribe to a free daily email newsletter from History.com titled, This Day in History . It lists significant events that occurred on the same day in years past and links to articles on the subjects. It highlights American and world history and covers a broad spectrum of sports, entertainment, social, and criminal history.

The list interests me as a historian, but sometimes I look for events I personally recall. They remind me of different periods in my life. It’s like taking a ride in a time machine. Over the past week or so, there have been various events from what might be called “The Strupek Era.” The killing spree by Charles Manson’s followers in 1969, the discovery in 1990 of the largest Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton ever uncovered, Robin Williams’ death in 2014, Gerald Ford assuming the presidency on the resignation of Richard Nixon in 1974, President Reagan's firing of over 11,000 air traffic controllers in 1981, and the lights going on for the first time at Wrigley Field in 1988.

I don't recall the Manson murders, but I remember the book Helter Skelter, written by Manson’s prosecutor Vincent Bugliosi. I read it twice. When it was published in 1974, and recently after reading a book critical of Bugliosi’s version of events. It started a lifelong interest in true-crime stories. An obsession I passed along to my daughter, Samantha. In 1990 I wasn't much into dinosaurs, but the year is significant. Chris and I moved from Western to Eastern Pennsylvania in the spring of 1990. A cross-state move may not seem like much unless you’re familiar with the culture of Pennsylvania. Political strategist and pundit James Carville once described the state as Pittsburgh and Philadelphia with Alabama in between. Our friends in Western Pennsylvania thought everything east of Harrisburg was a concrete jungle and we were moving into a lawless hell. And when we arrived in Eastern Pennsylvania, people there were surprised we had teeth and wore shoes. Philadelphia is an acquired taste, but we smoothly transitioned from kielbasa sandwiches to cheesesteaks, adopted the Phillies, and brought Jonathan into the world there. We returned for a couple of years almost a decade after leaving. Philadelphia and Eastern Pennsylvania hold a place in my heart only second to my hometown of Pittsburgh.

There are only two entertainers whose pictures hang in my office. Well, three. But I don't count the autographed photo of OJ Simpson marked as evidence from his 2008 trial for armed robbery. The two are Robin Williams and Jonathan Winters. No one has ever made me laugh harder than they did. Individually and together in the classic sitcom, Mork and Mindy . The circumstances surrounding Robin's illness and death were a tragic ending to the life of a creative genius. This routine on the invention of golf and his performance in this scene from Good Will Hunting highlight his range. He brought, and still brings, a tremendous amount of pleasure into my life.

I remember the moment I heard President Nixon resigned and Vice President Ford would take his place. I recently wrote about how these events influenced me . Reagan's canning of the air-traffic controllers brings back memories of the years of his presidency, 1981-1989, a significant time in my life. I graduated from college, met and married Chris, and began a long and exciting career. When the lights went on at Wrigley Field, I recall wondering, "What kind of stadium still doesn’t have lights?” When I visited Wrigley for the first time a little over a decade later, I learned it was one where the game's history and the field where it's played are respected and treasured. It's also where Jake told me he planned to ask Samantha to marry him.

My mother has dementia and this week entered assisted living. When I visited her last month, she couldn't remember what we talked about moments before, but she could recall her relatives from well over a half-century ago. I saw the joy those memories brought her. So, I asked questions that sent her rifling through the filing cabinet drawers of her memory that were still open to her. She enjoyed a fun ride in this time machine.

Even though it has stolen some files, the aging process hasn't locked any drawers in my memory's filing cabinet. The dementia that ignored my grandparents and my father, but took my mother, may never come for me. But I've seen how valuable memories are and how tragic their loss can be. So, every day, courtesy of History.com, I will look for more opportunities to take a ride through time.

Although it’s free, it’s pretty priceless.

On Common Ground

Wed, 27 Jul 2022 13:00:07 GMT

Headlines declare us a country fractured and divided. The Supreme Court is accused of enlarging the chasm between liberals and conservatives with a partisan shovel. Closer to home, the primary race for governor of Illinois has supposedly sparked a culture war between downstate residents and the inhabitants of Chicago and its suburbs.

But on a Friday afternoon headed into the Fourth of July weekend, the 34,931 people at Wrigley Field told another story.

Photo Credit: mlb.com

My day started with a train ride from the Bloomington-Normal area, two towns in the heart of central Illinois. Even though we're supposedly at war with our northern neighbors, there wasn't a checkpoint, barricade, or wall preventing my son Jonathan and me from leaving Union Station on our arrival. We met my son-in-law, Jake, and his father, Dave, who reside just outside the city. Their Cubs apparel identified them as fans, and our plain shirts and pants reflected our neutrality in the contest we were there to see - the hometown team against the visiting Boston Red Sox. Still, nothing identified us as upstate or downstate.

We took the L to Wrigleyville, where we joined thousands of others lining up for the game. People of all shapes, sizes, and colors entered the ballpark. The only requirement for access was a ticket. The only apparent reds and blues were the crimson Bs of the Sox fans and the blues of the Cubby loyalists.

Jonathan and I have been to Wrigley before, but this was our first time sitting in the bleachers. Dave and Jake claim it is the best way to experience the game. Bleacher fans have a reputation for extreme behavior. However, even with the bench seats packed, the only thing extreme I witnessed all day was a love for the game.

A variety of people across a spectrum of age, race, and gender surrounded us, whose only real difference was which team they cheered or jeered. There was good-natured ribbing across American and National League lines, but team loyalties were respected and accepted. The accents of Bostonians and Chicagoans are foreign to each other. Although these distinct voices were raised in opposition, they didn’t ring with anger.

In our section, a young father sat with his two-year-old daughter. Toddlers, crowds, and confined spaces are a recipe for disaster. But Cubs and Sox fans alike gave him space, an occasional hand, and graciously accepted the little girl's precocious antics. Dad's hat and jersey identified him as a Cubs fan. The accent and shamrock tattoos of the older man beside him identified him as being from Boston. He was accompanied by his son, a young man old enough to drink. The two families began the afternoon as strangers, but by the time Chicago dad and daughter exited in the seventh inning, all four were exchanging handshakes and hugs.

The conversations I heard from the first pitch to the last were about stats, player salaries, and shared ownership gripes. As we left the park to the song "Go Cubs Go," I even saw some Boston fans singing along. On the sidewalk, everyone peacefully moved off to cars, buses, trains, and bars. We took an L packed with people quieted by post-game fatigue to the train station and quietly left the city.

Robert McKee is an expert on the substance, structure, style, and principles of storytelling. McKee says a compelling story requires conflict. A struggle within individuals, between people, or among society. A compelling story also requires conflict resolution.

Society’s story doesn’t have to end with headlines and tales of uncrossable partisan chasms or a crippling cultural war. As 34,931 people showed three days before our nation celebrated its declaration of independence, people in conflict and competition can find common ground. Even if it is just the ground surrounding a baseball diamond.

Baseball was once dubbed "America's pastime." America, it's past time to come together on common ground.

Rockets’ Red Glare on Rewind

Tue, 12 Jul 2022 13:00:00 GMT

Holiday fails. Parents so excited about creating a bright memory of a holiday first, they inadvertently create a moment of panic, shrieks, and tears. The first visit with Santa Claus and a child, arms outstretched, screaming to get away from the lap of the big-bellied, bearded man in the loud red suit. A picture with the Easter Bunny because if they love the twelve-inch stuffed rabbit they sleep with, they’ll surely love it’s live six-foot-tall twin. Scoring a spot up close at the Labor Day parade for a great view of the bright red firetrucks, but so close they get an unexpected handful of bubble gum in the face. Most kids are too young at the time to remember these fails. But we parents rewind the memory for the rest of our lives.

One of our biggest fails happened on the fourth of July. Me, Chris, and Jonathan went to a public park for some cotton candy and his first fireworks display. Some of you may have already forwarded ahead to where the fun train derailed. And it doesn’t involve a sugary confection.

We were seated on the tailgate of my Ford Bronco to watch the light show. The full-sized version of the SUV. Like the white one AC Cowlings drove OJ Simpson in during the famous Los Angeles Freeway chase. Except mine was a bronze color. And I never drove OJ anywhere. The first launch lit up the sky overhead with a palette of bright colors. We told him there would be a fantastic collection of lights. But we didn't consider how overwhelming it might be. We completely failed to warn him about the boom that followed. In our exuberant planning, we didn't fully consider the sensory impact on two-year-old eyes and ears of having the sky dissolve into bright lights followed by an explosion. Again, and again, and again.

He screamed and clamored into the rear compartment as far back as he could. He escaped the bright lights but not the whistles, crackles, and booms.

At this point, you can imagine our scrambling to buckle him into his child seat and dashing to the exit. Except we were forbidden from leaving the park until the display ended. I considered breaking the rule, even if it meant jail time if I could stop his crying, but people seated on lawn chairs and blankets who were not screaming and crying blocked the exit roads. So, instead, imagine Chris and me trying to comfort a frantic toddler who doesn't understand why Mom and Dad can't make those nasty lights and noises go away. Said toddler crying himself into an exhausted sleep.

Even though I rewind this memory and relive this trauma every time the fourth of July rolls around, Jonathan remembers nothing of it. I'm thankful for that. But he does know the story. His son Carter is not a fan of loud noises. Jonathan and Ashley have naturally been cautious of introducing him to fireworks to avoid passing along the July 4th fireworks horror tradition.

When Chris and I moved to a smaller house after Jonathan and Samantha vacated the larger nest, we discovered a benefit that wasn't in the real estate listing. From our front yard, we have a view of the town's July 4th fireworks display. Close enough to enjoy it, but far enough away that the display is not in your face and the concussions less concussive. Jonathan and Ashley thought this would be the perfect way for Carter to have his first fireworks experience this year. He's four, so he'd already seen fireworks in videos and was better prepared than his father. If he didn't like them, it was a quick walk inside. And when it was over, there would be no crowds or traffic. A win all around.

And a win it was. Carter was thrilled by the display, and we were thrilled that he was thrilled.

As the echoes from the finale faded away, Carter, a member of the swipe-the-screen video generation, said, "Let's watch it again."

There’s no rewind in real life, and the memory of this experience, as fresh as it is for him now, will probably fade away. But when his mother and father rewind the memory, it'll be a more enjoyable playback than ours is of Jonathan's. As children, you learn from your parents. What to do. And what not to do. As parents, if you have more than one child, what you learn from the first can be passed along to those who follow.

Sometimes.

Maybe I’ll rewind our daughter Samantha’s first-time fireworks experience next year.

Right now, I'd like to keep Carter's on replay.

There’s no crying.

A Watergate Lifetime

Thu, 23 Jun 2022 13:00:02 GMT

On June 17, 1972, the police caught five men burglarizing the headquarters of the Democratic National Committee located in the Watergate office complex in Washington, D.C.

Photo Credit: New York Times

It was the summer between my fourth and fifth-grade years. I don't remember what I was doing that day. It was a Saturday, so I likely hung out with friends, rode bikes, tossed around a baseball, or tromped through the woods behind our houses. Someone's mother may have given us a ride to the community pool. If I had heard about the break-in, it wouldn’t have had any significance.

Not because I was politically ignorant. I knew Richard Nixon was president and seeking re-election. For whatever reason, the president caught my attention and interested me in politics. But for most Americans and me, it was a local D.C. crime story that just happened to involve the offices of a major political party and wasn't on the national radar.

I wasn’t educated at an adult level on all of this, but I knew more than you would expect a nine-year-old, soon to be ten, to know. I was Alex P. Keaton before there was an Alex P. Keaton . A teenage character in a 1980's television sitcom played by Michael J. Fox with a mature adult's sense of conservative politics and business.

A few months later, I asked my fifth-grade teacher if I could give a brief campaign speech for Nixon. Yep. Nerd. She gave me five minutes near the end of the day. Fueled by message points from the Weekly Reader , I spoke on the president's behalf. The Watergate story was growing but was still in its early stages and wasn’t a campaign issue, so I didn't mention it. I held forth on Nixon's stance on busing. Even though we all walked to school, buses were in our future when junior high rolled around. I don't remember much else. I do know no one gave a speech on Nixon’s opponent’s behalf, so I considered it a win.

After Nixon won re-election, the break-in and its aftermath became a full-blown scandal. I read newspapers, watched the evening news – on CBS with Walter Cronkite, of course – and watched some of the hearings in the summer of 1973. I had a friend who could recite the individual stats for every player on the Pittsburgh Pirates’ roster. I could hold forth on executive privilege and identify all the president’s men and their alleged role in the cover-up.

As 1973 turned to 1974, our sixth-grade teacher asked us to write a prediction for the new year on a piece of construction paper to be pinned on one of the classroom bulletin boards. While my classmates predicted Super Bowl and World Series winners, weather events, or where they would vacation during the summer, I predicted President Nixon would be impeached. My sixth-grade teacher wasn’t as tolerant as my fifth-grade teacher was of my penchant for politics and thought the comment frivolous and disrespectful coming from a ten-year-old. She pinned it to the board anyway. Seven months later, the House Judiciary Committee recommended three articles of impeachment against the president, and shortly after, he resigned.

My interest in Watergate, the Nixon administration, politics, and history grew. Although my career path led elsewhere, my love for history continued. I eventually succumbed to my passion, and, at age 54, I set out to get a master’s degree in history and retired from my corporate career three years later to teach, research, and write.

This was why I was visiting the Richard Nixon Library and Museum on June 17, 2022, the fiftieth anniversary of the Watergate break-in. I was there doing research for my study of John Ehrlichman, Assistant to the President for Domestic Affairs until 1973. The timing was coincidental. I didn't plan it around the anniversary but around the family calendar.

The anniversary received coverage and mention across various news and media platforms that day and in the days leading up to it, but a more recent presidential scandal scored the headlines. The hearings surrounding the January 6 break-in of the capital building returned the stolen election allegations back to the front pages.

I thought about this while sitting on a bench in the museum gardens, taking a quiet break from my work. During the 1973 Senate hearings and the months afterward, everyone was confident they knew and understood why and how the break-in occurred, who conceived it, who concealed it, and ultimately how justice was served. But history has a funny way of changing.

Peter Geyl, a Dutch historian, said, "History is indeed an argument without end." What he meant is that historical narratives evolve as evidence is revealed. Documents sealed are unsealed, people who refused to talk finally do, interviews hidden are found, and theories and arguments change. The door didn't close on Watergate with the final trial. Evidence has continued to surface over the past fifty years. Books and articles are still being written, and documentaries and news segments produced that offer different perspectives on why and how the break-in occurred, who conceived it, who concealed it, and how, ultimately, justice may or may not have been served.

Like Watergate, people are sure they know what happened on January 6 and the weeks leading up to it. But just like Watergate, we'll learn more as further evidence is revealed in the years to come.

My sixth-grade teacher was friends with my grandmother. Decades after I walked out her classroom door for the last time, she told grandma about my prediction, her initial reaction, and then her eating a little dish of crow months later. She asked what I was doing and was surprised to learn I was plowing corporate bureaucratic fields for a living. She told grandma she always thought I'd become a historian.

Her prediction took nearly fifty years to come true. It seems personal histories are evolving narratives too.

While I was seated on the bench in the museum garden, a family wandered by. Two of the children had the hollow look of hostages waiting to be released by their captors, but one, a young man about ten or eleven, was engaged in conversation with his parents comparing Watergate to the current scandal. I couldn’t help but smile and think about another ten-year-old boy’s fascination with politics and history. And Alex P. Keaton.

Shrinking Waistlines and Headlines

Thu, 09 Jun 2022 13:00:01 GMT

I'm on two diets. One to lose weight and the other to shed news. My doctor convinced me it was time to start counting calories. I realized on my own it was time to start counting subscriptions.

Photo Credit: Joe Strupek

Newspapers have always been a part of my life. Growing up, it was the weekly arrival of the Burgettstown Enterprise , daily deliveries of the Washington Observer-Reporter , then later, the Beaver County Times . After I had a home of my own, there was always a newspaper waiting for me every morning on the front doorstep. I wrote for my high school and college papers and, years later, wrote briefly for a local upstate New York paper. Most of the aptitude tests I took recommended pursuing a career in journalism or the law. My bachelor's degree is in criminal justice, but I ended up in public relations. The media became my life’s blood. Alternating between keeping the company from being mentioned in a story or trying to get them headlines.

The job required subscriptions to an assortment of newspapers, news aggregators, and news alert services. But my passion – okay, obsession – with the news took this to another level. I had daily subscriptions to over a dozen newspapers. My inbox became so clogged with news-related emails that I had to program an automatic system to move and file them so correspondence wouldn’t become lost. Even though I took email-free vacations, I couldn't stay away from the news. And just like it took an entire Jack's pizza to satisfy my craving for a snack, the low-calorie tasteless servings found in television news never satisfied my need for information. I needed heaping portions of fatty print.

When I retired from public relations, I left my focus on the company’s brand and reputation behind, but I took my news obsession – okay, addiction –with me. I halved my newspaper subscriptions and trimmed the emails, but I could still name reporters and their expertise across outlets like a baseball broadcaster recites team rosters. Sure, journalism is known as the first rough draft of history, and as a political and cold war historian the news offers insights and ideas, but I was collecting more first rough drafts than a high school English teacher.

Over the years, I've had to periodically wrestle the pounds down to a level that eases the strain on my heart and my wardrobe. On one of these weight loss journeys, I followed Dr. Andrew Weil’s, Eight Weeks to Optimum Health . Part of the plan is a news fast. He believes avoiding the news provides a mental calm, minimizes the overstimulation brought on by the media, and helps your body function better. There's no arguing the news is filled with stories that cumulatively can affect your psyche. But I always thought I was immune. Until a recent trip to the grocery store. The shelves were bare of the low sodium fat-free crackers I like to have with my sardines (a delicious low-calorie lunch). I held it together until I got home and then raged to the dogs about disrupted supply chains, inflation, labor shortages, and rising gas prices. Then I followed this up by blaming the cattle dog for contributing to the increase in violence after she barked at the Amazon delivery person. A news fast was in order.

I swore off reading any news during a two-week vacation. Spending most of my time in areas without cell service, fly rod in hand, helped. After a few days, the urge to scan the headlines of a news site, or bring up the digital edition of a paper, quieted. I got so used to reaching for a book or opening an e-reader instead that when I came home, the fast continued. Since then, I've canceled some subscriptions and deleted quite a few emails. I haven’t buried my head in the sand, and I could hold my own in a current events quiz, but now when I do read, it's a single paper, not an entire newsstand.

There's evidence both diets are going well. This week I fit into a pair of dress pants I haven't worn in three years, and when my wife Chris wanted to talk about something in the news and assumed I read about it, I was happy to declare my ignorance.

I think this calls for a celebration. Some Jack's pizza might be in order. But just a slice.

A Simple Gesture

Thu, 02 Jun 2022 13:00:05 GMT

“I don’t know anyone here.”

Photo Credit: Outside Bozeman

That's what I thought the first time I got one. I was traveling down a two-lane dirt road in Montana. A driver passing in the opposite direction raised the fingers of their hand wrapped around the steering wheel in a slight wave. I didn't think to offer one in return.

As I drove on, I tried to recall if I had seen them at the fly shop that morning or the restaurant the night before. No. Then I thought they might be trying to warn me of something ahead. Maybe some cattle in the road, or deer, pronghorn, elk, or moose. I slowed out of caution. But there was nothing. I doubted they were trying to alert me to a county sheriff. This seemed like an unlikely place for a speed trap. The worn washboard surface made going the speed limit difficult, let alone exceeding it. But nothing blocked the road, and no cops lay in wait. I decided it was a case of mistaken identity. Someone they knew had a truck like mine.

Then it happened again. And again. Always two-lane side roads. No highways or thruways. Then it dawned on me. This is something they do here. I had discovered "The Wave."

And I started doing it too.

I searched for its history but didn't learn much beyond confirmation of its existence. The wave is simply a cursory gesture to a passing motorist. Usually, a driver raises just two fingers above the steering wheel. It's a polite hello and recognition of the other person sharing the road. No prior relationship or contact is required. No long-term commitment expected. One article cited it as “a sign of respect and common understanding.”

Montanans are proud of this custom. As they should be. It's welcoming and hospitable. Although I have no idea who I'm waving to, I feel connected as we exchange waves. And it leaves me disappointed on the rare occasion my wave goes unanswered. I felt bad about those first few waves I failed to respond to and how I must have made those drivers feel.

Failing to wave is becoming a concern to native Montanans. More people are discovering the beauty of a state that refers to itself as “The last best place.” Tourists and people moving there to escape concrete, pavement, and crowds. And just like me, they don't know about the wave. It's enough of a concern the Montana Arts Council created a simple guide called How to Wave, Montana Style .

I don't wave at home. Waving starts when I arrive in Montana and ends when I leave. We don't have a broad wave policy here in the Midwest. We offer a polite smile or nod to people we don't know as we pass them going in and out of stores and restaurants. But waves are reserved for friends, relatives, and acquaintances. We waved in the Northeast. A raised middle finger accompanied by a scowl. But only when provoked. Or having a bad day. Or on Thursdays. When passing strangers, we simply avoided eye contact.

On a recent trip back to my adopted state, I passed some folks who didn't wave. They'll eventually learn as I did. Then I passed a driver I thought was a bit overeager in their wave—hand entirely off the wheel, a broad, rapid gesture back and forth. I raised two fingers in return and figured they'd get the hang of it someday. Then I rounded the bend and found a moose standing in my lane. I skidded to a stop. The moose looked over their shoulder at me and casually wandered off.

Shaken from the near-collision, I gestured at the animal. If the moose noticed, they probably thought I was a transplant from New Jersey and would eventually learn to add a finger or two to my wave.

After the animal cleared the road, I continued. Soon another car approached. The other driver and I almost simultaneously raised our fingers. The shock of my near-miss forgotten, I felt good. Maybe the world would be a better place if we unclenched our angry, uptight fists and took up the habit of raising our fingers in this simple sign of respect and understanding.

Give it a try.

And watch out for moose.

The Dangerous "D" Word

Thu, 26 May 2022 13:00:07 GMT

I didn't think I was going to die. But I wondered if the wind was strong enough to blow my parked pickup truck sideways into a roadside ditch with me buckled inside. Not the way you want to start a vacation.

Photo Credit: Joe Strupek

It was the afternoon of the first day of my road trip to Montana. I fly there more than I drive, but when I checked the cost of flights and cars a few months before, I decided it was cheaper to take the truck. That was before gas rose sharper than a Ginsu knife, cutting budgets like the famous knife slices tomatoes, but I forged ahead. I don't mind the two-day drive. I listen to podcasts and audiobooks and sing along with Willie and Waylon.

I checked the weather along the route during the day. There were some thunderstorms predicted, and it didn't look like I'd catch a break from the high temperatures until I got to the western side of South Dakota. So, windows up, A/C cranked, and listening to a forensic detective tell how he hunted down the Golden State Killer, I tooled along.

Living in the Midwest, I'm used to weather alerts. There are plenty of tornado warnings and watches, wind advisories, nasty thunderstorms, and winter blasts. On the first Tuesday of every month, the town tests its warning sirens. This is why the weather alert that came across the phone didn't immediately alarm me. Then I read it. (The phone is mounted on the dash so I can safely see the screen.). Earlier I noticed storm clouds far off to my right and assumed it was a thunderstorm. It was. But the word "destructive" capitalized in the warning caught my attention. The National Weather Service predicted ninety mile an hour winds and said to take shelter in a sturdy building, away from windows. People who didn’t take shelter were in danger of flying debris.

I approached an exit but didn't see any buildings, so I kept moving along. The storm that was once coming slowly from far off in the distance was now nearly on top of us. The clouds were clearly brown, not grey, or black. I looked for the tell-tale funnel of a tornado and was relieved not to see one. The relief quickly gave way to alarm when the wall of dirt started to overcome us. Everyone pulled to the berm. The first thing I did was what you're expected to do in these situations. I took a picture with my phone. (It accompanies this post and shows the dirt cloud crossing in front of me.) Then the dust and dirt fully enveloped us, and visibility decreased to the truck's hood. It rocked against the gusts of wind.

Then the second thing I did was wonder what the hell I was supposed to do. I've heard you should get out of your car and lie flat in a ditch if you're caught in a tornado. I wasn't sure this was a tornado, and getting out of the car in the middle of a dust storm along a four-lane highway didn't seem prudent. You can search the internet for these things, but Google wasn't top of mind. I did think about flying monkeys and an old woman on a bicycle. The damn Wizard of Oz has haunted me all my life. Fortunately, the storm lasted a short time, and in a few minutes the dust started to clear. Not entirely, but enough where it was safe to move forward. A car went by, then another. I followed along at a slow speed and with hazard lights flashing. The weather radar showed a thunderstorm overhead and another wide band of storms close behind.

I took the next exit and found myself on the outskirts of Luverne, Minnesota. I learned later Luverne was one of four towns profiled in the Ken Burns documentary, The War . I’d also forgotten it was the setting for the second season of Fargo . Right now, it was shelter. I spotted a restaurant. The 75 Diner was to be my port in this storm.

Forty-five minutes and possibly the best grilled chicken wrap I've ever eaten later, I was back on the highway. The storms were gone. As I drove west, every few miles an eighteen-wheelers on its side, metal siding and roofing caught in fences, and mangled highway signs, I learned what I'd experienced. A derecho. A straight-line windstorm accompanied by fast-moving thunderstorms. The winds in some areas exceeded 100 miles per hour. Two people died. Both in cars. One when a tree fell on it, the other by a chunk of wood that crashed through a window.

The rest of the trip was uneventful. The Golden State Killer was caught through the creative use of DNA and a genealogy website; me, Willie, and Waylon belted out Goodhearted Woman in the early morning hours somewhere in Wyoming, and my truck stop breakfast of a cheese stick and a hardboiled egg was a letdown after the 75 Diner's chicken wrap.

Before the return trip, I checked to see what to do in a car during a dust storm. Pull over to a stop and stay belted. It's also recommended you turn your lights off so someone doesn't think it's the flow of traffic and run into you. From what I saw, we all left them on along with our hazard lights. But there was a line of us along the highway. Maybe that was okay. To be safe, I also checked to see what you should do if you're caught in a car during a tornado. I remembered correctly. You should exit the car if you can get to an area lower than the highway. Or you can remain in the car, seat belted, your head below the window, covering it with your hands or a blanket. It seems like that would be a good one for a derecho too.

Then I checked the hours for the 75 Diner. The drive home would have another true crime book, a few podcasts, and me and the boys singing Mama Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys. But no chicken wrap.

Maybe next time. If I can convince the pilot to make a stop at the Luverne Municipal Airport.

John Hinckley, Jr. is Offkey

Thu, 12 May 2022 13:00:05 GMT

John Hinckley, Jr., assassin, wants to change his brand. The man who tried to kill then President Ronald Reagan with a .22 caliber revolver loaded with bullets designed to explode inside a body is upset with how the public perceives him. "I'm an artist. I'm a musician. Nobody knows that. They just see me as the guy who tried to kill Reagan,” Hinckley once said.

Photo Credit: Associated Press

This isn't entirely true. People see him as more than the person who tried to kill the president. He's also the man who gunned down Secret Service Agent Timothy McCarthy, Washington DC policeman Thomas Delahanty, and left presidential press secretary James Brady with permanent mental and physical disabilities, which eventually took his life thirty-three years later.

A jury found Hinckley not guilty by reason of insanity in 1982. Following the verdict, Hinckley was placed in psychiatric care, and in response to public outcry, states across the country revised their laws to limit or prohibit a person from pleading insanity in criminal prosecutions. In 1999 Hinckley was permitted supervised visits with his parents, and as the years and his recovery progressed, his restrictions eased. In 2016 he was released from full-time psychiatric care, and in September of 2021, a federal judge approved an unconditional release to begin in June of this year.

To aid in his rebranding Hinckley has created a social media presence, is selling artwork under his name, and is scheduling a musical tour to begin in July. The first concert planned for New York City has sold out. There is another scheduled for Chicago and a show originally announced for Hamden Camden, Connecticut has cancelled. He has branded his musical journey "Redemption Tour."

As a historian, I don't believe whatever time John Hinckley has left to add to his life story will result in his career as an artist and musician being more than an epilogue or footnote in the historical narrative. The tragedy of his act was highlighted by his motive and the publicity and cultural connections that followed. He wanted to impress a Hollywood star, Jodi Foster, who came to his attention through her appearance in one of the twentieth century's most impactful films, Taxi Driver . Reagan's recovery from his injuries made him the kind of hero no appearance in any movie of his own could have, and arguably reinforced the popularity and resolve that resulted in his bold impacts on history. Brady's injuries led to activism on his and his wife's part that grew into a national movement that resulted in government mandates on firearms purchases. It's hard to imagine a song or a painting erasing or even reducing this from the pages of history.

As a former public relations professional with experience in branding and reputation management, Hinckley’s efforts in this area are misguided, misdirected, and tone-deaf. The first action necessary in any effort at personal rebranding in the wake of a catastrophic mistake is to accept full responsibility for your actions, apologize and then try to make amends. In this case, Hinckley's first postings on the platforms that gave him a global stage to do this were to promote his music and art. There was no apology to the individuals and the country he harmed and no effort to atone for his actions. At the very least, he should give all or some of any proceeds he makes from his art and music to organizations like Brady , a group devoted to ending gun violence, the Reagan Presidential Foundation , or the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial Fund .

Regardless of his attempts to rebrand or redeem himself, Hinckley's efforts are destined to fail. Even though the court has granted him an unconditional release, redemption in the pages of history and the eyes of the public requires conditions well beyond paintings and songs. Hinckley sings in one of his original songs, "The past is gone, it is over. I found a new and better day." History is never gone or over, and with reputations, better days are not found. They're earned.

More Left Turns

Thu, 05 May 2022 13:00:05 GMT

J. Edgar Hoover, director of the FBI from 1924 until 1972, is dead. He has been for fifty years. But like the proverbial dead horse, some still like to flog the corpse. The anniversary of his death earlier this week, on May 2, brought another round.

I was nine years old and heard the announcement of his death on the car radio. My mother was taking me to a doctor's appointment. The reason for the visit has long since faded from memory but learning the director died is still clear. Hoover served eight presidents and became as prominent in the public consciousness as they did. His notoriety was a combination of the work of the FBI under his leadership and the public relations machine he fueled to promote it and him.

When Hoover took over the Bureau of Investigations, the predecessor to the FBI, it was a corrupt and incompetent organization of approximately 600 agents. When he died, the FBI was a 15,000 agent strong world-renowned premier law enforcement agency, protecting the United States from foreign espionage, domestic terrorism, and serious crimes. The FBI elevated forensic science and crime scene techniques and developed training programs to share its expertise with other police agencies in the United States and around the world.

But there was a dark side to Hoover. Paul Letersky, a former FBI agent who served as one of Hoover's closest aides, talks about it in his book, The Director . Letersky describes J. Edgar as “kind, courteous, thoughtful, fearless, sometimes funny, a perfect gentleman and devout patriot." But he also acknowledges Hoover could be "vindictive, closed-minded, hypocritical, a man of intense hatreds and eternal grudges, a man who in his sincere belief that he was protecting his country had repeatedly violated the principles of the Constitution on which that country was founded.”

It's the vindictive man of intense hatred whose corpse gets pulled out and pounded on each year on the anniversary of his death or in the news stories and histories published in-between. He’s the obsessed anti-communist looking for reds under every rock, the homophobe singularly bent on weeding out and exposing homosexuals in government service, and the heavy-footed trampler of rights sanctioning shady surveillance, wiretaps, and break-ins. These characterizations often fail to mention the real threat of soviet and communist agents during his tenure and the damage they caused. Or in looking for homosexuals, the FBI was acting under an executive order signed in 1952 by President Eisenhower, which barred them from federal employment. Also absent is the fact every single one of the eight presidents Hoover served knew of and tacitly approved the use of illegal searches and seizures by the bureau's agents. Many of these same presidents considered the bureau their personal investigative agency and used them for political purposes, most notably Franklin Roosevelt and Lyndon Johnson. Hoover's approving the electronic surveillance of Martin Luther King, Jr. still gets headlines, with the stories silent on Attorney General Robert Kennedy’s authorizing him to give the approval.

There is no question Hoover abused the power given him by the presidents he served. But none of them dared to confront or remove him. In May 1964, Lyndon Johnson signed an executive order exempting Hoover from the government's mandatory retirement age of 70. He immediately followed it with a public announcement, Hoover standing over his right shoulder, saying, “the nation cannot afford to lose you.” Richard Nixon sat down with Hoover in 1971, intending to fire him. Hoover left the meeting not only with his job but the authority to put more agents in foreign embassies. Nixon left the meeting and told his chief of staff, H.R. Haldeman, no one was ever to ask him about his conversation with the director. On his death, Hoover was the only civil servant, before or since, whose body lay in state in the Capitol rotunda.

One of the clubs used to pound on Hoover’s dead body for decades was the allegation he was a homosexual and a cross-dresser. The rumors were an outgrowth of his lifelong bachelorhood and long-term relationship with bureau number two Clyde Tolson and an eyewitness who claimed to have seen J. Edgar in a woman's dress. There has never been any substantive proof of a romantic relationship with Tolson, and the alleged eyewitness was a convicted perjurer and ex-wife of one of the director's friends. Regardless of whether it’s true, this weapon has been rightly muted in today’s reputational wars.

In a memoir about his days in the bureau, a Hoover-era agent highlighted one of the former director's eccentricities. According to the author, when Hoover visited FBI field offices, the special agents in charge were under orders to make sure there were never any left turns in the routes taken to transport him. Hoover was said to have a phobic fear of left turns. It sounds particularly obsessive until you learn the routes mapped for UPS drivers include as few left turns as possible because of the increased risk of accidents and the time and fuel wasted waiting to make the turns.

Just as there's some context for reducing the number of left turns in a journey, the life of J. Edgar Hoover and his tenure as the longest-serving director of the FBI requires broader examination. Many people today, young and old, who can recall the name J. Edgar Hoover, probably can't name all eight of the presidents he served. Unfortunately, what they know of him is most likely one-sided. In the future, whenever someone digs up his corpse to give it another wallop, they might consider veering off their narrow narrative path and offer a few left turns. Sure, there's a danger people will be hit by some oncoming perspective. But history’s about surviving these impacts and learning from them.

The Fools of April

Thu, 28 Apr 2022 13:00:12 GMT

The first of the month was April Fools' Day. An annual tradition branded by pranks and hoaxes followed by gleeful shouts of "April fools!" The day's history isn't clear, like a Joe Biden press conference or who Trump talked to on January 6. Some suggest it originated in France when people failed to recognize the extended celebration of the new year ended on March 31. Others trace it back to Noah and the ark. The old guy apparently released the dove on April 1 before the waters had receded, probably drunk from the fumes of all the animals trapped in his boat. Regardless of its origins, we've all been victim to the faux warning, “Your shoe’s untied,” or seen some poor soul wandering the halls with a "kick me” sign taped to his back. Although the fools are supposed to be isolated to a single day, some seemed to have slipped beyond the confines of April 1 this year. Like...

Photo Credit: quizony.com

Johnny Depp . Famous showman P.T. Barnum said, “there’s no such thing as bad publicity.” If he lived to witness Depp’s testimony in the actor’s libel suit against Amber Heard, Barnum would have publicly apologized for this statement and then proceeded to destroy his Pirates of the Caribbean boxset and Edward Scissorhands 25th anniversary Blu-Ray edition. Without repeating any of the actor's cringing testimony, it's telling when Howard Stern, the man who spent his entire career overly promoting and talking about himself, calls Depp a narcissist. Depp and Will Smith should partner in an oil change franchise when the trial is over. Johnny can mumble the prices when you pull in, and Will can bully you into getting your air filter replaced.

Pepsi Nitro . No soda should ever describe itself as a nitrogen-infused creamy smooth cola with a mesmerizing cascade of tiny bubbles topped by a frothy foam head. Tiny Bubbles is the exclusive property of Hawaiian crooner Don Ho , and we should limit our nitrogen intake to Guinness and peanut butter. Surely there's someone at the cola’s headquarters who remembers Crystal Pepsi .

Netflix . This month the streamer lost subscribers for the first time in a decade. To stop the bleeding, the company is thinking of allowing viewers to give not just one, but two thumbs up for shows, and cracking down on password sharing. These are the type of bold moves you would expect from the network that gave us the blind dating show, Sexy Beasts , where contestants wear animal heads to hide their identity. The last time the company ran into trouble, it changed its name to Qwikster. Maybe this time they should consider calling themselves Crystal Pepsi.

Sarah Palin . The woman who helped kill John McCain’s chance at becoming president and who, in comparison, raises Kim Kardashian’s political astuteness to the level of Madeleine Albright, is running for Congress. Palin made her announcement on April 1, prompting some to wonder if it was, in fact, a real April Fools' Day joke. If only.

The USFL . This month saw the return of the United States Football League. If someone was going to bring back something disastrous from the 1980s, couldn’t it have been Members Only jackets or David Hasselhoff?

CNN + . The all-streaming network was canceled less than a month after its launch. It seems company executives erred in thinking the answer to improving people’s perception of the media was more Wolf Blitzer. Although the project was a miserable failure, they did succeed in getting Chris Wallace off Fox, and there's finally something at CNN that began and ended faster than a Larry King marriage.

Gaslit . This Starz network mini-series is focused on Martha Mitchell, wife of former Nixon administration Attorney General John Mitchell. Julia Roberts plays Martha, and Sean Penn, buried under a ton of latex, plays John. The premier episode was cringeworthy and gave a black eye to any sense of Watergate history. Although Martha may have witnessed some of the debacle’s backstory, the only one getting gaslit in the telling of this story are the unsuspecting viewers who think they are going to get an accurate retelling of this Nixon era debacle. Before anyone ever thought of sitting Sean Penn down in the make-up chair, they should have used the latex to bury the story pitch.

Elon Musk’s purchase of Twitter . People like Twitter. It has its problems, but it is still a valuable source of information and offers a worldwide platform for self-expression. Elon Musk has come under his share of criticism, but there is no underestimating the positive impact his companies, SpaceX and Tesla, have had on society. But people also liked Johnny Depp and Amber Heard. And you see what happened when they got married.

Rivian . This electronic vehicle manufacturer’s CEO RJ Scaringe is said to be Elon Musk’s kryptonite in the EV space. Despite billions of investment backing, it can’t seem to ramp up production. In April, Rivian once again rolled out the red carpet to the media and was rewarded with glowing remarks and digital hugs. The company prides itself on producing pre-orders, press mentions, and jobs. What it can’t seem to produce is shareholder value and cars.

The weather . The groundhog's February prediction of six more weeks of winter was at least six weeks too short. For many, spring-like weather has been long in coming. It’s forced some of us to spend too much time indoors watching television and reading newsfeeds. And you see what that's done to our mood.

The Name in Coffee

Thu, 21 Apr 2022 13:00:03 GMT

“Happy Easter, the coffee maker’s dead.”

Photo Credit: Associated Press

Sunday morning’s greeting, delivered by my wife. There was a time when this troubling news would have required my leaving the house to secure the caffeine necessary to jump-start our day. But we have a Keurig, and although it only delivers its goodness one portion at a time, it saved me from putting on pants to wait in a slow-moving drive-through line so I could engage in forced sociability through a garbled speaker in exchange for coffee.

Chris carried the news like the weight of a lost family member, not a countertop kitchen appliance. When I asked why, she reminded me the last time our coffee maker kicked the carafe it required multiple attempts to find a suitable replacement. Ah yes, it did. We worked our way through various offerings from a home store; each one adorned with a control panel like a jumbo jet and a laundry list of options, none of which seemed to be able to deliver a pot of drinkable coffee at the time we needed it. A simple model pulled from a department store shelf finally saved us. I thought it would act as a stop-gap measure until we found a more suitable replacement, but instead, the basic Mr. Coffee brand coffee maker faithfully served us seven days a week, 52 weeks a year for a respectable number of years. A few simple buttons and a self-explanatory process kept us caffeinated and content.

I checked the department store website and reassured her there would be a new Mr. Coffee resting on our kitchen counter before the end of the day. However, an internet search is like a visit to a big box hardware store. You not only get what you came for but leave with a cartful of items you didn't know you needed and some you gather, “just in case.” In this case, the historian in me walked away from the search with a cartful of information on the history of the coffee maker.

Thomas Edison and Alexander Graham Bell gave us the lightbulb and the telephone, two indispensable items. But how many of us have an automatic drip coffeemaker on our kitchen countertop yet have never heard the name, Vincent Marotta? Vince, a former professional baseball and football player and then real estate investor, wondered why restaurant coffee tasted better than his coffee at home. At the time, most people used a stovetop percolator that too often recirculated already brewed coffee through the beans creating an end product more appropriate for removing paint from a wall than enjoying it with a slice of lightly buttered toast. Marotta came up with an idea for a more efficient machine and, with his business partner Samuel Glazer, introduced Mr. Coffee, the first popular mass-produced coffee maker. Although Edmund Able, an engineer they hired to develop the idea, was awarded the patent, Marotta is credited as the creator of the modern-day appliance.

Mr. Coffee arrived on the scene in 1972 and, in three years, captured fifty percent of the US market. The brand eventually rose to pop culture status.

Joe DiMaggio, a baseball legend, became the company spokesperson in 1973. His marriage with Hollywood star Marilyn Monroe lasted only 274 days, but his relationship with Mr. Coffee lasted nearly 20 years. Although other brands sold automatic drip machines, the name Mr. Coffee became synonymous with coffee makers, similar to Kleenex for facial tissues or Google for internet searches - like the one I did to find a replacement for our expired appliance.

One of Mr. Coffee's pop culture appearances was in the theme song for the hit television series, Cheers . The lyrics work their way through a succession of life’s problems soothed only by a stop at a place where everyone knows your name, and they're always glad you came. In this case, the show’s bar. The song's extended version topped the record charts after Cheers became a hit and the coffee maker appears in a verse that begins, "You roll out of bed, Mr. Coffee's dead." The exact situation we found ourselves in on Easter morning. A stop for a cold one at my neighborhood bar would have offered some soothing relief from the loss of our kitchen friend, but Chris was looking for a longer-term solution.

Later that day I drove across town to buy a new one. Although I made sure the store had them in stock when I searched, I didn't look close enough to recognize it was closed for Easter. But I didn’t return home empty handed. This is a popular and widely available brand, and not all stores shuttered for the holiday. It's still early in our relationship, but the coffee maker is delivering just as Joe promised, waking up before us every morning to brew a perfect cup of coffee.

Unlike the inventors Henry Ford, Nicholas Tesla, and Orville and Wilbur Wright, everyone doesn’t know Vince Marotta’s name. But everyone knows the name of the invention he introduced that changed the lives of a coffee-drinking nation.

I guess that makes him Mr. Coffee.

The Reason for This Season

Thu, 14 Apr 2022 13:00:08 GMT

My favorite time of year doesn’t arrive with a robin's first sighting, a picnic, a falling leaf, or a snowflake. It begins with a slider, a curve, or a fastball centered over the plate. The first pitch that follows the umpire's call to start the game. Baseball season.

Photo Credit: westwinddi.com

I was born and raised less than an hour from Pittsburgh, and I'm a lifelong fan of the Pirates. My first in-person game was during Three Rivers Stadium’s inaugural summer. My dad surprised me with the visit. Although I don’t remember much of the game, I vividly recall the moment the stadium came into view, and I realized where we were headed. The scorecards from the games played while I was growing up held names like Clemente, Mazeroski, Stargell, Parker, and Sanguillen. One of my junior high school substitute teachers was major league relief pitcher Bruce Dal Canton, who sometimes veered off the lesson plan to tell us stories of his days with the Pirates.

My grandfather was a talented ballplayer, and the Pirates invited him to join the team in the early part of the twentieth century. Head-turning salaries were decades away, and the money he could carry out of the dark tunnels of the coal mines was more certain than what he could make above ground on a baseball field. He influenced my love of the sport with his stories of playing pick-up games with Pirates legends Pie Traner, the Waner brothers Lloyd and Paul, and meeting the famous Honus Wagner, whose picture adorns the most expensive baseball card in the world. Grandpap would listen to games sitting on the porch or in his favorite easy chair, transistor radio and Iron City beer on the table next to him, offering his analysis of the game along with broadcast Hall of Famer Bob Prince.

Prompted by job-related moves to other states, I've shared my heart with other teams. The Boston Red Sox, New York Yankees, and Chicago White Sox lured me into the American League for a while. My longest baseball affair was with the Philadelphia Phillies. Chris and I fell in love with the unkempt, unshaven 1993 Phillies. Our World Series dreams were shattered that year in game six when Toronto's Joe Carter launched a game-winning home run off the pitch of Mitch "Wild Thing" Williams. My son Jonathan’s first in-person game was that year at Veteran’s stadium. When we returned to the area a decade later, I bought a Sunday season ticket package. I witnessed Samantha down several vanilla ice creams in little plastic batting helmets, Jonathan and I witnessed Kevin Millwood’s no-hitter in the spring of 2003, and he and I attended the last game ever played in the stadium before it was razed. A pair of the stadium’s seats rest on my patio. Jonathan and I attended the beginning of game five of the 2008 World Series in Philadelphia. Because of a lengthy rain delay, I watched the Phillies finally win the game and the title from my couch two days later. A World Series jacket hangs in my closet, and I occasionally sport the bright red of a Phillies cap instead of the Pirates’ black and gold.

The Chicago Cubs and St. Louis Cardinals are nearby. I enjoy watching games in their ballparks and one of my most treasured moments happened at Wrigley Field. In July 2019, during a break in a game, Jake asked for my blessing to marry Samantha. But neither will ever be my team. They’re both central division rivals, and no matter how far back in the standings the Buccos might be, my loyalty stands firm.

Each year the arrival of the season marks a new beginning. Regardless of what the sport’s prognosticators say or what you can realistically predict from a team’s roster, you have to allow for possibilities. This year could be the Pirates first playoff appearance since 2015, their first central division title since its creation, or they might take home the league pennant or World Series trophy that’s eluded them since 1979. I realize these are long shots, but reality has no place in a fan’s world before the All-Star break.

I listen to games like my grandfather, but the transistor radio has given way to the MLB app, and Iron City hasn't made it to the Midwest. I sit on the deck or in my favorite easy chair and cheer, groan, and coax the team through wins and losses. Bob Prince and my grandfather are long gone, but sometimes I can still hear Prince's, "You can kiss it good-bye" after a home run ball or grandpap's lecture on fundamentals after a bobbled grounder.

For me, the start of the season is more than just the promise of the next 162 games. This time of year teases me with warmer weather and thoughts of fishing trips, vacations, and lazy summer days. January is traditionally the time for resolutions and new year goals, but April and its greening grass, new blooms, and longer days are a chance to reset and recharge. To think about personal rebuilds, the pursuit of individual wins, and achieving long-term goals.

The game takes grief for its pace, length, and strategies dictated not so much by skill and experience but by algorithms and databases. I admit I've grumbled about games that never seem to end, multiple pitching changes, and some faceless suit in New York overruling calls on the field. But no sport is perfect, and fan complaints are as much a part of the game as hot dogs, beer, and sunburn. For me, baseball season is about the reassurance of tradition, the comfort of nostalgia, and the hope in possibilities. It’s the promise of new beginnings offered in three simple words:

Let’s play ball.

The Devil at the Oscars

Thu, 31 Mar 2022 13:00:06 GMT

More than enough has been said about Sunday's Oscar fiasco. Video clips of it have been studied with the intensity of the Zapruder film of the Kennedy assassination. But the most significant moment of this celebrity circus, although mentioned, has been virtually ignored.

Photo Credit: Legend Production Company

During a break after the incident, Denzel Washington, who ascended to the peak of the acting profession years before with ten Oscar nominations and two wins, approached Will Smith. Later, when he was actually invited to the stage, Smith shared what Denzel told him.

"At your highest moment, be careful; that's when the devil comes for you."

Denzel’s observation is one of the sharpest insights on success, leadership, and human frailty I have ever heard or read. The devil's appearance has disrupted many a life during a time of triumph. Because what he brings with him are the demons who lord over our actions and who we work to keep under control. Anxiety, anger, love, hate, hubris, insecurity, guilt, sadness, jealousy, lust, greed, pride, and fear, to name a few. We all have a demon or two, or three, who follow us around.

They appear in many forms. An offhand comment or sarcastic remark, an email sent when it should have moved from draft to trash, a hasty decision, smile, or sneer. An unwanted approach, a hasty retreat, or a slap. We spend most of our lives focused on keeping it together so we can advance, achieve, win, or at the very least survive. Then one day, it happens. The devil rears its ugly head while ours is turned away. Often when we’re distracted or blinded by the bright light of success. The glow emitted from trappings like position, title, power, or prestige. A moment in the sun and the warm feeling of having made it. The buzz of energy that comes with victory and adulation. At these moments, when we don't want to think of anything else, is when we should be most alert. Instead, vigilance falls prey to invincibility.

Stories of kings and queens, presidents and prime ministers, generals and diplomats, who failed to manage the devil, litter the pages of history. We've seen business leaders, celebrities, athletes, and influencers, some, for just the briefest moment, allow themselves to forget that fame and feat don’t immunize you from failure. Weakened by the weight of their achievements, they stumbled. We also see it in the people around us and, if we're honest, in ourselves.

In the late 1960s and early 1970s, comedian Flip Wilson rose to fame. In addition to stand-up, Flip was a master at sketch comedy. One of the recurring characters he portrayed was Geraldine Jones, a hip, fresh-talking woman. Geraldine would tell a story about doing something outrageous and then explain away her action by declaring, “The devil made me do it.” Audiences would react with laughter and applause. The line became a national catchphrase.

Will Smith could have repeated the line. Save for the chuckles from the few who made the connection; his audience would not have reacted with laughter and applause. The explanation would have been accurate though. Whatever demons Will has tried to keep at bay throughout his life, the devil showed up with a handful. And they got him at his highest moment.

As Smith tried to explain himself, the camera caught Denzel looking on. Maybe he was thinking about Will’s effort to recover. Or maybe about the times the devil came for him. Stopping to think might have saved Will when the devil came and sat next to him. But Denzel's advice came too late. For the rest of us, it's a sharp reminder.

No matter how far you go or how high you climb, the devil will find you. And he's bringing friends.

Tying up the Hands of Time

Thu, 24 Mar 2022 13:00:03 GMT

That’s just the way we’ve always done it.

A simple answer to the simple question, “why do we do this?” But it's too simple. And it's lazy. I ask myself this question twice a year. In March and then again in October. Why are we still changing the time?

This year I went looking for an answer.

Photo Credit: FiveThirtyEight.com

Some give credit for the idea to Benjamin Franklin. Ben invented many things, but messing with the clocks wasn’t one of them. He actually recommended the French alter their sleep habits to save on candles and lamp oil. It was a satirical suggestion based on his belief the French slept too late. Ben was the early to bed, early to rise guy. If Ben made this kind of joke at the expense of the French today, there would be a global outcry for a Twitter apology and the markets would tank because of uncertainty in the US and French trade relationship. The French might hold back some of the aircraft they sell us, and then we might respond by holding back some of their meds.

The original idea of adjusting the clocks from standard time came in 1895 from George Hudson. George was a New Zealand entomologist. He wanted to move the clocks ahead so there would be more time late in the day to collect insects. Hudson presented a paper on his idea to the Wellington Philosophical Society. They didn't like it. Next to have a go at it was a British builder, William Willet. In 1907 Bill suggested the clocks be moved ahead twenty minutes every Sunday in April. His reasoning was it would give people more time for recreation and save on their lighting costs. By recreation, he meant golf. Bill liked to play and wanted more daylight to do it. The clocks would roll back in September. The government ignored Bill's idea, and he joined George in the don’t go messing with our clocks club.

In 1908, a couple of regions in Ontario, Canada, started Daylight Savings Time and moved their clocks ahead an hour. Those crazy Canadians. But DST wasn't introduced across an entire country until Germany and Austria-Hungary did it in 1916. Their reasoning was sounder than catching bugs or working on your chip shot. They were engaged in a bloody World War, and they did it to save fuel. The United States followed in 1918 after we entered the war. We did it to save resources but also wanted to extend the workday. It was an on-again, off-again kind of thing until 1966 when Congress established a consistent process across the country. During the early 1970's we experimented with a permanent DST in response to the energy crisis. Initially, the test was supposed to last two years, but it quickly lost support. People didn't like their kids traveling to school in the dark. After Nixon resigned because of Watergate legislators had to find something else to get rid of. They decided permanent DST had to go and pulled the plug on it before the experiment was over.

Proponents of Daylight Savings Time say there are good reasons for rolling the clocks ahead. Farmers like it, crime rates fall, accidents decline, people shop more, and we save money on energy. But farmers really don’t like it and prefer managing their days by the sun and the seasons instead of a Seiko, studies show what we save on energy costs is minimal and has little impact on conservation, and daylight is no longer an incentive to shop when you don’t have to leave your house to go on a spending spree. There are also solid arguments that crime and accidents aren't clock watchers either. However, there is strong evidence that returning to a permanent standard time would help us live longer. Scientists say moving time ahead an hour increases the number of strokes and heart attacks.

After nearly fifty years of springing forward and falling back, people want it to stop. Two-thirds of Americans agree it needs to change. The only thing this many people have agreed on in recent memory is the final season of How I Met Your Mother sucked, and the McRib should never permanently return to the McDonald’s menu.

The House of Representatives held a hearing the week before we turned the clocks forward this year but didn’t do anything else. Then, the week after the time change, the Senate passed the Sunshine Protection Act in a surprisingly swift move for a deliberative body. This act would make Daylight Savings Time permanent. There's been the usual political badgering about who did what and why, but at least they did something. Even though they opened this can of clock worms with their hearing, the House raised their arms and shouted, "not so fast." They want to give the subject more study. I'm suspicious of their motive. I think it's like when your parents said they needed to think about allowing you to get an iguana, when what they wanted to do was delay making a decision hoping you'd forget about it. The House isn’t so much worried about what people want. It's more worried about what the people who give them money want, and there's a lot of money that changes hands when the clocks change. The recreation, hospitality, and sports industries for starters, and the customer service representatives at the appliance companies who answer the flood of calls and emails twice a year from people trying to change the clocks on their microwaves and stoves. The House also isn’t sure what President Biden wants to do. Other than not taking hard questions from reporters.

I would think the president would want to make people happy by ending the clock shifting. Two months before President Ford ended the DST experiment, he pardoned former President Nixon and told us, "Our long national nightmare is over." President Biden could stand before the cameras with a big smile and similarly announce the end of our long national needless clock-changing nightmare. Whether we stayed on a permanent standard or daylight savings time, we would still have other nightmares. But now we could have them at the same time year-round. I'm not optimistic, though. When one house of Congress springs forward, the other seems to fall back.

That’s just the way we’ve always done it.

A Not So Special Delivery

Thu, 17 Mar 2022 13:00:04 GMT

For something so central to communications and commerce and that plays such a large part in our lives, I’ve never given the United States Postal Service much thought. Until recently.

Photo Credit: United States Postal Service

The postal service has been with us longer than we've been a country. From 1753 to 1774, it was the British colonial mail service. In the early 1770s, underground mail networks were established so people could make secret plans to break free of the King's reign. In 1775, the Continental Congress brought the system above ground and officially declared it the Post Office of the United States. Facing collapse in the mid-1800s because of competition from private delivery services, Congress granted the postal service a monopoly to carry the nation's mail. In 1971, what was once a department represented by a cabinet-level position, became a government-owned company expected to earn enough money to pay for itself. Although other companies deliver packages, the post office remains responsible for the mail.

Where I grew up, a mailman walked from house to house, picking up and delivering the mail. My first memory of a mailman was Joe. His uniform was almost military in its presentation. Long pants, a short-sleeved shirt in warmer temperatures, long sleeves in cooler, and a heavier coat in winter. The bag slung over his shoulder was worn but not neglected. What creases and spots there were spoke experience, not abuse. His face was always bright with a smile. Occasionally I would see Joe and his family at church. He exchanged the uniform for a Sunday suit and tie, but the smile remained.

My next memory is of Charlie. He took to the streets in the 1970s, his appearance in contrast to Joe's. Not sloppy but casual. Charlie wore his hair long in a ponytail, and his uniform pants were short, his shirt untucked and wrinkled, his shoes scuffed and worn. The bag seemed out of place on him. If given a choice, I think he would have carried the mail in a canvas backpack. Charlie didn’t so much smile as he always seemed to be in mid-laugh. Whenever I saw Charlie out of uniform, he was driving around town in a blue Corvette Stingray, wearing faded jeans and t-shirts. Joe gave the impression delivering the mail was a sacred duty. It seemed like a good way for Charlie to make money instead of sweating in a grimy hot steel mill or sitting behind a desk in a stuffy office. But they both flawlessly delivered.

All my mail carriers since have been a series of faceless drivers seated behind the wheel of a postal delivery truck. A quick stop and go. If there's any contact, it's a casual glance and a polite wave. The mail used to play a more central role in my life, but bills and payments are now mostly exchanged online, letters became emails, and vacation postcards were replaced by Instagram posts. It now consists primarily of direct mail solicitations and seemingly endless stacks of Orvis catalogs.

I rarely leave anything in the mailbox for delivery. On the rare occasion I have something to mail, I include a stop in an errand run and drop the envelope into one of the big blue metal mailboxes outside the post office. But recently I mailed something from home. The weather was lousy, the roads snow-covered in places, I didn't have any place to go, and I didn’t want to wait.

Despite the ease of communicating electronically, I still pen the occasional handwritten note. There's something more personal in putting pen to paper rather than thumbing a text or typing an email. On Valentine's Day, my grandson Carter gave me a paper valentine with his name handwritten and a Paw Patrol Pencil to go with it. I wrote him a note, with the pencil, to let him know how much I appreciated the gift. He can't read, but Carter likes to get mail. Chris will occasionally send him a greeting card and stickers, and I will sometimes drop him a handwritten note or postcard whenever I travel. Jonathan will usually tell us when it gets there. After a couple of weeks of not hearing anything, I asked my son if Carter had received the note. He didn't. Although we live in two different towns, there's only a little over four miles between our homes. Someone dropped the ball…and the letter.

Carter wasn't expecting a letter from me, so there's no disappointment on his end. But there is on mine. The joy in imagining him opening the note and having one of his parents read it to him was replaced by the nagging question of what happened to it. Was it stolen by someone looking for a check to cash? Did it fall on the floor of a delivery truck, fly out the window between stops, drop to a parking lot, or disappear into some crack or crevasse along its journey through the system?

The loss of one piece of mail out of the thousands I've sent and received in a lifetime shouldn't be cause for concern. Anyone would be proud of this success ratio. And I don't know any person or organization that can claim perfection. Just because a letter I put in my mailbox disappeared, while everything I mail onsite arrives; doesn’t mean I can’t trust the mail person. They may not be a Joe or a Charlie, but they took the oath. Although it irritated me enough to obsess over it for a month and write this blog, I know I should get over it. And I will.

Valentine's Day is history, but I can still send Carter a letter. I'll write him a note letting him know how special he is and tell him I used the Paw Patrol Pencil. Then on my way to the library, I'll swing by the post office to drop it in one of those big blue boxes.

Hey, baby steps. Healing takes time.

Diners and Diplomacy

Thu, 10 Mar 2022 14:00:06 GMT

“I’ll have eggs over easy, bacon, wheat toast, hash browns, and a side order of cease fire. Oh, and some energy independence if you have it.” The solution to the world's problems might just be found inside the walls of America’s vintage restaurants.

As a United States citizen, media hound, and historian, there's more than enough going on right now to keep me in blogs for weeks. A seeming return to a cold war whose nuclear threat hung over my head from the date of my birth (just days before the Cuban Missile Crisis) to the birth of my son (born just weeks before the collapse of the Soviet Union). Rising gas prices and calls for energy independence reminiscent of the crisis in 1973. When cars ran out of fuel while people waited in long lines at gas stations to fill them, and President Nixon wanted to reduce the nationwide speed limit to 50mph, asked us to drop our thermostats at home and work, extinguish our Christmas lights, and suggested closing gas stations on the weekends to discourage people from taking long gas-guzzling drives. Today, prices are rising, hopes our partisan pickled pols can function are falling, and baseball season has stopped dead in its tracks. The Godfather turned fifty, Batman turned up again, and it looks like Taylor Sheridan will turn out 2,345 television series derived from Yellowstone in the coming years.

But I keep thinking about diners. Not the people who eat in a restaurant, but the old-time eateries designed to resemble railroad dining cars. Even if you don't have one in your town, everyone is familiar with these restaurants – their stainless steel, glass, and neon-lit outsides, and vinyl, chrome, fluorescent-lit insides.

In 1858, seventeen-year-old Walter Scott, a part-time pressman in Providence, Rhode Island, began supplementing his income by selling sandwiches and coffee out of a basket to nighttime newspaper workers and other hungry nocturnal wanderers. Business got so good he expanded to a horse-drawn covered express wagon. Others mimicked his success. T. H. Buckley of Worcester, Massachusetts, moved from operating a lunch wagon to designing and manufacturing them, and subsequently, the diner was born. These off-the-rails dining cars started with large wheels, rudimentary stoves, and iceboxes, advanced to cars with smaller wheels, larger counters, and even bathrooms, and eventually dropped the wheels to take root. Manufacturers shipped these premade structures across the country, where they were planted in small towns and along expanding roadways. Their design evolved to include the now-familiar stainless steel and glass exteriors, leather and vinyl booths, Formica countertops, porcelain tiles, and terrazzo floors.

Over the years, I've accumulated hours in diner booths, mostly while living in the Northeast. Breakfasts before hunting and fishing with my father and grandfather, college lunches, and road trip dinners. I recall a predawn meal with my father, loading up on eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, and toast. The waitress, knee-high hose rolled to her ankles, a pencil tucked behind a beehive hairdo, patrolled the floor, a coffee pot clenched in her right hand. The diner was packed, and she worked it alone, but the thick white ceramic coffee cups never emptied, and she never missed an opportunity to ask everyone if they needed more, liked their eggs, or were ready for the check. It was the late seventies and the height of the CB radio craze, and a woman seated at the end of the counter, whose voice rose above all the others, ended every thought with an emphatic, "Ten-four, go ahead."

In college, I too often exchanged my Math of Finance class for a midday open-faced meatloaf sandwich with mashed potatoes smothered in gravy followed by a slice of coconut crème pie. This is probably why I can't add, and the numbers in my life are dominated by cholesterol and blood pressure stats. Before Google and Siri arrived to answer the question, “what restaurants are near me?” I never went wrong finding a good meal in a strange land by scouting for the shiny bullet-shaped structures.

Before moving to the Midwest, we lived near a great diner. I would combine trips to the library with stops there to enjoy a meal alone, with the kids who sometimes accompanied me, or other times as a family. They served daily specials, milkshakes, hearty breakfasts, and the classic meatloaf sandwich. Each table still held a nostalgic reminder of a vinyl world, the song selector from a long-gone jukebox. Unfortunately, there are no diners where I live now. It's a town whose collective culinary tastes lean toward chain fare, where the differences between them are primarily the colors of their laminated multi-page menus mimicked across hundreds and thousands of locations spread across the country. There are some locally owned and operated restaurants—each with a distinct character and style. I stop by a couple of them for an occasional lunch, and there are some Chris and I frequent not only for the quality of their food but the friends we’ve made of the people who work and eat there. But just like Dan Quayle was no Jack Kennedy and Sean Connery will always be James Bond, they can't replicate a diner. The design, the food, the sounds, the feel of a booth seat worn and sagging with age, and the character they combine to form. Unique to their location, but collective to their place in society.

One of the things I miss most is the banter. The verbal back and forth you’re a part of, or that takes place around you. Candidates running for office who still practice face-to-face campaigning know diners are where real talk occurs. It's where problems are solved or, at the very least, solutions explored. Long before the indignant echo chambers of social media and the incoherent rambling of conversation threads, you could share a booth or take a stool next to someone and have a civil conversation. Property lines resolved, curfews hammered out, delivery schedules agreed to, family visits scheduled, and rumors put to rest. People could even talk about matters of national and global concern without the exchange disintegrating into an adult version of juvenile name-calling. Disagreements, not arguments, discussions, not lectures, where the middle ground is farmed, and extremes left arid. I don't believe any international treaties or trade agreements ever resulted from a diner conversation. Still, I am sure more than one person left feeling better having been given the opportunity to weigh in. Who knows, some of the solutions our leaders struggled for decades to find might have been left beside an empty soda glass and the remains of a club sandwich.

Instead of barren meetings rooms and droll videoconferences, maybe the world’s economic, political, and social leaders could get together in diners and exchange ideas. Seek solutions over bowls of chicken noodle soup and gravy-laden turkey sandwiches instead of between sips of sour corporate coffee and shouts of “you’re on mute!” Imagine Vladimir Putin and Joe Biden sitting next to each other at the counter, sliding the sugar dispenser and salt and pepper shakers back and forth between them, bringing an end to the Russian invasion before each country's economic collapse or nuclear incineration. Global leaders agreeing on how to responsibly manage the planet's resources, even though they can't agree on whether rhubarb or apple makes the best pies. Major league baseball owners and players stuffed in booths sharing cheese smothered fries and thoughts on how they can better serve their fans and still afford multiple houses and cars.

I know the chances of this happening are as likely as Letterman and Leno partnering to call this year's Indianapolis 500 but allow a man to dream. At the very least, we could find a diner, order up some hamburgers and milkshakes, and agree that without the genius of The Godfather, there is not a The Godfather: Part II, and there wasn't a motion picture Batman after Michael Keaton.

No? Pass the ketchup, and let's talk about it.

Torn From the Pages of History

Thu, 24 Feb 2022 14:00:04 GMT

The struggle is real. And those who have wrestled with the demon of this horrible habit and the shame that accompanies it now know they are not alone. A former president of the United States battles it too. The embarrassing and sometimes damaging habit of tearing up paper.

Photo Credit Wired.com

The evidence was there early in his administration. Aides witnessed the President tear a document in half, then tear those halves into quarters. He ripped apart memos, white papers, handwritten notes, news clippings, drafts of his tweets. Documents both classified and unclassified. These well-meaning aides didn't want to embarrass the President publicly and expose his uncontrollable habit, so they picked the pieces off the floor and out of trash baskets and taped them back together.

A man who led billion-dollar enterprises in highly regulated industries like gambling certainly understood records retention laws. During the transition from the Obama Administration, when he was brought up to speed on covert intelligence operations and taught how to use the oval office telephone, surely someone explained the Presidential Records Act. It’s unthinkable a man who could ascend to the presidency didn’t understand the papers he tore into little pieces weren’t his but owned by the public. That these records must be preserved then automatically transferred into the custody of the National Archives and Records Administration when the President leaves office. As those who witnessed the destruction and then tried to repair it said, the President just…could…not…help…himself.

People who leave the lights on when they exit a room, don’t put the toilet seat down, return empty cereal boxes to the cupboard, or drop dirty socks on the floor certainly understand. And now, all the habitual paper tearer uppers can come out of their self-imposed exile, raise their weapons of mass destruction skyward, and know everyone understands their struggle.

Imagine the pain of the mother who can’t hold her young child’s gold starred test papers in her hands because her habit forces her to rip them in half, her husband holding them up to her from across the room to keep them safe. The man who always wanted to be a bank teller but could never achieve his dreams because he shredded all the money handed to him. Or the artist whose work the public could never appreciate because they tore the sketches into pieces of confetti on completion. People who have suffered in silence for years can now hold their heads high and say, "See, even Presidents can't help but tear things up!"

In 2018, two men who were fired from their jobs as record management analysts for the federal government talked to the press. They told reporters their jobs were to tape presidential papers back together. Both were frustrated because they thought they should be doing something "more important." Imagine thinking there is something more important than being paid $60,000 a year to scotch tape presidential papers together. The baseless bitterness toward Trump knows no end.

If Trump’s habit wasn’t widely recognized then, it certainly is now. Recently fifteen boxes of documents were discovered in Trump’s house at Mar-A-Largo. The press, public, and government officials are up in arms that these classified and unclassified documents, many of them taped together, were removed from the White House in clear violation of the Presidential Records Act. The man was so embarrassed by his habit he risked criminal prosecution to hide it.

Instead of shaming and locking him up, this is an opportunity to finally recognize the extent of this habit and do something about it. Help the people who have ripped and torn for years behind closed doors break free.

Bring Donald Trump back into the folds of the federal government. Give him the resources to help people return to living meaningful, torn paper free lives. Lead them to recovery so they can hold stock certificates, property titles, their children's crayon drawings, and yes, presidential documents without fear of tearing them to pieces.

Donald Trump may have torn the pages of history, but we can tape them up. And while we do, let’s do what we can to repair the lives of habitual paper tearers. Our founding fathers would want this. Especially the guy who signed the Declaration of Independence but never got to hold the final copy because he kept tearing up earlier drafts.

By George, Give Him Back His Day

Thu, 17 Feb 2022 14:00:03 GMT

Our first president, George Washington, was robbed.

The third Monday in February is not President's Day. It's Washington's Birthday and has been since 1879. The day was celebrated on his actual birth date, February 22, until the Uniform Holidays Act of 1968 moved it to the third Monday in February. There was an effort in the early 1950s to change it to President's Day to celebrate all the presidents, more specifically, Abraham Lincoln, but this effort failed. Advertising campaigns in the 1980s promoting holiday sales unofficially changed the name, shortchanged our first president, and stole his day of recognition.

Although people across the country incorrectly think it’s a day to recognize all the presidents, if they think about it at all, the federal government still recognizes it as Washington's Day. Every year, to commemorate the holiday, a member of the Senate reads Washington's Farewell Address.

The address was published in Philadelphia’s American Daily Advertiser on September 19, 1796. Washington wanted to let the country know he would not seek a third term but instead return to Virginia to enjoy a well-earned retirement. He also wanted to praise the Union and warn its citizens of three things he believed would tear it apart. Unfortunately, his warning went unheeded.

At the time, many Americans still identified with their state or territory; North, South, East, and West. Washington said localized interests would weaken the country. He acknowledged the individual strengths and interests in each region. Still, he cautioned the greater power is in the whole and said, "all the parts combined cannot fail to find in the united mass of means and efforts greater strength, greater resource, proportionably greater security from external danger, a less frequent interruption of their peace by foreign nations; and, what is of inestimable value!” Yet, when the country faced one of its greatest threats, the spread and management of the Coronavirus, the response was haphazard and chaotic. Instead of a coordinated collective effort to protect its citizens; states, cities, and municipalities established their own rules and guidelines. The federal government assumed the unhelpful role of an indecisive yet scolding parent, and people were left wondering who to believe and who to follow.

Washington thought political parties were a threat to the union. While he tried to engage in respectful discourse to preserve national unity, Alexander Hamilton's Federalists and Thomas Jefferson's Republicans waged a rancorous partisan war. Washington warned parties “serve to organize faction, to give it an artificial and extraordinary force—to put in the place of the delegated will of the nation the will of a party," and further counseled political factions become "potent engines by which cunning, ambitious, and unprincipled men will be enabled to subvert the power of the people and to usurp for themselves the reins of government, destroying afterwards the very engines which have lifted them to unjust dominion.” The evidence of how crippled our system of government has become lies bare before us. The division between the two parties has widened to the degree no one can cross. Our elected leaders are afraid to build a bridge for fear that they will be thrown to their political death into the partisan chasm between the Republicans and Democrats.

Although Washington found benefit in foreign relations, he suggested a balanced approach, "cultivating peace and harmony with all." Washington cautioned, "The nation which indulges towards another an habitual hatred or an habitual fondness is in some degree a slave. It is a slave to its animosity or to its affection, either of which is sufficient to lead it astray from its duty and its interest.” Despite no longer wielding the sharpest super-power sword, the United States continues to threaten and sweet-talk its way through foreign relations. All while nations like Russia and China sit ready to destroy us economically or by the press of a nuclear button or computer keystroke.

The first public reading of Washington’s farewell took place before a joint session of Congress on February 22, 1862. An annual reading followed, but only the Senate continues the yearly tradition. The reading should serve as a reminder to congressional leaders of their responsibility to uphold these ideals. But like most traditions, it is repeated for repetition's sake.

Today’s deep partisan divide, state versus state, region over region, and a “for us or against us” approach to foreign policy, threatens to tear us apart. Washington's warnings have faded with time. But unlike the ink and parchment used to draft them, they remain relevant. The letter itself is a difficult read, written in the style of the time. But easier to consume analyses exist, even for the video inclined . Maybe on his birthday we should put the mattress, appliance, and grocery advertisements aside and spend some time with the letter instead.

It's Washington's day. Let's give it back to him.

Healing Words and Waters

sophermedia@gmail.com (Jonathan Strupek) — Thu, 10 Feb 2022 14:00:24 GMT

On April 3, 1968, Martin Luther King, Jr., gave a speech at the Mason Temple in Memphis, Tennessee. He declared he had been to the mountaintop and seen the promised land, a future of equality and peace. A future he said he would likely never live to see himself. Prophetic words, as an assassin ended his life the next day.

Four days earlier, Reverend King was in the Bahamas, exploring the waters around Bimini accompanied by a fly fisherman and guide Ansil Saunders. King wasn't a fisherman but loved the beauty and the quiet. Four years earlier, congressman and civil rights spokesman Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. introduced him to Ansil. Reverend King was there to work on his acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize and was looking for a tranquil place to write and meditate. Ansil helped him find it in the waters of Bimini.

Ansil is a fifth-generation resident of the Bahamas and followed his ancestors’ footsteps into boat building. He was inspired to become a guide by a local fishing legend, Bonefish Sam.

Sanders was no stranger to the fight for equality. As a child, he ate expensive foods, like conch and lobster, for free, catching them in local waters. But as a black man, he could not get served at the Bimini Big Game Club. One afternoon he stopped at the club for lunch and sat for an hour without being served. He returned every day for forty-one days, each time ignored, and left to fish the remainder of the day on an empty stomach. Then, he learned the owner had invited officials from Nassau to the club for dinner. He convinced his friends to join him that evening, and they sat down to eat. To save embarrassment in front of the guests, the club served them. Ansil recalled, "They fed us like the King of England." From that day forward, they were always welcome.

Reverend King and his followers inspired Ansil and others on the island. By following his actions and listening to his speeches and sermons, they learned to think big. Ansil became chairman of the Progressive Liberal Party. His goal was to even the playing field in the Bahamas. Blacks were second class and had limited access to many things, including a quality education. Ansil's college was guiding fishermen. Many of his clients were well-educated professionals, and he learned by talking with and listening to them. In turn, he helped educate people and prepare them for independence.

Reverend King returned to Bimini in early 1968 to write the speech he would give in Memphis in April. Ansil took his friend to Bimini Creek, where King reflected and wrote. When he learned of King's death just a few days later, he was devastated but continued his activism. In 1969 he started the Boys and Girls club on Bimini to help educate young children, and in 1973 Ansil helped Bimini move into independence.

Ansil guided many famous people, including President Richard Nixon and Football Hall of Fame quarterback Joe Namath. He met Queen Elizabeth twice. But it's the time spent with Martin Luther King the fisherman treasures most and is the subject of a short film, Mighty Waters . Simms, Costa, and the American Museum of Fly Fishing produced the film last year. On February 1, in honor of Black History Month , the film was made available to the public on their platforms and YouTube.

Ansil helped land the world record bonefish in 1971 and was recently inducted into the fly-fishing hall of fame. He is less known for a psalm he wrote and shared with King during the Reverend's 1964 visit. The island's beauty resonated with King, and he wondered how anyone could look at all the life around them and not believe in God. Ansil recited his psalm for King. The Reverend was moved and inspired by the fisherman’s words.

Over the years, Ansil returned to Bonefish Creek with his boat tours and would recite his creation psalm for people. The verse describes God through his handiwork reflected in the nature surrounding them.

Mighty Waters and its story of Ansil Saunders and his relationship with Martin Luther King is only seventeen minutes long. Still, its lesson spans decades through the lives of an iconic leader and a boat-building fly fisherman. Neither of whom lost faith or gave up hope.

Groundhog Day...Again

Thu, 03 Feb 2022 14:00:03 GMT

“Look, there’s the governor.”

We’ve had the good fortune of living in areas rich with history. As a result, my family and I have stood where our nation was born, where the revolution began, and where many of its battles fought. We’ve walked the fields of Gettysburg where the union stood fast, our former capital, New York City, and the current heart of the country, Washington, D.C. The children tolerated long walks, seemingly endless lines waiting for tours to begin, and my trying to generate enthusiasm for bronze markers and marble statues. But nothing matched the family's adventure of experiencing the cultural history surrounding Groundhog Day.

Photo Credit: Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

The February 2 ^nd celebration grew out of Candlemas, a Christian tradition where clergy bless and distribute candles for winter. The Germans took Candlemas a step further and added a weather-predicting animal. They first chose a bear, but when their numbers dwindled, they selected the badger. When the Pennsylvania Dutch immigrated from Europe, they brought the tradition with them but replaced the badger with the locally abundant groundhog.

Although other furry weather prognosticators are scattered across the country, the crowned prince of February 2 ^nd lives in Pennsylvania. Although the earliest mention of the day appears in a February 2, 1840, diary entry of a man living in Pennsylvania Dutch Country, the first on the record mention was in 1886 in the Punxsutawney Spirit . The newspaper based in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. A year later, the first official celebration was held a couple of miles outside of town on a hill known as Gobbler's Knob. Members of the Punxsutawney Elks Lodge traveled to the hill every year to consult with the groundhog, who, if he saw his shadow returned to his den because winter was going to last six more weeks. If his shadow was absent, spring was on its way. In 1899 the Elks handed off responsibilities to the Groundhog Day Club. Members of the club’s Inner Circle have carried on the tradition ever since. In 1961 the groundhog took on the name Phil.

Our family had more than just a casual relationship with the celebration. My wife and I are fans of the 1993 movie Groundhog Day, starring Bill Murray, and somehow passed along our enthusiasm to our son, Jonathan, who began watching the movie repeatedly at a very young age. Nothing will put a smile on your face like a four-year-old shouting, "Rise and shine campers, it's Groundhog Day." We named our dog at the time Phil. When we were asked his name, we would all answer, “Phil, like the groundhog Phil,” a nod to a line from the film. In 2003, when we were living in eastern Pennsylvania and Groundhog Day fell on a Sunday, it didn't take any convincing to get everyone on board to make the trek to Punxsutawney for the weekend.

We traveled to the area on Friday and checked into a hotel so we could take in the full two days of events. On Saturday, we walked around town and enjoyed the festivities. These included an art show where the kids had sketches done that included a groundhog, a woodcarving exhibition, and an open-air market where we ran into two top hat wearing members of the Inner Circle who gladly stood with us for a picture. This framed photo held a prominent place in all my corporate offices for the next sixteen years.

On Sunday, to make it on time for Phil's arrival, we woke up at 3:30 am. No cars are permitted on Gobblers Knob, so anyone who wants to attend either parks in a town lot and walks over a mile, or catches one of the many available school buses. We chose a bus and arrived bundled and warm shortly after six, with plenty of time to spare before sunrise, when Phil was scheduled to make his arrival.

At the time, Samantha was seven, and Jonathan was eleven. Chris and I thought the zero dark thirty wakeup call and standing in the cold waiting for a group of men to lift a fat furry animal out of a cage and pretend to talk to it might damper their excitement. Far from it. The anticipation of the crowning event, along with the energy of our fellow enthusiasts, kept everyone warm. Although Governor Ed Rendell's appearance wasn't as much a thrill for them as it was for me, I got a kick out of him walking by and waving to Samantha as I held her in my arms so she could get a clear look.

After some fireworks and some folks singing and dancing across the stage, the members of the Inner Circle pulled Phil from his stump, listened for his reaction, then held him aloft and declared that he had seen his shadow and winter would remain. There was a murmur of disappointment. Not because of Phil's prediction, but because the celebration was over, and it was time to climb back on the buses for the return trip to town. Still full of energy, we decided to skip the buses and walk. We trekked back into town with Samantha on my shoulders and Chris and Jonathan alongside.

Since the movie, the term Groundhog Day is no longer synonymous with just the celebration. Now it also means a series of irritating events that seem to occur repeatedly in the exact same way. This is because the movie’s television news meteorologist Phil Connors is not a fan of Groundhog Day and loathes his yearly assignment to cover it. Karma kicks in, and Phil relives the day over, and over, and over again.

Regardless of Phil’s prediction, spring pretty much rolls around the same time every year, and winter pokes along at its seemingly slow pace. This year Phil saw his shadow, predicting six more weeks of winter. When I heard this, as on most Groundhog Days, I wasn't thinking so much about Phil and his prediction, as I was the morning we spent on Gobbler’s Knob. If someday karma traps me in a day like it did Phil Connor, I wouldn't mind it being Groundhog Day. Mainly if it was the one in 2003. The alarm going off at the ungodly hour, the bumpy school bus ride, the four of us bundled up against the crisp chill of the morning anxiously awaiting the groundhog’s arrival, me excited to point out the highest-ranking elected official in the state, and my son's less than enthusiastic response:

"Who cares. Where's Phil?"

A Day of Remembrance

Thu, 27 Jan 2022 14:00:05 GMT

I remember someone saying, “their families watched them die.” A group of us were in a conference room staring at a fuzzy image on a television screen. The reception was poor but clear enough for us to see the space shuttle disappear shortly after launch, replaced by trails of smoke.

Photo Credit: challenger-explosion.jpeg

If you have a sweet tooth or a calendar that displays what food is being lauded, you know that today, January 27, 2022, is National Chocolate Cake Day. A day created by chocolate lovers to recognize Dr. James Baker (that's right, Baker), who, in 1765, learned how to make chocolate. This year, you probably don't know that January 27 is also The National Aeronautics and Space Administration’s National Remembrance Day.

Each year on the last Thursday of January, the administration recognizes members of the NASA family who gave their lives for the mission of space exploration. The timing of the day is in remembrance of the space agency’s three most significant catastrophes. A January 27, 1967, fire inside a command module that took three Apollo astronauts' lives during a preflight test. The explosion of fuel tanks that tore the Space Shuttle Challenger apart shortly after launch on January 28, 1986, ending the lives of its seven crew members, and the re-entry disintegration of the Space Shuttle Columbia on February 1, 2003, that killed all seven on board.

I learned about the January 1967 fire years after it happened. At the time of the incident, I was paying more attention to Lincoln Logs and Matchbox cars than the nightly news. I heard about the Challenger explosion shortly after it happened. A colleague and I were in a car returning to our office from a meeting, turned on the radio, and heard the tragic news. When I got back to the office, I turned on the television we kept in the conference room. Its primary purpose was to display training videos, so there was no cable connection. I tried to tune in a channel with the rabbit ear antennas. Some of you not only never did this but will equate the action with people who used quill pens dipped in ink to scratch messages on parchment paper. The image of those plumes of smoke marking the end of the doomed flight was burned into our minds along with the videos of the families, eyes skyward, tracking the rise of the shuttle from the launch pad—looks of nervousness, joy, and then confusion, followed by fearful recognition.

The radio was also where I learned about the Columbia disaster. The days of vibrating phones in our pockets alerting us to breaking news were still a few years off. The family was in Punxsutawney to attend the Ground Hog Day celebration (there’s a blog there), and the music was interrupted by the shocking news. Later I watched the television coverage. There was grainy footage of smoke and debris, but nothing as dramatic as the Challenger footage.

The command module fire was caused by an electrical short and fueled by a capsule full of combustible materials in a pure oxygen environment. Afterward, the air was adjusted to an oxygen-nitrogen mixture, capsule interiors were made less incendiary, and the doors of the spacecraft that opened inward during the fire were changed to open outward and release quicker. It was early in the development of the Apollo program, and the engineers and designers did not yet fully appreciate the potential hazards. There's no such grace surrounding the Challenger and Columbia disasters. Engineers who recognized the weaknesses in the O-ring seals foretold the Challenger explosion. Yet their warnings were waved off by officials who approved the launch. The flying pieces of foam that damaged Columbia and condemned its re-entry were also a known problem. There's risk in exploration, and the astronauts accepted this in exchange for the chance to be a part of something special. But they trusted others to do their part to keep them safe. Their trust was breached just like the fuel tanks on the Challenger and the wings on Columbia. Cold War competitive pressures, political promises, and bureaucratic power struggles played a role in the deaths of the astronauts.

The NASA history webpage explaining the day says, “The NASA Day of Remembrance is not simply a time to commemorate our fallen astronaut heroes, but a time to reflect on why we pursue this mission and everything the extended NASA family has sacrificed to achieve it.” I believe it also offers a chance for everyone to reflect on their responsibilities and their role in keeping our astronauts and explorers safe.

Most of us don't make life or death decisions, and our roles are less critical in the long-term survival of our organizations. But people trust us to always do the right thing. Today is a chance for us to reflect on this also. And maybe have some cake.

In honor of:

Apollo 1: Gus Grissom, Ed White, Roger Chaffee

Challenger: Dick Scobee, Michael Smith, Ron McNair, Ellison Onizuka, Judith Resnick, Gregory Jarvis, Christa McAuliffe

Columbia: Rick Husband, William McCool, Michael Anderson, Ilan Roman, Kalpana Chawla, David Brown, and Laurel Blair Salton Clark

Wandering the Desert

Thu, 20 Jan 2022 14:00:02 GMT

I live in a desert. Not the dry, arid land hostile to plant and animal life. But a news desert. These deserts are defined as rural or urban communities with limited access to credible and comprehensive news and information that feeds democracy at the grassroots level— and is usually a county with one or no newspapers.

Photo Credit: Pexels

We have one daily newspaper. The Pantagraph, a central Illinois institution since 1837. This 185-year-old publication, the oldest business in the area, is now more of a ghost newspaper. It exists and publishes, but there is little original or in-depth reporting. It was locally owned until 1980 when the Chronicle Publishing Company purchased it. Chronicle sold out to Pulitzer, Inc. in 1999, and then Lee Enterprises gobbled it all up in 2005. Lee still holds the keys.

The newspaper business has been in a downward spiral for years. Since 2005 about 2,200 local American newspapers have closed. Under Lee, through budget cuts and staff reductions, The Pantagraph has become a shadow of its former self. The editor oversees two other newspapers, one each in two neighboring counties. Several different positions, including management, photographers, and copy editors, cross over among them. The Pantagraph staff directory lists eleven reporters to cover a county of over 170,000 people. The intertwined towns of Bloomington and Normal encompass over 130,000 of that. The county is home to universities, colleges, a multitude of businesses, medical facilities, non-profits, the country’s largest insurance company, State Farm, and an assembly plant for EV’s golden child, Rivian. Three of the eleven reporters are dedicated to sports.

The paper’s content on any given day is largely produced using copy from wire services and other providers. You're more likely to find a chicken dish recipe and a bland entertainment piece repurposed from another publication than you are a story on our local government or businesses that goes beyond regurgitating press statements or parroting corporate message points. The editorial page is weak and consists primarily of repurposed columns from other publications. It is missing a solid voice focused on local issues. Compared to other news websites, the paper's online presence is the navigation equivalent of driving in a blinding snowstorm without headlights or windshield wipers. You may never find the news information you want, but there's no shortage of ads pounding against your screen.

The county is not entirely in the journalistic dark. Occasionally one of the television stations from Peoria stumbles through town, and the local for-profit radio stations cobble together some news. A local blogger tries to hold local government accountable through sometimes sharp reporting, but they so often overlay it with such a heavy dose of sarcasm and snark it weakens the impact. There is a shining star in the non-profit public radio station, WGLT. Through both their on-air and online stories, they deliver a top-quality product. But their efforts alone are not enough.

I recently read Carl Bernstein’s memoir, Chasing History: A Kid in the Newsroom . Bernstein waxes nostalgic about his early newspaper years in Washington, D.C., and his experiences at the local Washington Star . One of the Star reporters he heralds is David Broder, who eventually moved on to a long and successful career at the Washington Post. Broder spent some time in his formative years as a reporter for The Pantagraph . In a 1982 Washington Post column titled “What They Taught Us at the Pantagraph, " he praised the paper for its coverage, high standards, and connection with the community.

I believe the paper's staff today is giving it their best effort. In a recent piece, the editor shared the paper's goals for 2022 as well as the reporters’ goals. They are community-focused and intent on delivering a quality product. They may be committed to The Pantagraph’s mission of watchdog journalism, but their bosses at Lee seem more interested in unleashing a Bichon Frise to patrol the news yard. Which doesn’t go unnoticed by those who should be held accountable but successfully dodge press scrutiny.

Late last year, the hedge fund Alton Global Capital offered to purchase Lee Enterprises. Alton has been described as “one of the most ruthless of the corporate strip-miners seemingly intent on destroying local journalism.” Lee rejected the offer and enacted a "poison pill" to prevent takeovers. Lee said Alton undervalued them and failed to recognize their strength “as the fastest-growing digital subscription platform in local media.” There was no mention of the quality of the news that rests on those platforms.

I’m not optimistic Alton won’t eventually bury their fangs into Lee and bleed them dry of whatever journalism is left in their publications. I'm even less hopeful the leaders at Lee will wake up one day and decide serious and credible journalism is worth more than clicks on a car dealership ad.

But I'm reasonably sure their shareholders will sip on soothing ice-cold water during quarterly calls and annual meetings while the rest of us, throats parched, crawl through the barren news desert they’ve stranded us in.

Life is Risky

Thu, 13 Jan 2022 14:00:04 GMT

Last week's hours-long traffic jam in a snowstorm reminded me of the Donner Party. The 19th-century westward-bound wagon train trapped in the snowy Sierra Nevada Mountains. The traffic jam occurred along a stretch of I-95 in the state of Virginia. Jackknifed tractor and trailer trucks and snow-clogged roads trapped people in their vehicles, many of them overnight. Some were without food or water, dangerously low on fuel, and lacking the proper clothes to keep them warm. Members of the Donner party froze or starved to death, some went insane, and others resorted to cannibalism to survive. No one in Virginia ate a fellow traveler or went stark raving mad. But they did have something in common with their Sierra Nevada counterparts. When it was all over, they looked for someone to blame.

Photo Credit: Fox 5 DC

The Donner group blamed Lanford Hastings, who recommended the shortcut that was supposed to save them time and supplies, and James Reed, one of their leaders who knew the trail was untested and potentially dangerous. The Virginia group targeted the usual culprit when disaster befalls anyone in the 21 ^st century. The government.

In response to criticism and cries to uncover what went wrong, Virginia's Governor Ralph Northam did the unthinkable and cast a critical eye on the motorists themselves. “Why don’t you start asking some of the individuals that were out on the highway for hours: ‘Why did you feel it was so important to drive through such a snowstorm?’” the governor said. Even though the government is responsible for keeping the roadways safe and clear, and the state of Virginia and the governor admit they could have done better, the governor’s question has merit.

A legal doctrine bars individuals from recovering damages when they voluntarily expose themselves to danger. It's called assumption of risk. In their quest for new lives and adventure, our pioneering ancestors willingly assumed many life-threatening risks. The colonists who arrived in Jamestown in 1607 and those who settled the Massachusetts Bay in 1630 weren’t expecting smooth sailing across the Atlantic or a welcoming party offering hot towels and warm chocolate chip cookies on their arrival. Everyone who climbed aboard a westward-bound wagon in the 1800s knew there weren’t rest stops and restaurants along the trail. If there even was a trail. These frontier pioneers assumed the risk of injury or death from disease, drowning, starvation, hypothermia, and the crushing force of out-of-control wagons. Not to mention attacks from Indians, bandits, and fellow travelers.

Fortunately for us, two centuries of political, social, economic, and technological advances have erased almost all travel risks. Some remain, like mechanical malfunctions, accidents, a bad fast-food burrito, or the weather. Even then, we have minimized the hazards with advanced diagnostics and collision avoidance systems, the ability to carry food and keep it fresh, and weather forecasts. Westward bound pioneers looked up at the sky to determine the weather and a long-range forecast was measured in hours. Now it's as easy as listening to the radio, watching television, opening a web page, or looking at your phone. In this case, weather forecasters warned of the storm’s capability a full day before it hit and told people about the rapidly worsening travel conditions early the following day. Their warnings were either ignored, minimized under the category of “the weatherman’s never right,” or considered and the risk accepted. Whether they want to admit it or not, and whether they did it knowingly or unknowingly, travelers accepted the risk.

The wagon trains were prepared for the journey west. Stocked with food and supplies, they rationed as necessary and replenished when they could. The Donner party voted on leaving the well-trod path and accepted the risk of taking the untried trail, but they weren’t fully prepared for the catastrophe that awaited them. When they finally understood the gravity of the situation and made camp for the winter, they were already in dire straits.

Many of the Virginia travelers were used to driving in snow or at the very least counted on road crews to keep up. However, inadequately clothed, carrying little or no food or water, gas tanks running low, they were ill-prepared for what awaited them. Responsible winter travelers keep food, water, gloves, coats, blankets, shovels, first aid kits, flashlights, and windshield washer fluid stowed away. Schooled by cautious parents, drivers’ education instructors, countless reminders from insurance companies and auto clubs, it’s common knowledge in susceptible regions. To claim otherwise is either a form of denial, admitting a lack of foresight, or just downright lying. People who are fully aware of the risks and well-schooled in how to prepare might ask, "Yeah, but who does that?" The answer is - those people who find themselves in an unlikely miles-long traffic jam in a snowstorm and safely and comfortably wait for it to pass.

There are extreme differences between the Donner party's situation and the Virginia folks' predicament. The Donner Party ate each other to survive. The Virginia group didn't have to dine on families the next car over, but when it was over, they chose to chew on the government. But they both accepted the risk, and neither was adequately prepared.

However, what the Virginia group had readily available in each of their cars, that the Donner party wagons did not, was something close at hand to help them see who also bore responsibility for their circumstances.

A mirror.

Life isn’t risk free and it’s not the role of government to make it so.

Zero Worries

Thu, 06 Jan 2022 14:00:05 GMT

Recently I sat alone at a bar and grill in the hills of Northern California, pondering the collapse and destruction of the United States. It had nothing to do with culture, race, gender, politics, or the fact that we seem to have become a country of over 300 million special interest groups. Every person more important than every other person, where each one thinks somehow they’ve been overlooked, overworked, underappreciated, or marginalized. Instead, it was all about the smartphone on the table in front of me.

Photo Credit: Canva Graphics

I was on a research trip to the Hoover Institute at Stanford University, located in Silicon Valley. As the plane touched ground earlier in the week, I finished the Financial Times/McKinsey book of the year ; This Is How They Tell Me The World Ends: The Cyber-Weapons Arms Race , by Nicole Perlroth . A book the New Yorker said was “Part John Le Carre and more parts Michael Crichton…spellbinding…” It was edge of the cramped, poorly padded airline seat reading. Not in a thrilling sense, but more of wide-eyed fear of personal destruction. Le Carre delivers fictional spies, and Crichton brings dinosaurs back to life. Perlroth delivers real techno-spies and the possibility the Stone Age could come back to life. If I wasn’t belted in, I might have run down the aisle screaming and become another “Airline Passenger Goes Berserk” headline.

The book schooled me on zero-day vulnerability. It’s an undetected computer software or hardware weakness. Initially, hackers searched for these flaws in a nerd versus nerd contest for bragging rights. Then they became nerds for profit, selling the information to software and hardware manufacturers and computer security companies. Today there is an open market between hackers and foreign governments, defense agencies, intelligence services, and criminal enterprises. The face of international and domestic terrorism is now someone in sweatpants and a stained t-shirt, sitting in front of a computer guzzling energy drinks.

I coordinated my trip via email with archivists and reserved time in the library through an online reservation system. My airline, rental car, and hotel reservations were all made online, and on arrival, I checked into my hotel via an app. The same app also acted as an electronic key and gave me access to the parking garage, the hotel proper, and my room. Although it wasn't yet able to operate the room’s temperature controls, it functioned as a television remote. I allowed the rental car’s entertainment and communication system to synchronize with my smartphone so I could listen to podcasts, make calls, and navigate hands-free. Every morning before I arrived on campus, I completed an online health attestation form. When I got there, I paid for my parking through an app that pinpointed the location of my car.

The restaurant where I sat and thought about this interconnected web of capabilities was Rossotti’s Alpine Inn , also known as Zott’s. I didn’t learn about it through a local recommendation or even a Google search for restaurants near me. I learned about it from Perlroth’s book. Internet communication was born there in 1976. Some scientists from SRI International in Menlo Park brought some Pentagon officials to the bar to demonstrate new networking capabilities. They placed a computer terminal on an outside picnic table then ran cables to a bread truck in the parking lot. They’d converted the truck to a mobile radio unit. Then, they sent an electronic message from their unit to the ARPANET. It was the first time two distinct computer networks connected and became day one of the internet.

If it weren't cold, I would have asked for a seat at a patio picnic table. What better way to connect with history? Instead, I asked for a seat in the restaurant. A young man led me to my booth and explained the menu, beer list, and payment processing were all online, then pointed me to the QR codes necessary to begin my journey. The process was quick and flawless. I received a text immediately after ordering with a link to my tab. My beer arrived almost as fast as the text, followed shortly by the meal.

A month earlier, I wrote about the continued threat of nuclear war and the government's responsibility to educate and protect us. Now, between bites of a delicious slow-smoked pulled pork sandwich, I contemplated an attack where the country's entire population is left alive but without electricity, heat, or transportation, and the ability to purchase food and supplies. Either at the hands of a foreign government, terrorist organization, crime syndicate, or a teenager looking for something more challenging than Call of Duty or World of Warcraft .

After finishing my sandwich and the tasty slaw, I pulled myself out of my “end of days” despair. Although I take precautions to keep my data and devices secure, Perlroth made it clear that connected or not, cyber warriors can access them. Fret or not, my and everyone else's cyber security is in the hands of the government and the companies responsible for hardware, software, and network technology. The trip itself was an example of how connected we are and the near impossibility of surviving entirely off the grid. Unless we build a cabin in the woods, grow and kill our food, and surrender centuries of progress, the risk remains. At that very moment, a countrywide attack could isolate me in my booth at the Alpine Inn. I calmed myself by thinking we shouldn’t let things we can’t control interfere with those things we can.

So, I reached for my phone, swiped through some apps, thumbed the screen, then placed it back on the table. Even if a cyberwar flared up in minutes, I had another Scrimshaw-Pilsner on the way.

Let's Raise Our Glasses

Tue, 28 Dec 2021 15:55:33 GMT

Last year, I saw this question posed on social media. If 2020 was a drink, what would it be? The responses varied, but one I thought captured it best was "colonoscopy prep." I haven't seen the same question about 2021, but this year’s drink would be something sour that leaves a bitter aftertaste. If 2020 was about fear and uncertainty, lack of control, and an uncomfortable mess, 2021 was about anger, sadness, conflict, and a struggle for power.

Every year as the calendar page turns from one to the next, we are showered in "best of" lists from books to songs, movies to television series. We're reminded of the famous who've passed, the events that drew our attention, and the stories, good and bad, that clogged our news feeds. We’re fed retrospectives of the year in pictures, TikToks, and Tweets. There are analyses of what the previous January through December wrought on the political, cultural, social, and economic landscape and predictions on what the future twelve will hold.

This same opportunity for reflection and consideration presents itself around significant life events. This year, I have both on the same day. My daughter Samantha will be married on New Year's Eve. The wedding was originally scheduled for the same date last year, but it was derailed like so many others by a head-on collision with covid restrictions. Instead of a limited ceremony and reception on the original date or trying to predict when in 2021 the chains of government conditions would lift, she and her fiancé Jake decided to move it ahead a year. Although this year's date is unfortunately not without its illness-related cancellations and adaptations, the show, as they say, will go on.

During the past few weeks, when I'm not reading my year-end lists and year to come predictions, I've reflected on my and Samantha's past and thought about our future. Joyful memories of birthdays, holidays, and vacations. The first days of school and graduations. Squeals of delight, peals of laughter, and hugs that grew from tiny little arms to the embrace of a grown woman. Life’s not all sunshine and roses. There were tears and shouts, mistakes, miscommunications, and misunderstandings on both our parts. But I am blessed with far more sunny days than cloudy, and flowering rose bushes overshadow a few crushed petals and broken stems in my memory garden. I love my daughter with every fiber of my being. Looking ahead, I see opportunities for days of sunshine and blooming roses in Samantha and Jake’s lives, for our bond as a father and daughter to grow, and joy for our expanding families.

End-of-year reflections and predictions are limited in scope and are consequently limited in the analyses of their impacts. Literature is not defined by a finite number of books or cinema on a single year's films. The balance of good and bad events may skew one way or another to label a year. But history is a collective. Days, weeks, months, and years build decades and centuries. Just as long-term relationships are not defined by a single joyful exchange or blunt argument, society’s future is not pre-determined by the tangled mess or angry conflicts of a single year.

Champagne is a traditional celebratory drink. The pop of the cork and its effervescence are symbols of pleasure and potential. During the wedding reception, we'll raise our champagne-filled glasses twice. Early in the evening, the first time will be to Samantha and Jake. To their future, its hope and promise, and the happiness born out of growing families. The second, moments before midnight, will be to the New Year. But during this one, I'll be thinking beyond the calendar year to the decades ahead. To Samantha and Jake's generation and the generations that follow. To the hope and promise they bring to all of us. That the sweet wine of time will temper the acid taste of today.

Let’s raise our glasses to peace and prosperity for all. To not only a happy new year but delight that lasts a lifetime.

And another season of Yellowstone and a new Stephen King thriller. Hey, I have my lists too.

Illuminating History

Tue, 21 Dec 2021 14:00:02 GMT

"You're the historian. You should know that."

I get that a lot. In this case, if we were talking about Nixon’s domestic policy, Truman’s decision to use the atomic bomb, or the Iranian hostage crisis, I might have agreed. Instead, we were talking about decorating the outside of the house for the holidays, and someone asked, “How did the tradition of hanging Christmas lights begin?" I didn’t have a clue. But I took this as an academic challenge and did a little research.

Photo Credit: Canva Photos

The original Christmas lights were candles. Although festive, they were a fire hazard. In 1882, Edward Johnson, the business partner of lightbulb inventor Thomas Edison, hand-wired some colored bulbs and wrapped them around a tree. After Edison sold the light bulb to General Electric in 1890, they began to market the Christmas light. President Grover Cleveland was the first to put electric lights on the White House tree in 1894, and by 1900 the first advertisements for Christmas lights appeared. In the early 1900s the lights migrated from the tree to outside. Most Americans were still without electricity, so it took a while for the idea to catch on. In 1917, Albert Sadacca, a Christmas light salesman, created the device that allowed several strands to be connected. Most homes had electricity outside of rural areas by the 1930s, and GE increased their Christmas lights marketing. As costs decreased and incomes rose after World War II, more people lit up their homes and yards. The lights were mostly the glass candle-like multicolored bulbs, but other styles of lights appeared on the scene, like Bubble Lights . Then, in the 1970s, the mini-light was introduced. Design and technology advancements followed, and today we have a variety of inflatable lawn decorations and LED computerized light shows.

My research didn't turn up anything on the history of families driving around town to look at lights, but I assume it parallels the history of the mass production of the automobile.

Growing up it was a holiday tradition in our house for my parents to load my sister and me into the family car and drive around town to check out the lights. Just like today, the displays varied, from those whose houses were dark or sported a single strand around a door or window to those who nailed lights to every edge of the house and wrapped every single piece of vegetation, ala Clark Griswold in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation . My father’s response to these garish displays was to say, “I’d hate to see their electric bill.” To that end, the one piece of Christmas light history I was familiar with was President Nixon’s ask during the 1973 energy crisis that people refrain from stringing outdoor lights. We still took our annual holiday drive that year, not so much to enjoy the lights, but to see who in town stood in defiance against our Watergate embattled president and, in my father’s opinion, was "wasting electricity."

Chris and I have always done some level of outdoor lighting. We divide the decorating duties. She does the inside, and I'm responsible for the outside. For many years I enhanced the traditional lights with various lawn decorations. Until we moved to the Midwest. Our first Christmas in Illinois my decorative Santa sleigh and reindeer mimicked the legend himself and took flight during heavy winds. I don’t think they circled the globe like Saint Nick and his team, but I never found them. I imagined someone a few towns over waking up to find a mess of tangled metal wire, tinsel, and strands of light balled up in their front yard. It was heavily anchored light strands only after that.

For a couple of years I went with the spotlights that sprayed lights across the front of the house. I tried to convince my wife, who wasn't a fan of the rotating red and green dots, that we were high-tech. She thought I was lazy. I did like the lights, but I have to admit, it was a welcome break from the annual Christmas decoration dance routine. Untangling yards of lights and then wrapping, winding, and draping them through the trees and bushes. Climbing up and down ladders, stretching across limbs and branches, and making countless trips to and from the garage and basement storage area. Tormented by fickle bulbs, loose connections, microscopic fuses, and strands that sometimes lit, sometimes blinked, or sometimes mocked me by staying dark. The neighbors liked the laser lights if only because those years they didn’t have to keep their children inside on decorating day to shield them from my spewing obscenities more appropriate on the deck of a cargo ship than the front yard of a suburban home.

We also continued the tradition of driving around town looking at lights. After the kids moved out, Chris and I still took the annual tour. A couple of weeks ago we took our grandson Carter for dinner, and during the ride, he spotted some outdoor decorations and said, “I like the moving lights.” He pointed to a laser light display of red and green dots moving across the front of a house. I couldn’t help but laugh. Chris wasn’t as amused.

This weekend he spent the night with us, so we decided to take him on a light tour. As we backed down the driveway, he noticed a new addition to my outdoor light display. I spliced it in that afternoon without telling Chris. Although tempted, I skipped the rotating reds and greens and went for a variety of bright white snowflakes. Carter exclaimed, "Look, moving lights!" To her credit, Chris said it wasn’t “bad.”

Does anyone know when the tradition of using your grandson as an excuse to do something your wife doesn’t want to began?

I know. I’m a historian. I should know that.

Under Attack

Thu, 09 Dec 2021 14:00:06 GMT

This week was the 80th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor. On December 7, 1941, hundreds of Japanese fighter planes bombed the United States Naval base in Honolulu. The following day President Franklin Delano Roosevelt asked Congress to declare war on Japan. Just like President Woodrow Wilson bringing the country into World War I after continued German assaults on United States merchant ships, and President George W. Bush later waging war in Afghanistan after the 9/11 attacks, FDR was not going to sit back after an intentional and surprise attack on a United States territory and its citizens. In these instances, our leaders took strong and deliberate action, yet today we are under a continued and relentless attack, and they do nothing.

Photo credit, J oe Raedle/Getty Images

We're not being attacked by foreign countries, radicals, or extremists, but by our fellow citizens. Mass shooters have haunted us for decades and assaulted Americans in places like public schools, offices, retail stores, and college and university campuses. One of the most recent was the Oxford High School shooting in Michigan that left four dead and seven injured at the hands of a fifteen-year-old student. CNN reported on December 8 that statistics from the Gun Violence Archive show there have been 650 mass shootings in the United States so far in 2021, leaving more than 650 dead and over 2,600 injured. There are disagreements over what defines a mass shooting. Still, there can be no disagreement that even a single needless death is tragic, let alone twenty dead first-graders from the Sandy Hook Elementary school in 2012 or fifty-eight Las Vegas Strip concert-goers in 2017. The tragedy is not limited to the dead and wounded and their families, but the survivors, their families, and first responders, and the permanent mental scars left behind.

No one is safe, and no one lives where it can't happen. I thought it was highly unlikely to ever occur in my central Illinois community - a hub for farming, education, insurance, and automobile manufacturing. A place where some people keep their cars and houses unlocked, and fine dining is considered a night out at Olive Garden or Chili’s. Then, in September 2012, a student brought a gun into a local high school and held a classroom hostage. We were fortunate the only bullets fired entered a ceiling before a teacher tackled the shooter. But it was terrifying for everyone involved and unsettling for the community.

After these horrible events occur, the finger of blame gets pointed in multiple directions, with little accountability or correction. Eventually, the outrage diminishes until the next shooting occurs, and the body count rises.

The blame gets laid on the mental health system, gun laws, the availability and access to semi-automatic high-capacity weapons, weak early warning systems, and a permissive legal system. Everyone agrees there’s collective culpability. Some groups have come together to help address the problem, like Protect Our Schools From Gun Violence , Moms Demand Action for Gun Sense in America , and the Coalition to Stop Gun Violence . What’s missing is strong government leadership to address the scope of the problem. Active shooter drills, public education and awareness, people arming themselves, and gun laws are not protecting us.

On December 7, 1941, the soldiers in Honolulu were prepared to defend their country and knew they might someday be killed or injured. Students, office workers, and retail shoppers should not have to accept the same risks.

Our government came to the defense of the soldiers attacked at Pearl Harbor. In the wake of the 9/11 attacks, George Bush shouted to first responders at the site of the World Trade Center collapse, "I can hear you. The rest of the world hears you. And the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon." The country is shouting for help and protection from being slaughtered in our schools and stores, but no one listens. It’s disheartening to think we have a government incapable of keeping its citizens safe.

Old Men and the Sea

Thu, 02 Dec 2021 14:00:05 GMT

The bartender put my bourbon on the rocks in front of me. I prefer glass instead of plastic, but this was Key West, and the drinks are made to be carried onto the street in the event you care to wander. I took a sip and looked out across the room. People were seated at tables eating and drinking, talking, and listening to the man who sat alone on stage with his guitar, covering pop-rock.

It was the last day of a week-long fishing trip with friends. This was my first time joining them on their annual trip to the Keys, and I wanted to take a few moments to have a drink in the same bar as the legend whose pictures surrounded the mounted blue marlins hanging on the walls. Ernest Hemingway. The bar was Sloppy Joe’s . Hemingway was a frequent patron when he lived in Key West in the 1930s. His friend and boat captain, Joe Russell, owned the bar.

Hemingway loved to hunt marlin and tuna. We didn't catch any of either, but we loaded the cooler every day with yellowtail and mutton snapper and the occasional mackerel and rainbow runner. I have fished all my life, but this was my first venture on the open sea. Miles from shore, over reefs and shipwrecks, working the current with a charter crew. Although the gear is similar, ocean fishing differs somewhat from freshwater. It’s less about setting a hook and cranking it in, as it is about a give and take. It is working at getting the fish to the surface before it can bury itself in the rocks or before a predator beats you to your catch, but not so hard and fast that you break the line.

Hemingway holds a prominent place in literary history. Over half a century after his death in 1961, his novels and short stories are still read, studied, and praised for their style and compelling narrative. His prose concentrated. Mostly nouns and verbs with few adjectives and adverbs. Powerful in its understatement. A way of writing many try to imitate but few able to replicate. His life story is painted across a broad canvas. Married four times, an outdoorsman, journalist, freedom fighter, world traveler, resident of Cuba, and believed spy for both the United States and Russia, his biography reads like a larger-than-life adventure novel before its tragic end. Hemingway took his own life after a battle with mental illness that included electroshock therapy. Many authors have taken a run at trying to capture his personal story, and this year Ken Burns released a six-hour PBS documentary series on Papa Hemingway’s life.

Hemingway not only fished and wrote about it, but he played a large part in shaping the sport through tackle design and techniques. On my first fish the first day, the captain coached me to raise the rod and then reel down in an even steady motion. This technique is called "pumping the fish" - raising and lowering the rod, reeling in the slack, using your back and legs to defeat the fish. I later learned the technique was perfected by Hemingway.

As I enjoyed my bourbon, eyes roving over Hemingway photos and memorabilia, I thought about the week. Days on the water, cheering each other on as another fish came over the transom. Nights on the dock exchanging stories and laughs until the beer, the food, and the day's fishing weighed too heavy to stay awake. Although I write and fish - and drink - I don't in any way compare myself to Hemingway. But at that moment, I fully understood why Hemingway kept returning to the sea. The hunt, the battle, victory and defeat, the camaraderie, and the promise of more.

It had been thirty years since I read The Old Man and the Sea , the 1952 short novel that earned Hemingway the Pulitzer Prize for fiction, but the book called out to me in his old hangout. I downloaded it and re-read it on the first leg of the journey home. It's the story of an old fisherman and his solitary battle with a giant marlin in the Straits of Florida. Some say it’s a metaphor for the powerful and unpredictable aspects of nature. In its simplest form it is the tale of an old man who finds peace on the water and energy in the game between man and fish.

Like me. And Hemingway.

And just like Hemingway, I will return to the waters again and again. For just like Papa and the old man for whom he wrote these words, I believe:

“My big fish must be somewhere.”

The Power of One

Thu, 18 Nov 2021 14:00:02 GMT

Many people believe the assassination of President John F. Kennedy was the end product of a massive conspiracy and that Lee Harvey Oswald was not the only shooter in Dealey Plaza on November 22, 1963. As part of their evidence, they call out the government's conclusion that a single bullet caused the president's neck wounds and all the wounds suffered by Texas Governor John Connally. The bullet was found on a gurney at Parkland hospital with its nose and copper jacket intact. To conspiracy theorists, there is no way a solitary bullet in such good condition could cause the damage it did to those two men. Dr. Cyril Wecht, the famed forensic pathologist, says the single bullet theory, or "magic bullet" as it's sometimes known, is “scientific nonsense – a forensic folly of the highest order.”

Photo Credit: AP Photo/PRNewsFoto/Newseum

Blame for the president’s death has been laid at the feet of organized crime, the Soviet Union, Cuba, the CIA, Lyndon Johnson, and a shadow right-wing government. Discussion of the assassination has consumed countless books, articles, news stories, lectures, documentaries, and films. The original government investigation conducted by the Warren Commission in 1963 and 1964 produced a twenty-six-volume report. Many have dedicated their lives to tearing its conclusions that Oswald acted alone and was not part of a larger group into small pieces of confetti.

Investigators and theorists on the assassination run the gamut from tin hat wearing conspiracy kooks to respected professionals in the scientific, legal, and political/historical fields. Armchair detectives to real-life, modern-day Sherlock Holmesian investigative brains. Cyril Wecht is both a doctor and a lawyer. He served as a coroner and county commissioner in Pittsburgh. I grew up hearing or reading his name almost daily. He has reportedly conducted 17,000 autopsies and consulted on 30,000 post-mortems, and been involved in many high-profile cases such as the deaths of Elvis Presley and JonBenet Ramsey and the Manson murders.

He is passionate about his belief that John F. Kennedy’s assassination was a government coup, that there were multiple shooters, and the plot was the handiwork of super-spies who knew how to keep a secret. Wecht has spent decades giving lectures to groups large and small. During these presentations, he uses audience members to play the parts of Kennedy and Connally to demonstrate how the single bullet would have had to change course twice in mid-air to accomplish what it is credited with. I attended a seminar ten years ago where he was the keynote speaker and recently watched a recording of a talk he gave at the Texas School Book Depository Museum in 2017. His expertise, passion, and ability to capture an audience not only create doubt about the single bullet theory but leave some people ready to launch a crusade to hunt down and squeeze the truth out of these super-spies.

I've consumed a couple of shelves of books on the assassination. I’ve also read articles, news stories, portions of the government reports and watched too many documentaries, archived television news reports, and “fact-based” films. I wasn't entirely convinced Kennedy died at the hands of a sinister cabal and Oswald had company pulling triggers that day in Texas, but I was close. Until I stood in Dealey plaza and then looked out the windows of the upper floors of the depository and realized at that distance and angle, I could have done it. I've shot and killed running deer with a high-powered rifle at a longer distance, and I'll never be mistaken for any sort of marksman. After that, it wasn't too hard to conclude that even though it's unlikely a bullet can remain in such good condition after traveling through two bodies, it's not impossible. And just because Dr. Wecht has a professional resume nearly as long as the Warren Commission report doesn't mean his bullet is magic, and the explanations of the projectile's path from professionals with less experience under their investigations belt aren't correct.

For me, the hardest part about swallowing the sour pill that Lee Harvey Oswald planned and executed the attack alone is that it’s nearly infallible to think that a man so prominent and influential as Kennedy can be taken down by someone like Oswald, whose own life before that day was so invisible and inconsequential. In a 1967 broadcast, CBS news correspondent Eric Sevareid made a thoughtful observation about what he called "the sheer incongruity of the affair," of the assassination.

“All that power and majesty wiped out in an instant by one skinny weak chinned little character. It was like believing that the Queen Mary had sunk without a trace because of a log floating somewhere in the Atlantic.”

But just like a single bullet traveling on an improbable journey, it’s hard to believe a single “weak chinned” man could have killed the president. But it’s not impossible.

One may be the loneliest number, but sometimes one is enough.

A Salute Instead Of Mail

Thu, 11 Nov 2021 14:00:03 GMT

“Is today Veteran’s Day?” my wife asked.

Every morning, she receives an email from the post office with information on what will arrive in that day’s mail. On Monday she didn’t receive one. This was surprising, given our mailbox is usually crammed with catalogs, political propaganda, and direct marketing pieces for everything from lawn care, windows, and carpet cleaning to car insurance, financial services, and fast food. Rare is the envelope that contains actual correspondence.

Many people assume all federal holidays fall on a Monday. In 1968 the Uniform Holiday Bill ruled that Washington’s Birthday, Memorial Day, Columbus Day, and Veterans Day would be celebrated on Monday regardless of the day of the week on which they fell. The idea was to give three-day weekends to federal employees to encourage travel and recreation and stimulate the economy. Many other employers followed. Moving Veterans Day also stimulated anger from the public, enough that by 1975 the government recognized the historical and patriotic significance of the original date and returned the celebration and recognition to November 11. However, if it does fall on a weekend, federal offices are closed on either a Friday or Monday.

The significance of the date can be traced back to the day’s origins. On the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, in the eleventh month of 1918, an armistice was called, ending the hostilities in World War I. The war began in 1914, prompted by a snowball of events, the first of which was a Serbian nationalist assassinating the archduke of Austria-Hungary. The United States maintained an isolationist stance until American ships came under attack by the German Navy and entered the war in 1917. It was the first war between industrialized nations. A war between countries to acquire territory and resources as opposed to World War II, which was more a war of ideologies like fascism, communism, and democracy. World War I was trench warfare. Men fought eye to eye and hand to hand, supported by artillery and poisonous gas. The recent movie 1917 captures the staggering destruction and brutal nature of the battles.

When the United States declared war, there were only 100,000 men in the United States military, not nearly enough to fight the war in Europe. A month later, Congress passed the Selective Service Act, which gave the president power to draft soldiers. The act required all men between the ages of 21 and 30 to register for military service. Men continued to volunteer though, and of the 4.8 million who served, 2.0 million raised their hand to fight overseas.

In November 1919, President Wilson proclaimed November 11, “Armistice Day.” It became a legal holiday in 1938 and was later expanded to honor veterans of World War II and the Korean War and renamed Veterans Day in 1954. Today we pay tribute to all who served in the United States military.

Every year during Christmas, there are calls to remember "the reason for the season." A fear the celebration of Jesus’s birth risks getting lost in mounds of wrapping paper and drowned in eggnog. There’s also a chance honoring those who risked their lives in battle, or were prepared to, can get lost in the chatter around sales, discounts, and freebies that collect under the umbrella of Veterans day.

Even though my wife didn't get an email, there was mail on Monday. Six catalogs, two small packages, a political survey, three direct marketing pitches, and three pieces of actual correspondence. Medical bills. I tossed everything but the bills and the packages in the recycle bin, then I opened the packages and sorted the bills. Ten or fifteen minutes of grumbling about direct marketers, wondering how many trees sacrifice their lives for catalogs, and trying to understand co-pays and deductibles. When I finished, I got an idea.

Today, Thursday, November 11, 2021, is Veterans Day. There is no mail delivery. Join me in using the time we would have spent retrieving, sorting, recycling, and cursing the mail, to reflect on the men and women who volunteered or responded to their draft board to join our military. Who risked their lives or were prepared to put themselves in harm's way, whether overseas or on our soil, so we could freely take these daily walks to the mailbox.

Offer them a quiet and heartfelt thanks. And if you are so inclined, donate to a non-profit dedicated to veterans and service members, like the Wounded Warrior Project , the Gary Sinise Foundation , or one of these other highly rated programs .

It’s the reason for the season.

Duck and Cover

Thu, 04 Nov 2021 13:00:02 GMT

“Always remember the flash of an atomic bomb can come at any time…sometimes the bomb might explode without any warning…the bomb might explode when no grown-ups are near…we must be ready all the time for the atomic bomb.”

Schoolchildren in the 1950s and early 60s grew up with this warning, punctuated with talk about flying glass, radiation burns, and collapsing buildings. It was part of an effort to educate them on how to protect themselves from the ever-present danger of enemy planes appearing overhead. To save themselves they had to crawl under their desks and put their hands over their heads. The potential crippling fear of being incinerated was softened by partnering this lesson with a cartoon turtle named Bert, who was fully trained in how to “duck and cover.”

During the Cold War, particularly during this time period, the fear of the Soviet Union attacking the United States with nuclear weapons was real. After we displayed our nuclear capabilities in 1945 by leveling Hiroshima and Nagasaki to end the war with Japan, the Soviets answered in 1949 with a test display of their nuclear prowess. To help alleviate the growing panic around atomic bombs, the government launched civil defense programs to educate people on protecting themselves, including the duck and cover program.

Americans were living under this ever-present fear in 1957 when the Soviet Union launched the first satellite, Sputnik, into outer space. Our paranoid imaginations quickly leaped from this basketball-sized piece of metal orbiting the earth, to the idea the Soviets were preparing to use rockets to deliver nuclear warheads and were going to rain atomic bombs on our heads from orbiting satellites. President Eisenhower initially downplayed the Soviets first move in the space race, claiming the satellite launch "does not raise my apprehensions one iota," and categorized it as a mere scientific achievement. The Soviets sent a larger capsule into orbit a month later carrying a dog, Leica. Four days after Leica became an astronaut, Eisenhower, less dismissive and more reassuring, addressed a fearful nation to talk about the relationship between science and national security. In the months that followed, the government formed the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) and Congress passed the National Defense and Education Act. The act increased funding for teaching science, technology, engineering, and math and created the first federal student loan program. The United States refused to let the Soviet Union lead the world in science and technology or nuclear capabilities. Sputnik was a wakeup call.

"Sputnik moment" now signifies the instant a country or society realizes it needs to catch up with another country. President Barack Obama used it in his 2011 State of the Union address. He warned that the current generation faced its Sputnik moment. It was the threat that new jobs and industries would go elsewhere instead of taking root in the United States. Recently, after reports that China tested a hypersonic missile, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Mark Milley, said the test may not quite be a Sputnik moment, but it was very close. President Biden simply said, "yes," in response to a question asking if he was concerned about the test. Serious discussions about the hypersonic test were lost in the ever-present deafening media chatter. As was the government’s attempt to reassure the country through claims we have already tested hypersonic missiles and we possess new technology that adds to the accuracy and power of our nuclear weapons.

The threat of nuclear destruction may not be as prominent as it was during the height of the Cold War. But Russia and China are significant threats, and North Korea’s leader Kim Jong-un is not shy about flexing his much smaller but still threatening nuclear muscles. China’s hypersonic test may not be enough to rekindle cold war paranoia. However, we shouldn't downplay the possibility of Chinese aggression just because we believe their desire to sell us things is greater than their desire to conquer us.

Today, an active shooter is more of a threat than a nuclear attack from a foreign power. People learn to "run, hide, fight," not "duck and cover.” But the threat of nuclear destruction, even if it is less likely than it was in the age of poodle skirts, Elvis Presley, and Nikita Khrushchev, remains a part of our reality. The role of a responsible government is to study and learn from the Cold War experience, understand current capabilities and global relationships, and plan for potential scenarios. This planning includes taking steps to safeguard its citizens.

Missile tests and increased nuclear capabilities of other countries may not be a “Sputnik moment” foreshadowing an increasing danger of nuclear attack. But it is a reminder the United States government can do a better job educating its citizens on weapons of mass destruction and reassuring us of their ability to defend the country in the event of a nuclear attack.

“Duck and cover” was a weak response to the nuclear threat. If it taught us anything it was to hide from the realities of atomic war. It didn’t help us prepare for it. The government needs to teach, not pacify, and twenty-first century Berts need to poke their heads out of their shells and “listen and learn.”

Meteorology, Moon Phases, and Marketing

Thu, 28 Oct 2021 13:00:05 GMT

One day, I wandered through a bookstore, hoping to discover something new and different to read when something old and familiar caught my eye. The distinct cover of the Almanac that rested on the stand next to my grandfather’s chair. Curious, I bought a copy.

At home, I flipped through the pages. There were some articles on gardening and current trends, a few recipes, and various advertisements targeting joint pain, hearing loss, comfortable walking shoes, and pesky mosquitos. Although my knees crack like snapping twigs, conversations with my wife are littered with “what’d you say?”, and I surround myself with enough citronella candles to make my deck easy to spot from passing airplanes; those didn't interest me as much as the pages dedicated to weather and astronomy. I remembered those from Pap's copy.

Research uncovered some interesting facts about Almanacs and this particular one, The Old Farmer’s Almanac. By definition, an Almanac records and predicts astronomical events and the weather. In 17th century England, Almanacs were second only to the bible in sales. Its popularity carried over to America with the colonists. First printed in 1792, The Old Farmer’s Almanac is the oldest continuously published periodical in North America. Its distinctive cover, which includes an image of Benjamin Franklin, publisher of Poor Richard’s Almanack from 1732 to 1758, and Robert B. Thomas, the original editor and publisher of The Old Farmer’s Almanac , has been in place since 1851. The book's long-term weather forecasts were intended to help farmers plan for seeding and harvesting and the astronomical charts for those interested in the majesty of the night sky and its various planets, eclipses, and meteor showers.

Although scientists say it’s nearly impossible to accurately predict the weather months in advance, for decades the publishers of Old Farmer’s claimed their prognostications were 80 percent accurate. The weather formula first created by Robert B. Thomas is a company secret and is locked away in a black tin box at the book’s offices in Dublin, New Hampshire. Eight or nine years ago Old Farmer’s weather accuracy figure slipped into the low seventies. The group of meteorologists it relies on to assist them in their predictions got together to tweak the secret formula and bring it in line with the impacts of climate change. Last year they improved to 78.5 percent accuracy in their forecast and hope to return to 80 percent this year.

I never asked Pap why he kept a copy of the book around. I don't remember him having much interest in the stars, although he would occasionally consult an astrological chart for recommendations on the day’s lucky numbers before playing the daily number. He wasn’t a farmer, but maybe he was more serious about his handful of tomato and cucumber plants than I thought. He never missed a nightly newscast, demanding complete silence when the weatherman appeared. But maybe he liked to look further ahead than the few days the guy in the loud sportscoat and poorly fitted toupee was able to commit too.

My interest in astronomy is limited to asking if there's a full moon to explain someone's erratic behavior. I never farmed, and the only thing I'm able to grow successfully is bread mold. I used to rely on local news broadcasts for the weather, but why torture myself with those when I can simply open a weather app on my phone anytime I’m interested. The long-range forecast doesn't particularly interest me. I usually assume the black and brown bands of color on the wooly caterpillars I see on my walks are as good an indication as any. More brown than black, a milder winter, more black than brown, colder and snowier. I don't play the daily number, but when I take a chance on the lottery, I let the computer pick my numbers.

I wonder if my grandfather bought the book for the same reason I did? Because his grandfather kept one close at hand. I thought about this as I laid the book down next to my chair. This is where my grandson sits while watching videos on my iPad. He's bright and curious, so I'm sure he'll pick the book up and leaf through on one of his visits. Then years from now, maybe he'll walk through a bookstore and see the unique cover and pick up a copy.

Forget weather, astronomy, planting cycles and hearing aids. I may have discovered why The Old Farmer’s Almanac hasn't changed its cover in 170 years and still sells two hundred and thirty years after its first printing.

A Three-Dollar Fix

Thu, 21 Oct 2021 18:29:49 GMT

Author James Lee Burke said, “The allure of Montana is like a commitment to a narcotic; you can never use it up or get enough of it.” I’ve made repeated trips to the big sky state in the past few years and understand what he means. I’m awed by the mountains and plains, fascinated by the wildlife, and obsessed with the trout. But my commitment is to a one-hundred-and-seventy-foot expanse of steel and concrete.

I first visited the state in May of 2016 on a fly-fishing trip with a friend. Since neither of us had ever fished a western river for trout, we hired a guide to help us. He warned us before we arrived that during May it wasn’t unusual to start the morning with summer weather and end the day with winter. Our first day in an area of the Madison River called Three Dollar Bridge skipped summer and went right to winter. It began with temperatures in the forties and a thunderstorm. Then the wind arrived, accompanied by dropping temperatures, sleet, and eventually a snowstorm. The guide said in his decades of working with fishermen; he couldn't remember a more miserable day on the river. It was one of my best. Not the frozen fingers, wind tangled lines, or the cold rain and biting snow. It was the experience of being there in that beautiful valley and catching fish despite the conditions.

Two days later, we returned to the bridge. The weather was clear, the ground covered in snow, and the gods still gracious with the fish. I was so captivated by Montana and the Madison Valley that I vowed to return as often as possible. And I have, twice a year, except for the pandemic year, which limited me to one. My most recent trip was last week. And true to weather form, I waded through the snow to get to the river so I could wade through water. But I was blessed with the view captured in the picture accompanying this post—taken just upriver of Three Dollar Bridge.

Over time I’ve dug into the history of the area. Beginning in the 1950s, local landowners charged fishermen three dollars to park and access the river. They deposited the fee in a large steel lockbox. One of the owners would spend part of his days in the lot, sitting in his pickup with his dog and a gun to make sure no one parked without paying. He never shot anyone, but the guide said local legend has it he would send a round or two over the heads of people who didn't pay.

According to Bridgehunter.com , which catalogs historic and notable bridges across the country, the current bridge was built in 1930. It was originally part of a larger span that crossed the Jefferson River and was relocated to the Madison in 2001. In 2002 the state’s Fish, Wildlife and Parks Department, in partnership with conversation groups, including the Western River Conservancy and Trout Unlimited, purchased the site and entered into water access agreements with private owners in the area. The groups have continued to protect this stretch of the river and provide access.

Fish, Wildlife and Parks still collect a three-dollar access fee. Although now it's voluntary, and no one stands guard with a dog or gun. The deeply rusted steel safe still rests there. An equally rusted filing cabinet drawer sits next to it, and inside are envelopes to use for the donations, as well as ink pens to note the date and your name if you're so inclined.

On each of my trips, I return to the Three Dollar Bridge. Sometimes I fish, sometimes I don't. Like the trip where signs warned of a cow carcass along the river attractive to grizzly bears seeking calories to fatten themselves for the approaching winter hibernation. I practice catch and release when fishing, and since I'm pretty sure grizzlies don't when they hunt, I decided not to wet a line there. When I cast into the waters near the bridge, sometimes I catch fish, sometimes I don’t. But I never miss a visit. As James Lee Burke said, it’s the commitment to the narcotic.

The narcotic of the view of the mountains and plains, and catching sight of deer, elk, moose, pronghorn antelope, and bighorn sheep. It's the feeling of standing on the same land the Shoshone, Flathead, and Bannock Indians fished and hunted and where mountain men like John "Liver-Eating" Johnson made camp. It’s the memory of that first adventure, and the promise of a fat rainbow or brown trout, and the tight tug of the line and the bent rod when you have one on.

Burke further described Montana as wilderness areas that “probably resemble the earth on the first day of creation.” I can’t imagine what the earth may have looked like on its first day, but every time I slide an envelope into the rusted safe, I imagine a cantankerous local owner from decades ago staring at me, rifle laid across his lap. But he doesn't have to worry; three dollars is a small price to pay for a fix that stays with me until I can return.

The Trivializing of History

sophermedia@gmail.com (Jonathan Strupek) — Thu, 14 Oct 2021 13:00:05 GMT

Thirteen days in October.

“What’s the Cuban Missile Crisis?”

With 38 consecutive game wins, Matt Amodio now holds the record for the second longest Jeopardy winning streak. He also pocketed over $1.5 million. I don't know if this was ever a Jeopardy answer, but if it was, and one of the millions of fans watching and playing along at home shouted the correct question, someone may have praised them for their knowledge. And I can hear this person responding, "I'm good at history."

Photo credit: The JFK Presidential Library and Museum

We all know someone who claims to be good at history then recites the presidents in order or challenges someone to stump them on the date of a historic event. Many newspapers have a section titled something along the lines of “On this day in history” and offer a list of dates and events.

This isn’t history. It’s trivia. Knowing the date of the signing of the Declaration of Independence or the murder of Emmitt Till may help you be competitive at trivia night at the corner pub, or the family member relatives want to partner with when Aunt Martha breaks out the quiz cards after Thanksgiving dinner. But it doesn’t make you good at history.

Two-thirds of respondents to a national survey conducted in 2020 by the American Historical Society in partnership with Fairleigh Dickinson University consider history to be a collective of names, dates, and events. Participants were asked how they defined history and given five choices. In response, 66% said it is names, dates, and other facts about the past, 17% said it is an explanation of experiences from the past, 9% believe it is what historians conclude, 5% think it is what people remember about the past, and 3% think it is something else other than these four.

Why does a large portion of the population think history is a quiz show? We are a product of our experiences. Given a choice of selecting whether their high school history educational experience emphasized facts or questions about the past, 76% of the respondents to this survey said it emphasized facts. When given these same two choices to evaluate their college experience, only 44% of the survey's participants said their college learning was fact-focused.

In a post last year, I observed, “Historian John H. Arnold says history is an argument between the past and the present, between what happened and what will happen next. History’s varied arguments are ongoing. They expand and contract based on the availability of evidence and the nature of its sources." These are arguments based on facts, but facts much broader than dates and places of an event. It's the nature of the event itself, the arguments that follow, and the expanding narrative. It’s a story developed by examining and evaluating theories, facts, opinions, misunderstandings, and lies - all weighed against the evidence.

In one of my college-level classes, we study the leadership of John Kennedy and his historical impact. A key event from his presidency is the Cuban Missile Crisis. I am surprised by the number of students who, if they know there was a crisis, are unaware of how close we came to nuclear war in October 1962. But the history in those thirteen days is not in the date Kennedy learned the Russians placed missiles in Cuba capable of firing nuclear warheads into the United States (October 16), when he gave his speech to the nation (October 22), or when Khrushchev announced the Soviets would dismantle the missiles (October 28). The history is in the conversations Kennedy had with his generals, cabinet members, and closest advisors as the crisis evolved and his application of lessons learned from the failed invasion of Cuba in April of 1961. It’s in understanding Khrushchev’s decision to place the missiles in Cuba and then to remove them. It’s also in how a Soviet submarine commander, Vasili Arkhipov , saved the world from an accidental start of World War III and in Castro's letter to Khrushchev delivered in the middle of the crisis. Most importantly, it's in how this incident impacted the United States' strategic thinking on the use of nuclear weapons in first and responsive strikes and our ongoing relationship with the Soviet Union.

In teaching history to non-history majors, I use dates simply as markers of time. Instead, I stress the importance of students gaining perspective on the political, economic, and social cultures during the periods we study and focus on students understanding how incidents unfolded during these times and their short- and long-term impacts. I do not test on dates and would rather a student understand groupthink and its dangers to the decision-making process and the country, or how the missile crisis and its aftermath influenced Kennedy’s thinking on our Cold War relationship with the Soviet Union.

I appreciate high school and non-history major college students' level of interest and ability and the testing requirements high school teachers face. However, I believe history teachers at all levels have a responsibility to include an understanding of what history is in their lessons, and emphasize history's ongoing arguments more and its dates less.

Matt Amodio was a frequent participant in a bar trivia contest. The contest host said Amodio was strongest in science, history, and geography and credited Amodio’s attendance as a factor in his success as a contestant. Amodio refers to himself as a "trivia enthusiast," not someone good at history, and the host credits himself with being a solid trivia host, not a history teacher.

Historians as researchers are tasked with finding and evaluating the evidence and developing the story. Historians as educators are responsible for facilitating strategic thinking and inciteful decision-making processes. They are not responsible for creating Jeopardy contestants or trivia night winners.

The Saints are East of Newark

Tue, 05 Oct 2021 13:44:34 GMT

Artificial intelligence saved my weekend.

I am a fan of The Sopranos. Hooked from its premiere in January 1999, I looked forward to each new episode. Last year I rewatched the series and enjoyed it even more.

Photo credit: USGS

I’m not a fan of sequels or prequels. They’re less about expanding stories in a creative way and more about squeezing another dollar out of popular narratives and characters. With rare exceptions, they're disappointing. But when The Many Saints of Newark , a prequel Soprano’s movie, was announced, I was thrilled with the chance to reconnect with the characters. I anticipated the premiere for months. On Saturday night, perched on the edge of my seat, I pressed play. Two hours later, when the movie ended, I was stretched out, glasses perched on the end of my nose, glad it was over. I expected a violent, dark film. It's the New Jersey mafia. What I didn’t expect was a plot that wandered back and forth, lost in characters who in their 1990s version were loved but who in their earlier lives are unsympathetic and cartoonish.

The movie, East of the Mountains , is adapted from the book of the same name by David Guterson. I haven't read the book, and I heard nothing about the movie until an internet algorithm put the trailer in front of me the day after watching The Many Saints . The trailer intrigued me, but I’ve been led down the path of disappointment by too many movie previews. What hooked me was one of the actors, Tom Skerrit . Eighty-eight years old, Skerritt has been around movies and television for decades. I enjoy him and treasure his performance in A River Runs Through It , and he stars in one of my favorite movies, a lesser-known story, The Heist . The new movie wasn’t streaming on any of the platforms I subscribe to, so I rented it. I sat back and pushed play. Ninety minutes later I was on the edge of my seat, sorry it was over, and ready to watch it again.

East of the Mountains is the story of a man with cancer confronting his death. It’s a moving story of love, loss, grief, family, re conciliation, despair, and hope. And even more – it includes a dog. In his first role front and center in a movie after all these years, Skerritt plays it to perfection.

The Hollywood marketing machine promised me a five-star meal and gave me overcooked leftovers. Some computer code shook me down for the price of a hamburger and rewarded me with prime cut filet mignon. Entertainment virtue is missing from The Many Saints of Newark , but it abounds, East of the Mountains .

History Knocked About

sophermedia@gmail.com (Jonathan Strupek) — Thu, 30 Sep 2021 13:00:05 GMT

News is the first rough draft of history.

An observation primarily attributed to former newspaper publisher Philip Graham. The original news stories surrounding Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Milley’s phone conversations with the Chinese offer examples of how rough those drafts can be.

Photo Credit: Sarahbeth Maney/The New York Times

The Washington Post and The New York Times were the first to report on those conversations. They based their reporting on information from a then soon to be released book, Peril , co-authored by another reporter and Washington Post associate editor, Bob Woodward. The Post’s September 14th online headline declared, “Top general was so fearful Trump might spark war that he made secret calls to his Chinese counterpart, new book says.” The Times’ online headline read, “Fears That Trump Might Launch a Strike Prompted General to Reassure China, Book Says.”

Countless studies attempt to understand how American’s get their news. Regardless of how they get it, most people admit to spending little time doing it. Often time just reading headlines.

The headlines of these stories tell a dark tale of an American general so concerned the president might start a war on his own he reached out to a Chinese general to reassure him all was well. The few people who read the articles needed to go to the fourth paragraph of the Post piece to learn that Milley didn't just pick up the phone on a whim and call his Chinese peer. He was responding to intelligence reports the Chinese believed the United States was preparing to attack. Readers needed to go to the eleventh paragraph to learn this in the Times account.

In the days following, reporters from other media outlets reported on these reports on the reporter’s book. (Yes, that sentence is correct) There were partisan calls for Milley's head, and columnists and television talking heads praised his patriotism or declared him a traitor. Statements out of Milley’s office said he was just doing his job.

A week later, General Milley testified before the House Arms Services Committee on the United States’ withdrawal from Afghanistan. The General used this time to also address his actions outlined in Peril . Both The Washington Post and The New York Times reported on this portion of his testimony. The Times included it as part of their reporting on his overall testimony, and the Post covered it separately. They included references to the testimony as well as direct quotes. The General’s remarks on this subject, either watched in their entirety or read in a transcript, do a much better job of illustrating that he wasn't acting on his own but following the rules and protocols firmly established on how he is to conduct himself as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Furthermore, he coordinated his actions before and after with other government officials.

As part of his testimony, Milley submitted documentation to support his version of events. He offered to provide further documents, emails, phone logs, memoranda, and witnesses. The authors of Peril base their book on interviews from unnamed sources. Exact quotations and their conclusions are drawn from participants in the events. Milley does admit he was one of those sources. However, during his testimony, he also said he hadn't read Peril to determine the accuracy of the authors' reporting on his input.

The first rough draft of history produced between the initial reports of Milley’s calls and his testimony a week later is at times inaccurate, misleading, misinterpreted, and sensationalized. Initial reports rarely serve history, and in this case, history would have been better off if these first rough drafts had made their way to where most first rough drafts belong, the trash can.

In today’s partisan, volatile, and reactionary environment, the media might consider roughing up history a little less and clearly stating the facts a little more.

A Senior Struggle

Fri, 24 Sep 2021 14:32:56 GMT

People of all ages are familiar with it. A moment of forgetfulness or confusion waved aside with a laugh and an exclamation of “senior moment!” The little mental mishaps that crop up as we mature. Although I'm at the age where they're more frustrating than funny, I've learned to accept them. Grateful in a way that it's only my watch I forgot to put on and not my pants. But I struggle with another kind of senior moment.

I’ve always looked older than my age, which I considered an advantage. At 18, I beat my 21-year-old friends from the door to the barstool because the bouncer waved me through but held them back until they produced ID. In jobs where people who worked for me were more experienced, it eased their irritation at being managed by someone with less time when they thought I was ten years older. Salespeople were less inclined to tag me as a gullible novice when I would have been an easy mark.

It produced some chuckles. I’ve been mistaken as a parent of kids I would have had to father in middle school, labeled a grandfather long before it would have been possible, and there is the ridiculous error that still makes my wife and I laugh. A man met me a few days after meeting her and connecting the last name but not knowing we were married, proceeded to tell me what a lovely woman my daughter was. She’s two months younger than me.

Even though I’ve reached a point where my physical appearance and life's calendar are more in line, people are still tacking years on me. I understand. My dark brown hair, where it still hangs on, is now a mixture of grays. A dark, reddish beard and mustache have grown completely gray and white, and my laugh lines are canals. Poor posture gives me a slight stoop, and if I’m tired, years of jogging and two arthroscopic surgeries play out in a shuffle.

In your sixties, you begin to reap the rewards of aging—social security benefits and Medicare at 65 and discounts with many businesses. I still have a few years to go, but I have to explain I don't qualify almost every day. Grocery stores, restaurants, specialty shops, and some services. They all try to give me a break. Even the Washington state toll workers wanted to take a couple of bucks off my ferry rides.

Most people smile and accept my polite decline. But there are some who don’t. Like the grocery store cashier who asked me if I was a senior, then, in a voice coated in disbelief, mocked my answer.

“No?” she said and laughed, thinking I was trying to be funny. “No,” I said and didn’t because I wasn’t.

I should probably be less sensitive to the ask. The label “senior” does designate a level of achievement. It’s certainly not the equivalent of military service but being healthy and active and able to enjoy life in later years is an accomplishment. And being asked if I qualify for a discount is just a reminder of more joys to come.

Today, when I go to the store and they want to know if I’m a senior, I’m going to thank them for asking. But first I have to find my wallet.

The Dangerous Distractions of Soap Dispensers

Tue, 21 Sep 2021 13:00:04 GMT

Devious Licks and Inspiration 4 are in the news, but only one is making headlines. While they both sound like a Korean techno-pop group, one is a social media driven challenge to trash school bathrooms, and the other will impact history.

Inspiration 4 was a mission managed and led by SpaceX, Elon Musk’s commercial space exploration company. Four people were launched into space, orbited earth for three days, then landed safely in the ocean off the coast of Florida. The flight marked historic milestones in the first pediatric cancer survivor in space, the first black woman to pilot a spacecraft, and the first civilian crew to orbit the earth. But the real historic accomplishment is the mission’s further advance of United States’ space exploration through the driving force of the commercial space industry.

The media is dismissive of the efforts of Elon Musk’s SpaceX, Jeff Bezos’ Blue Origin, and Richard Branson’s Virgin Galactic by referring to their work as space tourism and calling it the “billionaire space race.” This label minimizes their companies’ work against the original space race that started when the Russians launched the first orbiting satellite and then effectively ended when the Apollo 11 astronauts landed and walked on the moon. At their worst, the media brand commercial missions "stunts." These may seem like flights of fancy because of the personalities involved, but they are critical in our country’s continued presence in space exploration.

The space industry is not just about tourism. It has become the backbone of our country’s space exploration efforts and should be given the attention and support it deserves. NASA is turning low earth orbit over to commercial industry and intends to construct a long-term presence on the moon and send astronauts to Mars with these business partners.

It’s dangerous for us to cede space exploration to Russia and China. The International Space Station, built with our involvement, is now eight years beyond its expected 15-year lifespan. It has become the space equivalent of the tired minivan leaving a puddle of fluids in the driveway that the owner hopes will last one more year because they can’t afford to replace it. Earlier this year, the Russians and the Chinese partnered to someday build an international lunar scientific research station. Currently the Chinese are constructing their own orbiting space station. Although the original space race used the highly inflated threat of Russia attacking us from space as a reason for its work, Russia and China’s conducting military operations from earth's orbit is a genuine threat.

Critics of the government and private industry's involvement in space exploration say instead of reaching for the stars, the United States should solve the earth bound problems of hunger, poverty, and climate change. Realistically, solutions to these problems could come through space exploration and its accompanying research. Elon Musk admits that 99% of our efforts should go to solving these problems but strikes an insightful and inspirational chord when he says, "If life is just about problems, what's the point in living?"

Kids around the country are rising to the challenge of tearing soap dishes off walls and toilets off the floor because of continued media attention. Maybe the media would serve us better if they turned students' attention from the stalls to the stars.

Imperfect Vision

Fri, 17 Sep 2021 13:00:05 GMT

I walk our dogs, Ruby and Waylon, along the practice fields across the street from our house. As part of the walk, we wander the paths among the cornfields and go back and forth along an access road leading to some campus outbuildings. It's quiet. No traffic. And most importantly, no other dogs. The two of them are easily distracted. Herders and guardians by breed, they alternate between trying to corral or protect me when we meet other dogs.

One evening, as we meandered, I recalled a conversation from earlier in the day. Someone was agitated by a decision that did not impact or involve them. My advice was simple. Not your circus, not your monkeys. It’s a Polish proverb that means if something is not your decision to make or situation to resolve, why invite yourself into it?

The dogs and I were returning from the outbuildings and approaching the practice fields when I noticed a car that wasn’t there a few minutes before. It was parked perpendicular to the road, facing the setting sun. Next to it was someone sitting in a folding chair, the kind you see parents perched in at soccer games. They were looking across the field at the sunset. The sun was already gone but there was a reddish-orange glow in its wake. Colorful. But nothing notable as far as sunsets go.

As we made our way back to the house, I wondered why they picked that spot. It didn’t look like an impulsive stop. They chose that little field, parked, unfolded the chair, and took a seat. You can find far more visually appealing backdrops for a sunset. Even here in the plains of the Midwest. Lakesides, wooded areas, graceful farmlands. Instead, the horizon they chose was a mixture of corn, trees, school buildings, utility lines, stadium lights, an interstate highway, a cell tower, and a manufacturing plant.

When we got home, I made sure the dogs had water, got myself a glass, and took my favorite seat on the deck. A padded wicker chair tucked in a corner. It's where I spend most summer evenings. I face an array of patio furniture, the trunk of the white birch the deck was built around, the back of the grill, the sliding glass door into the kitchen, and the window above the sink. If I look skyward, there are treetops and a sliver of sky. On a good night, I might see a star or two and the moon for a few minutes as it passes by. I’ve spent countless hours, an assortment of beverages in hand, cigar smoldering, staring at a spot on the tree trunk turning ideas and thoughts over in my mind.

From my chair, I continued to run scenarios through my head on why someone would pick such an unremarkable spot to watch the sun go down. Maybe they played under those lights and were remembering sporting days long past, or they had a son or daughter who played there. The high school might be their alma mater. They might be someone who worked at the plant, raised the tower, or built the school buildings. Years back, they may have wandered the same path we did, caught a memorable sunset, and wanted to return and relive the moment.

I stared at a gnarled spot on the tree trunk and turned the question over in my mind. And in the gritty surface of the white birch, I found the answer.

Someone once asked me why I didn’t move the chair to the other side of the deck. There I’d have a broader view of the trees and their full green leaves against the sky, instead of staring at bark, furniture, and the back of the house. I told them the view didn’t have to meet anyone’s aesthetic baseline. It only mattered how it looked to me. And I find it calming. I smiled as I recalled the conversation and realized the answer to the night’s question was there.

It wasn’t my moment. And it wasn’t my sunset. It belonged to whoever was seated in the chair. My opinion was just that. Mine.

The other day Ruby, Waylon, and I were out walking. We were on the access road, near the fields, and I stopped and looked to the sunset. There wasn't much to it. Just a hazy glow behind the utility lines, stadium lights, school buildings, the cell tower, highway, and the manufacturing plant.

And I was reminded, even if we’re all looking at the same thing, each of us has a different view.

The Legacy of Pen and Paper

Tue, 14 Sep 2021 13:00:06 GMT

“Write this down, people.”

It was Ms. Raymond’s way of letting us know what she was about to say was important. Then she would look around the room. If someone wasn’t reaching for their pen or pencil or poised to capture her next words, she would stare at them until they surrendered to her withering gaze. She believed to understand and remember something, you needed to write it down. And she was right. The notebook from her civics class disappeared long ago, but some of the lessons remain.

This was when pen, pencil, and typewriters ruled, and digital was a reference to human fingers, not technology. Today it’s rare to see someone scribbling on paper. Instead, they thumb their thoughts into a smartphone or tap away at a laptop keyboard.

I’m partial to paper. Tablets and notebooks accompanied me throughout my corporate career. I captured meeting notes, action items, casual observations, and the occasional doodle. They also kept me company outside of work. Pages of handwritten personal thoughts and observations, story ideas, jokes, to-do lists, and reminders cram various notebooks and yellow legal pads cradled in plastic storage bins. I am not a Luddite, and there is a fair amount of my material and final work product stored on hard drives and in the cloud, but I’ve always been inclined to reach for pen and paper before a smartphone or laptop to record a thought.

Science is on the side of the scribbler. Studies show that people who sit in class and meetings typing away may capture more information, but they are transcribing, not thinking. When handwriting, you have to be selective. You’re forced to listen, summarize, and capture the most important details. Recall of handwritten information far surpasses that of typewritten because of the way you engage your brain. And when you engage your brain through handwriting, it activates and stimulates areas that don’t respond to typing.

More than 7200 pages of notes and scribbles survived the death of Leonardo DaVinci. Granted, Leonardo could only eat apples, not type on them. Still, there is no arguing his breadth of thinking and influence across many fields of study like astronomy, engineering, botany, anatomy, architecture, and art. DaVinci’s notes were crucial to biographer Walter Isaacson’s research for his excellent book on the life of this original Renaissance Man.

Isaacson concluded the book with his thoughts on what we can learn from Leonardo. One of those lessons is “Take notes, on paper.” As Isaacson observes, DaVinci’s notes survived five hundred years and continue to inspire us. Our notebooks, if we use them, can serve to inspire others. Tweets, posts, and TikToks will be lost to the ether, and inaccessible and easily corruptible hard drives imprison digitized works. Our writings and sketches may not impact scholarship like DaVinci's, but imagine their impact on our grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It might be a bit ambitious to think what we have to say will resonate in five hundred years, but what about forty or fifty?

In the immortal words of a teacher that still resonate with me after nearly five decades:

"Write this down, people."

A Time for Days of Different Labor

Wed, 08 Sep 2021 15:27:43 GMT

The purpose of Labor Day is often lost to picnics, sales, and soaking up the sun. It’s understandable. The late nineteenth-century worker unrest that led to the holiday is long forgotten, and the militant labor movements that enflamed the 1900s have burned out. But this year’s hot dogs, new cars, and final swims were accompanied by a new version of worker unrest reignited out of the ashes of the original.

Photo credit: History.com, Bettman Archive/Getty Images

The holiday started small in 1882 with a New York City parade organized by laborers. It grew organically across the country before it became a federal holiday in 1894. The day is intended to recognize American labor and honor the achievements of the country’s workers.

The original labor movement grew out of unrest over wages and safety conditions. Workers fought to stay alive and earn enough money to keep their families from starving. From dawn till dusk, men risked their lives mining coal, felling trees, trolling stormy seas for fish, and manufacturing steel. Women and children toiled in textile mills and factories. Jobs and promotions became available not when someone was elevated to a higher position or quit but when someone got severely injured or killed. Violent strikes, unionization, and increased pressure on employers and the government led to eight-hour workdays, safer working conditions, and enough money to buy food and clothes, not one or the other. Workers struggled, fought, and died to lay the foundation for today's wages, working conditions, and benefits.

I recently read Karl Marlantes's book, Deep River . A work of fiction, it’s set against the backdrop of the true-life labor movements of the early 1900s. Karl’s characters are Pacific Northwest immigrant loggers, fishermen, farmers, tradesmen, and the women who struggled and labored alongside them. Through Marlantes's prose, we learn about their battles to survive. It was a collective effort with groups bonded together by politics, families, nationality, employers, trades, and geography. It is a story about faith and endurance, the compromise of beliefs in exchange for a meager wage, and the surrender of dreams to the reality of survival.

The labor movement all but disappeared as wages and conditions improved, and the country’s economy evolved to allow for individuals' financial and personal success. Now it’s returned and gaining strength. This time, not as an organized force but a combined power of seemingly disconnected individual actions.

The pandemic prompted people to rethink how, where, when, and if they work. People were figuratively locked in their homes, struggling to balance work with family. Many lost their jobs and, for a variety of reasons, are finding it difficult to find another. Industries and professions were torn apart by the effects of the coronavirus. As a result, many are reconsidering what they do for a living and why they do it. A Washington Post piece calls it the “great reassessment of work.” Individual circumstances differ, but there’s a common question that binds workers together. What do I genuinely want to do with my life, job, or career, and how can I accomplish it?

The early labor movement crippled employers with work stoppages and strikes. The current movement is hobbling employers through resignations, retirements, and refusals to answer their calls for candidates. Twentieth-century employers had to adapt and learn how to engage with the workforce. To survive and succeed, twenty-first-century employers will need to adapt and learn to re-engage with theirs.

One of my college professors shared this gem of advice with his students regarding future careers: “Always be bigger than job.” He explained that true freedom and happiness meant never becoming so financially and emotionally dependent on an employer that it is impossible to quit.

It’s hard to imagine violent uprisings. It’s not hard to imagine people who have become comfortable connecting with strangers in online game rooms and social media platforms will band together to create their own labor unions or respond to the calls of the unions that remain.

Many of today’s workers have grown bigger than their jobs. Will employers shrink their compulsion to oversee and control to accommodate them?

I think it’s labor’s day.

The Pleasure of a Slow Pour

Tue, 31 Aug 2021 13:45:53 GMT

The answer to individual peace may lie in a television commercial for ketchup. Let me explain.

Recently I watched the Netflix series, The Chair. All six episodes in less than twenty-four hours. I enjoyed it. I’m a Sandra Oh fan, and it was nice to see Bob Balaban and Taylor Holland. But I would have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t binged it. The concept of binging was something I used to associate with a bag of potato chips and a container of French onion dip. Or my college days and a cheap case of beer. It was something that left me temporarily satisfied but uncomfortably full and over-stimulated.

I remember when if you missed a television episode, it was lost forever unless it was replayed during a holiday or summer break. The introduction of the VCR and then DVR technology saved us from that. You never missed an episode, and you could watch it and even re-watch it when it was convenient. Mostly in one-week intervals.

This allowed us to view a show and then think about it. Consider all the nuances, the high points and low points, the surprises and plot twists, and imagine what might come next for the characters and the show. If we knew other fans of the series, we discussed it in detail. We were able to savor an episode for days.

Now, like my experience with The Chair, if you watch one episode and enjoy it, it’s almost immediately into the next, then the next, and then the next. Depending on how much time you have and how long each episode is, you can consume the entire series in a day, two or three. And just like the family-sized bag of potato chips and vat of French Onion dip that lies like a lump in the pit of your stomach, the entire series is muddled in your brain in a tangled ball of images, sounds, and emotions.

That was me and The Chair. Sure, it was good to see Bob Balaban and recall one of my favorite movie moments. The scene in Absence of Malice where his lawyer character comes face to face with the consequences of his actions in a showdown with a Department of Justice official brilliantly played by Wilford Brimley . But I never really took the time to think seriously about his current character. An academic who climbed to the top of his field and now finds himself struggling to barely hold on to the bottom, his only crime seemingly the natural act of aging. At the series’ finale, I understood the end. But I never really took the time to digest each episode and appreciate how it got there.

Recently I watched HBO’s, Mare of Easttown . If you arrive late to the HBO television viewing party, you can binge, but if you’re on time you can only consume one episode a week. I was on time. And I brought my wife with me. We slowly digested each episode and savored every bite until we were able to devour the next. We talked about the characters, the plot, the setting, the foods they ate, and the Southeastern Pennsylvania accent she and I are familiar with but so rarely gets captured accurately on screen. When the final episode ended, we weren’t bloated and uncomfortable. We were sated and satisfied.

The habit of binge-watching has bled over into other areas of our lives. We stuff ourselves with content, rushing from one story, post, or image to the next before fully appreciating and understanding the one before. We fail to understand the joy in anticipation.

This brings me back to ketchup.

In the late 1970s, Heinz produced a television commercial promoting their ketchup. One of the sometimes frustrating qualities of their product was how slow it poured from the bottle. In the advertisement, two young boys are preparing hamburgers. One complains his friend’s ketchup is slow, which gets the response, “Wait’ll you taste it.” The background song is Carly Simon’s Anticipation . The tag line delivered after the ketchup finally pours is “The taste that’s worth the wait.”

In 1983, Heinz removed the joy of anticipating the taste of their ketchup when they introduced the squeeze bottle. Streaming and on-demand technology has removed the joy of anticipating so much more.

Maybe we should learn to pour our content slower.

It might be worth the wait.

Justice Served?

Fri, 27 Aug 2021 13:00:04 GMT

An assassin died in July almost without notice. His death wasn’t reported until a month after, and by only one newspaper, the Observer-Reporter of Washington County, Pennsylvania. This followed the discovery of his death by a prosecutor writing a rebuttal to the assassin’s request for clemency.

Paul Gilly, 88, was one of three men who killed Joseph, Margaret, and Charlotte Yablonski, on New Year’s Eve, December 31, 1969. He was the last of his fellow shooters and conspirators to die. All but forgotten today, the murders drew national attention when they occurred. Joseph “Jock” Yablonski was a candidate for president of the United Mine Workers of America and lost the election to incumbent Tony Boyle earlier in the month. He campaigned against Boyle’s long-time heavy-handed leadership that was more about protecting the interests of mine owners than it was about protecting coal miners. Boyle ordered the hit before the election, but it wasn't carried out until after.

Gilly and his two accomplices, Buddy Martin and Claude Vealey, shot all three of them as they lay in bed. The bodies weren't discovered until six days later by Jock's son, Kenneth, and his friend William "Bill" Stewart. The three killers were convicted in 1972, and the conspirators followed, with Boyle's conviction in 1974. Between the murder and Boyle's arrest in September 1973, the Department of Labor ordered a new election, and Boyle lost to reform candidate Arnold Miller in 1972. Miller was a weak leader and had a tumultuous reign. But during his presidency the union became more democratic for its members, advanced health and safety measures, and got compensation for miners who suffered from pneumoconiosis, commonly known as black lung disease.

The 1976 documentary, Harlan County, USA, included a segment on the murders, and HBO produced a 1980 movie, Act of Vengeance , based on the book of the same name, about the killings. In the film, Wilford Brimley played Tony Boyle, and Charles Bronson was Jock Yablonski.

The murders and the subsequent investigation, arrests, and trials were prominent stories in Washington County, Pennsylvania, where they occurred, and where I lived at the time. Coal mining was in my family. My paternal grandfather, Joseph Strupek, worked above ground in a coal processing plant, and my maternal grandfather, Joseph “Abe” Toth, worked underground in the mines. Joe Strupek died of lung cancer years before I was born. Abe left the mines in the 1950s and was diagnosed with black lung disease decades later. He received compensation for the illness thanks to the Miller era reforms. My great uncle was Bill Stewart, who, with Jock's son, discovered the murdered bodies.

Naturally, I followed the case over time, reading Act of Vengeance and watching the documentary and HBO movie. Recently I listened to the audio version of the book Blood Runs Coal: The Yablonski Murders and the Battle for the United Mine Workers of America , nominated for the 2021 Edgar Allen Poe Award for Best Fact Crime. In an eerie coincidence, I was listening to the book when my wife, visiting her mother in Washington County, texted me and told me about Gilly's death. I asked her to bring the Observer-Reporter pages home.

Even though the story was available online, I thought it fitting to read about it in the hard copy version of the newspaper where I followed the case's progress decades ago. Gilly was asking for clemency at the time of his death, claiming that after spending nearly 50 years in prison, anything he did on the night of the murders had been "adequately paid for." The prosecutor disagreed and said, “It would not be hyperbole to state that Mr. Gilly was involved in one of the most heinous, cruel and evil acts of premeditated murder for hire in the history of the Commonwealth.” The family’s reaction to his death were two simple words. Good riddance.

The clemency will never be ruled on, but Gilley might have received an answer to the plea that he adequately paid for his crime. In the opening of Harlan County, USA , a miner shouts, "Fire in the hole." A warning that an explosion is about to take place in the mine.

I like to think that on his death, Paul Gilley faced the final arbiter of justice and experienced his own fire in the hole.

Storytelling At It's Sharpest

Wed, 25 Aug 2021 13:00:02 GMT

So, eleven hundred men went into the water. Three hundred sixteen men come out. The sharks took the rest. June the 29th, 1945.

Photograph: By Wildestanimal/Getty Images

Lines from one of cinema’s most famous monologues. As sharp as a shark’s tooth, the actor Robert Shaw delivered it in the movie Jaws. His character, Quint, is hired by a police chief, Martin Brody (Roy Scheider), to hunt down and kill a great white shark terrorizing his town. In the scene, Quint tells Brody and marine biologist Matt Hooper (Richard Dreyfuss) about his experience as a crewmember on the battleship USS Indianapolis.

Although the shark is central to the story, the narrative is about people’s motivation, fears, and obsessions. Steven Spielberg directed what would become the first summer blockbuster and his auteur touch is evident.

Quint's monologue is a critical scene. In it, we learn what drives the old shark hunter and how treacherous these animals are, just moments before the movie’s villainous shark reappears to terrorize the men. It’s also a brief education on the USS Indianapolis. In 1945, after delivering the atomic bomb to be dropped on Hiroshima, the Indianapolis was hit by a Japanese torpedo. The ship sank in twelve minutes, and the men floated in the ocean for four days before they were rescued. The story isn’t entirely accurate in its history. Quint puts the sinking as June 29th, not the correct date of July 30th; a distress signal was sent but was missed, and the sharks didn't eat all the men. They got 150. Three hundred went down with the ship, and hundreds of others died by hyperthermia, suicide, starvation, salt poisoning or drowning. Still, it was the most significant single shark attack in history, a horrific way to die, and a dreadful thing to witness.

The magic in Quint's monologue isn't in its history; there are books and documentaries for that, but in its structure. Clocking in at only three and a half minutes, it is an excellent example of visual, compelling storytelling. Robert Shaw, also an accomplished writer, helped edit and shape the monologue from its original ten pages, and then nailed its delivery.

I watch the entire movie every two or three years, but I watch the monologue on YouTube countless times each year. Losing myself for just a few moments in storytelling genius and fine acting.

If you’ve never seen the movie, you must, and if you did and haven’t watched it in a while, queue it up. And when Quint starts his tale of the Indianapolis, prepare to be gripped as tight as the two tons of force delivered by a great white’s jaws.

Say Something

Fri, 20 Aug 2021 13:00:06 GMT

Because of the level of security surrounding air travel, there is little chance of skyjackings or domestic terrorism. However, we're now faced with a threat that full-body scanners, x-ray machines, and pat-downs can't identify. The trouble wrought by the self-absorbed.

They’ve always terrorized us. Surfacing at a department store counter demanding they be attended to regardless of who was ahead of them, laying on their horn in a line of traffic as if the wail from their SUV is just the thing that will break the jam, or repeatedly calling the waiter to their table like he’s a puppy they’re training to retrieve. We’ve also seen them on airplanes. Their seat thrust without warning into the knees of the person behind them, elbows and knees in everyone’s space but their own, and pressing the attendant call button like a lab rat swatting a lever for cheese.

Either fueled by alcohol, the frustrations born of the pandemic, or a growing sense of self-importance unleashed by the political, cultural, racial, and gender discourse that's woven its way in our lives, they appear more frequently. The TSA cites nearly 4,000 reports of unruly passengers, over 2,800 involving a refusal to mask, and almost triple the number of investigations of prior years. But the sins of the self-indulgent don't need to reach the level required for a formal report to put everyone around them at their mercy.

Earlier this week, I traveled on a two-leg trip. No delays, cancellations, or service problems. But in these two flights, I witnessed more unnecessary issues than I have before. This included more passengers crowding the gate, reluctant to let even those called to board to pass by. An increase in people slowing the boarding process because they can’t even lift their carryon to their waist, let alone over their head, and feet and legs spread across aisles and seats, like a pack of teenagers splayed across a family room. A passenger amused himself but annoyed everyone around him by playing TikTok videos without wearing headphones, and another thought their poodle was too sensitive to remain zipped inside its bag.

There were some mask-related issues. Passengers waiting to take their seats were less than thrilled with a person blocking their progress, his masked resting under his nose, while he tried to stand his ground against a polite and more than accommodating crew member. As if this man born and raised among Midwest cornfields was the one, above all the other hundreds of thousands of people who have boarded an airplane since the restriction, who had the convincing argument of why it wasn’t necessary. And then countless others demasked under the guise of eating, then reluctantly remasked after being spotted by a crew member.

I also learned a new term. Passengers were told to take their assigned seats and not "self-seat" because it would slow the boarding process. Self-seat? I've sat in the wrong seat a time or two. But intentionally? Yet I saw not one but three people do this. I also witnessed a couple traveling together but assigned separate rows gesture to a man already seated and comfortable and say, “why don’t you take that seat because we’re together.” No please. Not a smile. And he did without question. The seat was beside me. He wore the uniform of an airline employee. Later I commented how I thought there was an increase in selfish and demanding behavior among travelers. He told me it was the worst he’d seen in twenty years. I thanked him for his service. Quite frankly, he and his peers are frontline soldiers in a war on ignorance, and they all deserve medals.

During the increased fear of terrorism, the government said, "If you see something, say something." This wouldn't work for a growing sense of self-importance. By the time you’re aware someone’s a pain, they’ve already caused it. It also wouldn't help the increasing divisiveness in this country if we could report someone as a potential jerk.

But we can say something. We can offer a smile, a greeting, and a genuine thank you to the men and women at the counters, security checkpoints, gates, and crewing the planes, who face this army of self-serving inconsiderates every day.

And we can also do something. Put your mask over your nose, keep your legs out of the aisle, your elbows out of your neighbor's ribcage, only pack what you can lift over your head, and above all else – don’t self-seat.

The Unabomber - History’s Clairvoyant Villain

Mon, 16 Aug 2021 13:00:10 GMT

Maybe the Unabomber was right.

A statement to raise a questioning eyebrow. Not as controversial as “we all should have listened closer to Charles Manson,” or “you know, this country might be better off if those people on January 6 would have taken over the capital.” But worthy of a “What?!”

Let me explain.

For nearly twenty years, Ted Kaczynski launched a bombing campaign. The first of his sixteen explosive devices went off on May 25, 1978. The last on April 24, 1995. Some he mailed, others he delivered himself. The blasts killed six people and injured twenty-three.

His initial two bombs exploded on the campus of Northwestern University in Chicago. The first injured a university policeman, the second a graduate student. The FBI entered the investigation after he placed his third bomb in the cargo hold of an airplane. Thankfully it failed to explode and just released smoke. His tag, Unabomber, was a derivative of the FBI case name, Unabom.

Ted included false clues in the packages. At one point, the FBI thought his motive might revolve around nature, trees, or wood because of the presence of tree bark or branches in some of the bombs. His targets were a range of people without clear connections, including grad students, researchers, an advertising executive, and a computer store owner. This confounded investigators trying to determine a motive until his reasons became clear in the summer of 1995, when Kaczynski mailed a 35,000-word essay to media outlets.

The paper, titled Industrial Society and Its Future, became known as the Unabomber Manifesto. A screed against technology, the government, corporations, and leftists. The Unabomber said if the essay were published, he would cease the bombings. At first, the FBI was hesitant, worried it would encourage other terrorists, but decided it was in the best interest of public safety. The Washington Post and the New York Times printed it in September 1995, and Ted's brother, who already suspected his sibling might be the serial bomber, read it and recognized Ted in its narrative.

In April 1996, authorities arrested Kaczynski at his home in Lincoln, Montana. A ten-foot by fourteen-foot cabin without electricity and running water. Since 1971, Ted lived the life he wanted for others. Off the grid and off the land.

After refusing to allow his defense team to claim he had a mental illness, Ted plead guilty to all charges in exchange for life in prison without parole. I followed the story and didn’t think much about Ted until recently when a Netflix algorithm flagged a four-part series for me. Unabomber: In His Own Words.

A prodigy, he entered Harvard at age sixteen, where he earned a bachelor’s degree in math and went on to get a master's and a doctorate in the same subject from the University of Michigan. After graduating, he taught at the college level for a couple of years, worked some odd jobs, then moved to Montana. Kaczynski wanted to live absent any reliance on technology, believing that industrialized society was eroding human freedoms. His violence was a form of revenge against the system he despised.

In the docuseries, Bob Wood, the former warden of the supermax prison where Ted lives, said that if you took his name off the manifesto, put an academic name on it, and made it a course of study, it wouldn't be shocking. He said he isn’t influenced by any relationship he had with Ted. Wood observes that “writing is writing.” A lifelong student of writing, the statement resonated with me.

I never read the manifesto. I thought it was the ramblings of a madman. After watching the series, I employed the technology Ted hates, searched the internet, and learned some of his ideas are considered prescient by academics and included in course assignments. So, I read it.

And it’s disturbing. The warden is right. Without Kaczynski's name, you wouldn't hesitate to repeat as you read, "he's got a point."

According to Kaczynski, “Once a technical innovation has been introduced, people usually become dependent on it, so that they can never again do without it, unless it is replaced by some still more advanced innovation.” He wrote this before personal computers became as ubiquitous in our homes as televisions and before tablets and smartphones and all their applications wove their way into our lives. He follows this by saying that not only do we become dependent as individuals, but the "system as a whole becomes dependent on it" and keeps moving forward with more sophisticated technology.

While reading, you can't help but think about how technology has woven its way into our lives. Smart homes and cars. The invasive properties of cookie technology, social media, and algorithms that seek to influence what we read, where we shop, what we buy, and just like the Netflix code that sent me Ted’s way, what we watch. As the former warden described it - “It’s today on paper.”

While I was doing this research, Apple made an announcement. They plan to scan all United States iPhones for images of child sexual abuse. All. No notice. No asks for permission. It drew accolades from child protection groups. But many others raised privacy concerns and warned of the potential for abuse and expansion. Sexual abuse is a problem, and we should do everything we can to protect our children. But what about domestic violence? Murder? Or the type of terrorism and violence waged by individuals and groups like Ted Kaczynski? Shouldn’t we proactively search for evidence to protect society against these and other crimes?

The constitution's fourth amendment protects us from unlawful search and seizure of our persons, houses, papers, and effects. But corporations like Apple do as they please. Kaczynski saw this and said, “Technology repeatedly forces freedom to take a step back, but technology can never take a step back.” His solution? A revolutionary overthrow of the technological system, violent if necessary, and a return to the primitive lifestyle.

In the docuseries, Theresa Kintz, sociologist and former editor of an environmental advocacy journal, says Ted’s violence wasn’t the right way, but his writing was. She’s right. Seemingly indiscriminate bombings leaving people dead and maimed is a poor way to communicate. Forcing people to print your cogent but poorly edited thoughts in exchange for stopping the violence isn’t a good way to deliver your message either. A violent revolution isn’t the solution. During his reign of terror, Ted didn't have access to a broad audience. The irony is he would have benefitted from the platforms available today through the technology he abhorred.

History remembers Ted as the Unabomber, a domestic terrorist who murdered and maimed to strike out at a system he feared was destroying civilization. But there’s also a place to recognize his efforts to warn us that “all these technological advances taken together have created a world in which the average man’s fate is no longer in his own hands or in the hands of neighbors and friends, but in those of politicians, corporation executives, and remote, anonymous technicians and bureaucrats whom he as an individual has no power and influence.”

Maybe he was wrong. There are places for individual power and influence. We can deliver the message through a TikTok dance.

No. He was right.

A Beacon of Light from a Dark Time: Reflections on a Resignation

Wed, 04 Aug 2021 19:58:55 GMT

Featured photo by The Nixon Library

Another Nixon era anniversary is here. Events usually accompanied by recollections of the dark moments of the 37th president’s life. But this one offers a life changing lesson.

Forty-eight years ago, the Nixon presidency collapsed under the weight of Watergate. A collection of criminal allegations tagged with the name of a building complex made famous by a bungled politically motivated burglary. By early August 1974 the House Judiciary Committee approved three articles of impeachment, Congressional Republican leadership retreated from their support, and a White House recording system intended to preserve Nixon’s accomplishments, instead memorialized his weaknesses and missteps.

On the night of August 8, 1974, the president announced in a live televised address he would resign the presidency at noon the following day, leaving Vice President Ford to succeed him. The soon-to-be former president said he was putting the interests of the nation ahead of his own, acknowledged some of his judgements were wrong without admitting to specifics, claimed no bitterness toward those who did not support him, thanked those who did, and in an effort to leave with his head held high, recounted some accomplishments. Considering the circumstances, it was a gracious exit.

The following morning members of the cabinet and the White House staff gathered in the East Room to hear from their boss one final time. This speech was also televised. He bid them au revior, saying they would meet again, praised them for their good work, and expressed his gratitude. He also said defeat is not the end, but just a low point before another beginning. Hinting he would someday attempt a return to the public stage.

Toward the end of his remarks, he offered this advice:

“Always give your best, never get discouraged, never be petty; always remember, others may hate you, but those who hate you don't win unless you hate them, and then you destroy yourself.”

He could have prefaced this with “and don’t do what I did.” His own pettiness and a need to not only defeat his enemies but destroy them, had in turn destroyed him.

“Enemy” and “hatred” are strong words. But cutthroat rivalries exist. Competition for power, promotions, or recognition in the workplace, and nasty family confrontations. Nixon was right. When you are consumed with not just overcoming a problem but also the need to retaliate and eviscerate the opposition, you lose perspective, and put yourself in danger of doing and saying things you may regret. The dark clouds of unchecked emotions can obscure your view of the oncoming train about to derail your career or may not clear in time for you to see that you’ve traveled well past the point of no return in a relationship.

Not everyone develops enemies. Opposition and dislike exist in less threatening forms. The everyday tug of war exchanges common at work. Different opinions and viewpoints, the rub of personalities, and the clash of cultures. Personal relationships are littered with the potholes of misguided and misinterpreted comments, perceived slights, and the frustrations born of familiarity. Yet Nixon’s advice still holds. Attack the problem - the miscommunication, misunderstanding, or the misperception. Not the person or persons.

Nixon surrendered and retreated for a brief time, but he did eventually re-enter the public stage. He wrote books, gave speeches, did interviews, traveled the world, and when asked, offered advice to some of the presidents who followed him. But nothing he did erased the stain of Watergate. The anniversaries of his accomplishments are overshadowed by those of his darkest days.

In his East Room remarks Nixon also said, “only if you've been in the deepest valley can you ever know how magnificent it is to be on the highest mountain.” On the anniversary of his resignation, instead of remembering his deepest valley, it would be more fitting to reflect on the advice that can propel us to the highest mountain.

“Always give your best, never get discouraged, never be petty; always remember, others may hate you, but those who hate you don't win unless you hate them, and then you destroy yourself.”

Our Polluted Tears

Thu, 22 Apr 2021 16:32:22 GMT

People start pollution, people can stop it.

This is the final line of a classic public service advertisement. It pictures a Native American in a birch bark canoe, paddling through a polluted stream framed against a background of industrial smoke. He lands on a waste-ridden shore to have trash thrown at his feet by a passing motorist, then turns to the camera, a single tear falling from his eye.

The advertisement made its debut in early 1971, accompanied by billboards and print ads. It was crowned with Clios and is considered one of the best commercials of all time and became known simply as “The Crying Indian.”

Although the message still applies, the advertisement, if it premiered today, would be trashed and discarded.

The actor, Iron Eyes Cody, known for his portrayal of Native Americans in film and television, was not a Native American. Cody's given name was Espera Oscar de Corti. Although he dressed in Native American clothing off-screen to give the impression he was a native, he was born in Louisiana to Italian parents.

The narrator of the advertisement was William Conrad. Conrad was a radio, film, and television actor, producer, and director. He had starring roles in two hit television series. The 1970's Cannon , in which he portrayed a private investigator of some girth who made light of his weight, but was criticized for it by other characters, and the late 80s and early 90s, Jake and the Fatman . Conrad's character was the second-billed, another man of some girth, only this time a former prosecutor partnered with an investigator.

The sponsor for the advertisement, Keep America Beautiful, was not a small army of environmentalists fighting to save the planet from destruction, but a collective of beverage and packaging corporations who, in other forums, fought against environmental initiatives.

If viewed through a 2021 lens focused on social injustices, this advertisement would bring at least one, if not more, tears to woke eyes.

First of all, any reference to “Indian” would stop the advertisement in its tracks. The producers would have to rename it to ease any sensitivities. Possibly calling it "The Washington Commercial,” “Cleveland Criers,” or maybe even “The Crying They.”

Espara’s, aka Cody's participation, would never occur. A Native American could not be portrayed by an Italian American, regardless of costume and physical characteristics. The role would have to go to someone of Native American heritage. If he ever could find work again, Cody might portray an explorer who pretends to discover a New World but instead enslaves it.

William Conrad’s acting resume would bar him from lending his voice to anything but a public apology for his profiting from body shaming. The man who allegedly responded to a request to lunch with the head of Weight Watchers by saying, “Sure, if I can pick the restaurant,” might join the program, or at the very least unite with its leader and join a parade of curvy people protesting their Hollywood portrayal.

Activists would unmask the corporations behind the campaign and launch boycotts across social media platforms. Their CEOs forced to testify before Congress.

Earth Day is fifty years old, and this advertisement fifty. Half a century later, although cleaner, the earth and its inhabitants are still threatened by contamination. The air, land, and sea polluted by waste. And our personal interactions polluted by a growing inability to pull together and combat this real threat to our existence. Instead, we relish finding ways to trash each other and foul different views and opinions.

Masquerading as a people or nationality to get work is wrong. We need to have a reasonable discussion around using the word “Indian” and how we depict and use symbols from the Native American culture. Weight is an issue of health and image, not a plot point or punch line. Corporate social responsibility is about citizenship, not public relations. But there's a more significant threat hiding behind the haze of social justice.

We need to clean up divisive rhetoric before it chokes us to death.

People start pollution. People can stop it.

Liddy's Lessons

sophermedia@gmail.com (Jonathan Strupek) — Fri, 09 Apr 2021 16:42:10 GMT

“There’s nothing like the smell of burning flesh to break up a party.”

A former Nixon White House staffer shared this with me while talking about a fellow staffer, G. Gordon Liddy. The man notorious for holding his flesh over a flame to prove his toughness. In this particular instance, Liddy chose another staffer's birthday party to take a disposable lighter to his arm.

Photo Credit: Paul Hosef ros/The New York Times

Liddy, age 90, died recently. His obituary read like a mixture of pulp fiction, dark comedy, and political satire. But his life was all too real. As a young boy, he overcame a fear of rats by cooking and eating one. He burned the word Watergate into our collective consciousness in his inept planning and execution of not one but two burglaries on the offices of the Democratic National Committee. Afterward, he offered to stand on a corner and let someone shoot him if it would save the presidency, played villains on television, and was himself portrayed in a television movie.

On the surface, his resume reads like a list of jobs that even just one would fulfill the dreams of millions. United States Marine, FBI agent, lawyer, county prosecutor, special assistant in the United States Department of the Treasury, White House aide, general counsel for the committee to re-elect the president, author, actor, college lecturer, and nationally broadcast radio talk show host. Underneath are cloak and dagger tales involving the CIA, Cuban freedom fighters, black bag jobs, burglaries, wiretaps, disguises, code names, aliases, and unexecuted plans that included kidnapping and blackmail. At the bottom are four and a half years spent in prison and advising his radio listeners to aim for the heads of agents of the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms because they wear bulletproof vests.

I help college students learn history and leadership by studying historical figures, most recently presidents John F. Kennedy and Dwight Eisenhower. Sometimes though, the leadership lessons offered through history come from unlikely sources, like G. Gordon Liddy. His life was shrouded in conspiracies. But tangled within them are a few lessons for leaders.

First, don't pass along your problems. Leaders sometimes solve a performance problem by convincing the poor performer they might be a better fit somewhere else in the company. Then they convince someone to take them. Sources within the FBI said Liddy was forced out for incompetence. His personnel file said otherwise and allowed Liddy to get a job as a prosecutor and eventually land a Treasury Department position. Treasury had their fill of Liddy and passed him along to the White House. It’s here, with the help of others, he turned an assignment to quietly secure information to discredit Daniel Ellsberg (who leaked confidential government documents to the public) into a break-in of Ellsberg's psychiatrist's office staged to look like a frantic search for drugs. Instead of finding himself behind bars or banished from Washington, Liddy ended up as general counsel for the president’s re-election campaign. It’s here that Liddy and some of the same bunglers from the Ellsberg fiasco gave us the Watergate burglary, which in turn led to the resignation of President Nixon, and decades of books, documentaries, movies, and television shows trying to make sense of it all. If Liddy's FBI file had documented his inadequacies, would he have made it to Treasury? Or if Treasury had shown him the door to the street instead of the White House, or his bosses at the White House tossed him over the East Gate, would the Pentagon Papers have been shelved, and Watergate remembered as just overpriced real estate?

Spending time defusing employees who are ticking time bombs or marching them to the nearest exit saves the company from an almost inevitable explosion and the destruction of productivity, profits, and reputation.

The second lesson is to be precise in your communications. Not everyone can interpret broad directions or differentiate between sarcasm and actual instruction. One of Liddy’s bosses at the re-election committee, frustrated by Washington columnist Jack Anderson, made an offhand comment within earshot of Liddy that they would all be better off if Jack were dead. If Liddy didn’t share what he took as an order to assassinate the reporter with another committee staffer, who sounded the alarm, Anderson might have faced the ultimate deadline. Ellsberg's psychiatrist's office's ransacking and the bugging of Democratic National Headquarters were both consequences of vague instructions and broad demands for results. Making an offhand remark about your dislike for someone is unlikely to lead to a colleague's assassination, and ambiguous instructions probably won't cause the CEO’s resignation. But it could lead to problems that clear communications and direction could have avoided.

The last Liddy lesson is for everyone, not just leaders. His obituary is a telling narrative. The story of a man who, although sometimes misdirected and of questionable judgment, was no stranger to adversity, failure, and public scrutiny. A story that could have ended many times with Gordon’s fading into the cultural woodwork. Instead, he marched forward. Disappointments, mistakes, and failures aren’t street corners where we stand to be silenced. They’re hot flames held against our lives that we have to learn to tolerate with will, courage, and conviction.

History has primarily cast G. Gordon Liddy as a slightly crazed criminal conspirator and convict. But with some effort, even the darkest figures can enlighten us. In Liddy's case, the work requires a set of lock picks and a prybar.

Hearing Voices

Thu, 11 Feb 2021 02:25:25 GMT

I can identify actors and actresses solely by hearing their voice in a commercial. It’s not a marketable skill, but it impresses my wife and kids. I can only exercise it near a television or radio, but it paid off one night in a crowded airport.

I was waiting for a flight home to Bloomington, Illinois. A book open on my lap. I’m an avid reader and take advantage of air travel to indulge myself. I am undisturbed by noisy airports, droning pre-flight safety lectures, and even chatty passengers with megaphone voices.

On this particular evening, though, a distinctive voice came between me and the page. A man was talking on a cell phone. It wasn’t the usual “I’ll try and project my voice thousands of miles” kind of call. This man was talking casually. But my celebrity enhanced hearing had homed in on him. Before I even turned in his direction, I was certain who owned the unmistakable voice. It was actor Hal Holbrook. The man who stood in the shadows of a Washington, DC parking garage in the movie All the President’s Men and delivered the iconic line, “follow the money.” The advice of Holbrook's secret source, to Robert Redford's Bob Woodward, that the truth to Watergate lies at the end of a money trail.

Holbrook was flying to Bloomington to perform his legendary one-man play, Mark Twain Tonight! I knew this because I had tickets to a performance.

I get a charge out of seeing celebrities in person. Not at a scheduled appearance, but out in the wild with the rest of us. On city streets and in restaurants and airports. But I’m not the fan who asks for autographs and pictures. I don’t need physical evidence of the contact, like a hunter mounting their kill on a wall. I’m satisfied with the memory and the story. But this wasn't a momentary encounter. Holbrook and I were corralled at an airport gate. Maybe this was a chance to break my rule and talk to him. We had something in common. I was an actor myself now, having made my community theatre debut only two months before. We might be able to talk about the craft. The seats to his left were empty. I made my move.

I didn’t want anyone who might have also recognized him to catch me committing a blatant act of celebrity stalking, so I masked my approach. I tucked my book into my briefcase and wandered into the main aisle, briefly checked a flight monitor, looked to my left and right as if considering a stroll, took casual notice of the empty seats closer to the gate than the one I walked away from, and headed there. I gave him his personal space and left a seat between us, and sat down. Then I placed my briefcase on the empty chair to block any potential interlopers. He was still engaged in his phone conversation. I took my book out and opened it. It wasn't a performance worthy of the Oscar nomination and the Emmy and Tony wins he earned, but I was proud of it. He finished his call and went about doing what people waiting for a flight do; sorting through and arranging itineraries, tickets, and various personal items.

This is the part of the story where I share what happened next. How I engaged Hal Holbrook in conversation, and he explained how he developed the iconic Deep Throat character in All the President’s Men. His description of what it was like to play Dirty Harry's nemesis in Clint Eastwood's Magnum Force, and how he chuckled when I offered how OJ Simpson murdered his performance acting across from him in Capricorn One.

But those conversations never occurred. Once I sat down, I decided to follow my rule. As an actor myself, would I want someone to sit next to me and interrupt my reading to tell me how genuine my performance as an undercover British policeman was in Agatha Christie's Mousetrap?

Instead, I continued in my role of air traveler. I casually looked to my right, acting for the terminal audience watching us as if this was my first discovery that I was seated next to Hal Holbrook. Then, masking any surprise at finding him there, I simply said, "Good evening Mr. Holbrook." He lifted his head from his papers, looked at me, and responded in kind. "Good evening," he said. Then he returned to his busy work.

I reopened my book and pretended to read, but instead, quietly reveled at my proximity to a Hollywood star. A few moments later, our flight was announced. Some of us stood, including Hal (I can call him that now after spending some time with him), and waited for our boarding call. After one of the many muffled flight announcements common in airports, he asked me if it was for us. I assured him it wasn’t and when our plane began boarding, let him know. He thanked me and headed for the jet bridge door. I passed him in his seat near the front of our commuter flight as I walked to mine in the back of the plane.

When I exited the plane in Bloomington and entered the terminal, he was gone. The next time I saw him was when he stepped on stage the following night, not as an 83-year-old man juggling his luggage and papers while waiting to board a plane, but as Mark Twain. His costume and makeup had erased all evidence of my fellow traveler.

Last week when I learned of his death, I thought of our brief encounter. I smiled as I remembered sharing the world's stage with him in our roles as air travelers, on a night when I decided to follow the voice.

Warning: History Is About to Be Dethroned

Mon, 04 Jan 2021 03:09:46 GMT

George W. Bush leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on the Resolute desk. He looked across his cowboy boots to Dick Cheney seated across from him.

"Big Time," he said. "I was talking to Rummy, and I think I know how we justify invading Iraq. Everybody loves Colin Powell. We send him out to tell everyone Iraq has weapons of mass destruction. Maybe get him up to the UN.”

“But we don’t have any solid proof they’ve got the WMD.”

Bush pointed across the desk at Cheney.

"That's where you come in."

This conversation never took place. But if I wanted to script a movie about the Iraq War, I could include it. Hollywood has created fake scenes and passed them off as history for decades. Mostly with impunity. But recently, the British government took exception and demanded someone take responsibility.

In November, the Netflix series The Crown, based on the 20th-century lives of the British royal family, entered its fourth season. The government gave them a pass on the fake history included in the first three, but this season’s depiction of Princess Diana, Prince Charles, and Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher struck a nerve. Have your way with Winston Churchill, the British Bulldog, but keep your hands off the Iron Lady. The government's culture secretary demanded Netflix warn viewers that even though the show connects with real events, it is a product of its creator’s imagination. Netflix refused and responded, “We have every confidence our members understand it’s a work of fiction that’s broadly based on historical events.”

I don’t share their confidence. At least not here in the United States where the wall between fact and fiction leaks like a closed Senate hearing. Where people accept alternative facts, and real news and fake news are first cousins.

Robert Lacey, a Cambridge educated, renowned British historian and writer, is The Crown’s historical consultant. In discussing the show's accuracy, Lacy has said, "There are two truths. There's historical truth, and there's the larger truth about the past," and admitted, "half of the show is historically accurate, and the other half is imaginatively accurate.” He also conceded that although there is a "strong kernel of truth" in the episodes, there’s invention in the characters’ dialogue and motivation. I'm not Cambridge educated, but I doubt Lacey’s professors instructed students to skirt historical truth by being imaginatively accurate and inventive in their research and writing.

I haven’t seen season four of The Crown to comment on its historical distortions. The jarring transition from Claire Foye as the queen in seasons one and two to Olivia Colman as her majesty in season 3 stopped me in my tracks. I am familiar though with Netflix’s broad-based approach to history. Most recently, through their drama, The Trial of the Chicago 7, about the defendants accused of inciting riots during the 1968 Democratic National Convention. Penned by Aaron Sorkin, this movie is a historical crime that warrants its own trial. There's no evidence pacifist defendant David Dellinger ever physically struck anyone in his life, let alone a United States Marshall. In the movie, Black Panther Fred Hampton's assassination sparks an emotionally charged speech from defendant Bobby Seal that leads to his being bound and gagged. In reality, Seal was fixed to his chair and muzzled in October 1969, while Hampton died in December. In talking about bringing true-life stories to the screen, Sorkin says, "My fidelity is to the story, not the truth."

Netflix honors the rating requirements of the Federal Communications Commission and the Motion Picture Association of America. Rated TV-MA, they alert viewers The Crown includes sex, nudity, language, and smoking. The Trial of the Chicago 7 is rated R, and Netflix warns of “language throughout, some violence, bloody images and drug use.” Although content producers aren’t required to comment on historical accuracy, Netflix could be a role model by being the first. Instead of just warning viewers they are about to hear profanity, they could alert them the history they are about to see is profane.

Netflix would make Hollywood history by taking the more significant step of committing to historical accuracy over imaginative accuracy. Being inventive with Sorkin’s statement, Netflix could declare, “The fidelity to history is the truth.”

Speaking on behalf of the audience and taking some liberty with the motivation and dialogue of one of Mr. Sorkin’s own characters, Colonel Nathan Jessup from A Few Good Men, "We want the truth, and we can handle it."

Is It Time?

Mon, 09 Nov 2020 02:31:05 GMT

To communicate effectively, it’s not just what you say and how you say it; it’s also about when you say it. We’re familiar with the adage: “Timing is everything.”

Yesterday, after Joe Biden was declared the winner of the presidential election, Alexandria Ocasia-Ortez gave an interview to the New York Times. She took on the democratic party and warned the president-elect progressives were closely watching him.

Her interview was published today and is receiving some attention.

One could argue AOC might have chosen to get in line with her party on its victory weekend and align her message with theirs. There will be plenty of opportunities for her to push and poke in the weeks to come. AOC’s ability to take on the establishment and the status quo can improve the democratic party and our system of government. Why risk limiting her effectiveness by putting fellow party leaders on the defensive or weakening the party by forcing them to defend themselves from inside while taking on attacks from the outside?

However, there’s another adage: “Strike while the iron is hot.” And there’s no hotter time in party politics right now. While AOC’s comments may seem poorly timed, maybe they’re about time?

Tear Down Those Walls

Sun, 16 Aug 2020 01:35:51 GMT

In August of 1961, the communist government of East Germany began construction of a concrete wall to divide the city of Berlin. As much as the United States despised the wall's nearly thirty-year existence and its physical and intellectual barrier, we erected our own 21st-century version. Although invisible, its existence threatens our survival.

Courtesy The Sun

The Yalta Conference agreement at the end of World War II divided Germany between the Soviet Union and the rest of the Allies. Even though Berlin was within Soviet territory, the agreement called for the division of the city. Having the capitalist West Berlin within their communist enclave irritated the Soviets. Like temperate conservative Christians living next door to a college fraternity house, they didn't want their weaker family members tempted by their neighbors’ debauchery.

After previous efforts to isolate their neighbors failed, Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev gave the East Germans the nod in 1961 to construct the heavily guarded wall. Friends, family, and neighbors were separated, some permanently, by the concrete behemoth. Unlike fences erected to protect meticulously landscaped yards from marauding canines, there wasn’t easy gate access or the opportunity to exchange pleasantries over the top. Checkpoints were limited and tight, and anyone making a move to cross over was shot and killed. It wasn't until November of 1989 when the advance of democracy could no longer be stopped with concrete and barbed wire, that the wall came down.

Although the Berlin Wall was a barrier to physical movement, it was at its core an ideological barricade erected to squelch the exchange of knowledge and ideas. Our 21st-century wall is similar. This wall though is not a single physical monstrosity erected by the government. Millions of invisible barriers have been raised by individual citizens, walling themselves off from thoughts and ideas different from their own. These walls aren't constructed of concrete, steel, and wire, but instead are put together with building blocks of cultural, racial, and economic bias, bound together by closed-minded intolerance.

People who tried to climb over the Berlin Wall were silenced by gunfire. Today, ideas that attempt to climb over the fortress walls of partisanship are gunned down in a hail of rhetoric. Individuals defend their walled-off positions with distorted realities, and foggy anecdotes they claim are facts and history. Much like a family gathering where no subject is safe from a relative's alcohol-fueled ramblings, no topic is free from an inflamed response. Not even the once conversational neutral zones of sports or weather. Suppose a player on your favorite team speaks out. In that case, you should leave your logo emblazoned hat at home to avoid being cornered at the grocery store between the avocados and the kiwis by someone holding you accountable. Complain about the heat and risk an attack on your expertise in environmental science like a doctoral student defending their dissertation.

The Berlin Wall's arrogance was eventually brought down by the realization that erecting an unyielding barrier to isolate philosophies and beliefs actually suffocates the diversity of thought and ideas necessary for survival. It took twenty-eight years for the Berlin Wall to crumble. Forget our being able to wait nearly thirty years. This country may not survive another decade of its citizens hunkered down behind their walls of partiality. We can’t expect to grow and prosper when even the most superficial communication puts a person at risk of being shunned or isolated.

Ronald Reagan’s 1987 speech at the Brandenburg Gate demanding that Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev, “tear down this wall,” may not have been the hammer blow that disintegrated the structure. But it took a significant chunk out of the ideological concrete that held it together. In the speech, President Reagan said, “The totalitarian world produces backwardness because it does such violence to the spirit, thwarting the human impulse to create, to enjoy, to worship." Our personal totalitarian approach to ideas threatens similar violence.

It’s time to tear down our walls. Or each of us faces the danger of mentally freezing to death in the cold shadow of their intolerance.

A Thinking Deficit

Mon, 03 Aug 2020 01:38:38 GMT

“Yes, I admit. I’ve got a thinking problem.”*

The opening lines of a country song. Of course, there’s heartbreak involved, he’s haunted by the memories of a woman and the only way to stop from thinking is to keep on drinking. At least he’s identified the first steps to recovery by admitting there is a problem.

This country needs to admit we have our own thinking problem. Not because we’re doing too much, but because we don’t do enough. Thomas Edison recognized this a century before our lives became about gigabytes and download speeds, when he said, “Five percent of the people think; ten percent of the people think they think; and the other eighty-five percent would rather die than think.” We spend hours grazing the internet’s all you can eat buffet. Snacking on memes, gifs, Snaps, and Tik Toks. Gorging on videos, newsfeeds, social posts, replies and comments. Allowing very little time for the information to digest.

The millisecond break between consuming a piece of information then making a knuckle-jerk reaction across a keyboard or screen is not thinking. It’s reacting, responding and retaliating without considering context, perspectives, or facts.

We give the impression we’re exercising our thought processes. But too often the thinking pauses reflected in, “I need to consider that,” “I’ll think about it overnight,” and “Let me mull this over,” are in reality, “I’m busy reading ball scores,” “Maybe by tomorrow you’ll forget,” and “This one’s too hard, it can be a good development experience for someone else to handle.”

Good leaders spend time thinking. James M. Kouzes and Barry Z. Posner have done extensive research on leadership. Through their studies they developed five key leadership practices. Within this model they note that effective leaders take time to reflect on the past, attend to the present, and prospect the future.** To accomplish this leaders need to set aside time to think.

Although Richard Nixon is often remembered for his dark side, his administration re-opened relations with China, entered into détente with Russia and put forth progressive domestic policies, particularly in the area of the environment. As a leader Richard Nixon took time to think. He would spend hours in quiet contemplation, writing out his thoughts on a yellow legal pad, working his way to a decision. Warrant Buffet is reported to spend eighty percent of his day reading and thinking and when Bill Gates was leading Microsoft, he would spend a week in a quiet cabin twice a year to read and think. There aren’t too many people who can spend eighty percent of their day reading and thinking or disconnecting from all contact and responsibilities for a week. But most of us can afford some paper, a pencil or pen, and a few minutes out of the day to think through a problem, noodle the germ of an idea, or simply reflect on the day behind or the day ahead.

The lessons of Dr. Seuss apply as much to adults as they can children. The colorful cartoonist and writer encouraged us to, “Think left and think right and think low and think high. Oh, the thinks you can think up if you only try!”** Imagine the possibilities in our individual lives, families, and work if we just took some time to think. Ignore the emails, instant messages, snaps, or texts. Mute the cable news rants, and the late-night comedy monologues. Wrap your fingers around a pencil instead of a phone.

And think.

*Thinkin’ Problem, by David Ball, Allen Shamblin, and Stuart Ziff. Sung by David Ball

**James M Kouzes and Barry Z. Posner, The Leadership Challenge, (New Jersey: John Wiley & Sons, Inc, 2017)

***Dr. Seuss, Oh the Thinks You Can Think, (New York: Random House, 1975)

History is Safe

Mon, 06 Jul 2020 01:40:29 GMT

Some people spend countless hours deleting digital memories and dumping personal bits and pieces at the curb, thinking they can erase the past. However, history is not easily manipulated. The past is not captured and secured by objects and artifacts.

History is what the word implies – a story. The artful search for patterns and order among the random and extreme. A narrative crafted from a variety of sources and perspectives. A story developed through the examination and evaluation of theories, facts, opinions, misunderstandings, and lies, and all weighed against the evidence. History fills in gaps and provides a voice to the silent.

Historians are tasked with finding and evaluating the evidence and developing the story. They conduct their research from the elevated perspective that today gives us over yesterday. From this height, they can be, as historian John Gaddis observes, "in several times and places at once and they can zoom in and out between macroscopic and microscopic levels of analysis."

Contrary to repeated sensationalized cries, history in this country is not being erased, altered, or killed. The removal of a statue from a town square or a name from a building no more erases the historical narrative of a person's life, their accomplishments, failures, and influences than digitally removing a person from a group photo erases their existence or impact. You might successfully remove a single reminder or a mark of recognition, but the history remains in the collective; letters, notes, memos, manuscripts, drawings, photographs, and recordings. It is captured in the reflections and observations of others and preserved in the articles, books, and papers of journalists, researchers, writers, and academics.

History also cannot be effortlessly rewritten or changed. Marc Bloch, in his highly regarded work, The Historian’s Craft, makes the astute observation that “with ink anyone can write anything.” Like the meticulous diagram of a family’s generations redrawn and rerouted by the evidence of DNA and the discovery of personal documents, putting something in writing and repeating it for decades doesn't make it true. Today anyone with thumbs can tweet, text, and post. Simply rewriting or attempting to reframe words or actions doesn’t erase their existence. It merely adds to the evidence available for study and interpretation. The phrases, “That’s not what I meant to say,” or “not what I intended to do,” are not a soft cloth rubbed against the dry erase board of life’s history classroom, wiping the slate clean.

History is sometimes marred by the intended or unintended bias of its authors. Which is why history is weighed and considered in its entirety, not on individual narratives. Politicians, protestors, and pundits play a role in history, but they do not control it.

History isn’t right or wrong and doesn’t pick sides. Short term efforts to try and guess where history is headed in an attempt to influence the journey are futile against the expanse of the landscape it travels.

Historian John H. Arnold says history is an argument between the past and the present, between what happened and what will happen next. History’s varied arguments are ongoing. They expand and contract based on the availability of evidence and the nature of its sources. Evidenced is discovered and verified, refuted and buried, or overshadowed by doubt.

The narrative feeds on knowledge and continues to grow. History has achieved what humans desire—the ability to live forever.

History’s arguments play a critical role in our lives. Because as Arnold observes, arguments create possibility. The possibility for change. We should stop wringing our hands about history’s artifacts and relics and instead consider what its narrative indicates might be possible today.

History doesn't currently need us to protect, shelter, preserve, or save it. Our past is taken care of. It's our future that is at stake.

The Tao According to Don Knotts

Thu, 02 Apr 2020 01:44:28 GMT

I don’t believe many people look to Don Knott’s for enlightenment. The man lives forever in the impossible to bury world of The Andy Griffith Show as the incompetent deputy Barney Fife. For some, he's the leisure suit wearing Mr. Furley from later seasons of the should have been canceled sooner, Three’s Company. Even though Fife and Furley were not spiritual guides, the expressive comic actor gave us someone who might be able to shed some light on these trying times of cancellations, social restrictions, and senseless hoarding.

College students, how about peering out your dorm room window, regretting that last Vegas Bomb, and praying for some campus-wide power outage to keep you from having to sit next to the weed smelling, mouth breather in Intro to Communications? Now you’re locked between your parents at the dining room table because its the only place their weak Wi-Fi will allow all three of you to get a signal. Are you enjoying your early lesson in the business speak that will haunt you for your entire work life? "What's our timeline for facilitating a disruptive deep-dive look at a scalable mission-critical strategy?" There’s always toggling between Twitter and your business professor reciting generally accepted accounting principles with his webcam pointed at his reindeer slippers.

Remember those sticking doors, dripping faucets, squeaking hinges, aging linoleum floors, and fading walls you wished you had the time to get to? Keys in hand, your spouse pushing you from behind, you demand to know what government official considers Home Depot essential.

Blackhawks fans, how about that night in early March when you sat at the bar drowning another loss in a cold draft, wishing the season would just end? Baseball fans, how's that shorter season you always wanted working out for you? Anyone else want to watch Tiger win his fifth Masters for the fifth time?

How about the neighbor who got a chain saw for Christmas and is finally able to pursue his lifelong dream of carving farm animals out of hardwood stumps? Never wanted to wear makeup again? Then why are you sitting in front of the mirror applying mascara to go to the mailbox? Wish you had the time to finally work through those cookbooks you bought but never cracked open? Sorry, you used the last of the butter and milk on yesterday's breakfast, lunch, and dinner of macaroni and cheese. Didn’t want to attend graduation and sit in the hot auditorium in that stupid hat and gown? Good luck getting through life without the valedictorian's charge to dream big and do great things.

I guess no one could have guessed that everyone’s wish would come true at the same time. That wanting some relief from work or school would isolate families, crater the economy, crush small businesses, and send you lining up for toilet paper like it was a discounted television on Black Friday. Think about this when you clench your teeth and stare at the person who alternates between using The Simpsons and The Avengers as their virtual Zoom background, or someone picks Monopoly as tonight’s game. Consider it when you're thirty-five years old and wake up for the fifth morning in a row after dreaming about Thomas the Tank Engine, the dog runs and hides every time you pick up the leash, and you’re now watching true crime documentaries to learn how to get away with murder. Instead of calming yourself by dreaming of an escape - picture Don Knotts.

Be careful how you wish.

Please Read the Instructions Before Use

sophermedia@gmail.com (Jonathan Strupek) — Thu, 06 Feb 2020 02:48:02 GMT

There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who read instructions and those who operate by instinct.

People who measure out all the ingredients before they start cooking, inventory the parts against the list before putting Slot A in opening B, and who won’t power on a television, computer, or appliance without reading the user’s guide from “warnings” to “troubleshooting.”

Then those who toss out the instructions with the cardboard box, Styrofoam packing, and bubble wrap. They rely on experience and intuition and operate by trial and error.

Success isn’t guaranteed if you follow the written word. Operations can go astray by a misprint, misunderstanding, or an explanation that requires an advanced degree in engineering to understand. And failure isn’t destined for the assembly adventurer. Many a roadblock is overcome by a Google or YouTube search.

This theory applies mostly to appliances, toys, casseroles, and furniture. When it comes to putting together our democracy, I think most of us are flying blind and haven’t bothered to crack the cover on the instruction manual.

In 1787 some men got together in Philadelphia and drafted the Constitution of the United States – the owner’s manual for our country. In the two hundred and thirty-three years since the instructions were expanded and clarified only twenty-seven times. Unfortunately, outside of a high school or college history class, too many of us never bothered to read it. Let alone re-read it. At 7,591 words, it certainly requires more attention than a 280-character tweet, a cat meme, or a video of Colbert’s monologue. It takes more time to read than a 4000-word magazine article, but significantly less than the 190,637 in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, or the hours necessary to consume the latest Scorcese or Tarantino picture.

This doesn’t stop people from offering their interpretation of the document. Too many of them schooled by a link shared on Facebook most likely written by a teenager in Kazakhstan or the barroom interpretation of a drunken bowling partner.

I’m not confident the people we’ve selected to operate the country have read it either. How many of us would step on board a passenger jet if the pilot learned how to fly by watching Top Gun or Snakes on a Plane? Yet every day, we turn the steering wheel of our country over to people whose constitutional studies I firmly believe are limited to a viewing of School House Rock’s “I’m Just a Bill.”

According to the Chinese zodiac, 2020 is the year of the rat. It's not an exaggeration to think the foundations of our democracy are weakened by the sharp teeth of the rats of ignorance and ego. What if we consider the remainder of 2020 the year of the Constitution and commit to reading it? And holding those accountable in government for reading it also. We owe it to the men who gathered in Philadelphia to make an effort to stop the shredding of their hard work.

Here’s a link. It’s free. Just like the Super Bowl halftime show and the impeachment hearings. After reading it, you might be able to tell the difference between people shaking their asses, and others showing theirs.

What About Our Future Kobes?

Thu, 30 Jan 2020 02:49:52 GMT

This weekend the world lost an NBA giant, a player of such talent and abilities he left a permanent mark on the sport and inspired millions through his play. But what about the deaths of those who never had a chance to be a Kobe? We mourn the loss of celebrity athletes and artists who touch and inspire us, but look past the seemingly endless headlines announcing another child struck done by gun violence. Children who never had the chance to be a husband or wife, mother or father, let alone a famous athlete, singer, actor, or writer.

The tragic helicopter crash that took the lives of nine people, including Kobe and his daughter Gianna, occurred on Sunday, January 29. Also, on Sunday, nine-year-old Giovanni Tambino was shot and killed in Newburgh, New York. He died along with two adults. The motive is still under investigation, but there was a relationship between the victims and the shooter. In Elk Grove, California, a man shot and killed his two-year-old son then took his own life.

Part of Kobe’s legend is his exit from Lower Merion High School in Ardmore, Pennsylvania, directly into the NBA. On February 14, 2018, 14 students entered Marjory Stoneham Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, and never left. Victims of the deadliest high school shooting since Columbine, Colorado. There, on April 20, 1999, 12 students died, not including the two who engineered the massacre. Twenty-six students whose chances to win NBA championships, earn Academy Awards or Pulitzers or have children of their own, were destroyed by a bullet. In Newtown, Connecticut, there were 20 children who never even made it to high school, shot and killed on December 14, 2012, in Sandy Hook Elementary School. The scores of children whose lives were cut short by gun violence is gut-wrenching.

There’s already talk Sunday’s crash is putting a focus on helicopter safety. It’s not hard to imagine some new rule or regulation will result. It might even be called Kobe’s law. The people involved will congratulate themselves and take pride in their accomplishment. It may save lives. Fifty-one people in the United States died from helicopter crashes in 2019. There were 983 children ages 0-17 killed by gun violence.

Helicopters aren’t guns but all deaths are tragic. Any we can prevent are gifts.

When are we going to recognize the gifts of all those potential Kobes who are victims of gun violence and give them the same chance he had.

Let's be Evel

Fri, 24 Jan 2020 02:51:18 GMT

In December I made a post-retirement pilgrimage to Montana to spend a few days in a place that gives me peace. Open ranges with grazing cattle, herds of elk, wandering pronghorn, deer, crystal clear trout waters, and most importantly - poor radio reception, and gaps in cell coverage. During my trips there I like to visit places I’ve never been to. This time I took a short drive to the historic bare-knuckle mining town, Butte. I drove the streets, checked out a used bookstore, and then went in search of the gravesite of the city’s famous son. The hard-living, hard-driving, motorcycle stunt driver, and fanciful showman, Robert “Evel” Knievel.

Knievel made 75 motorcycle jumps in a career that spanned from the 1960s to the later part of the 1970s. He leaped over cars, trucks, buses, and made an ill-fated jump over the fountain at Las Vegas’ Caesar’s Palace that left him with a crushed pelvis and femur, fractures to his hip, wrist, and both ankles and a concussion that put him in a coma. It wasn’t the first time he crashed or his last, and he would break and re-break many more bones. At the peak of his fame, he attempted to jump Idaho’s Snake River Canyon in a “rocket-cycle.” The stunt failed when the cycle’s parachute deployed on takeoff.

He was also a master of personal branding. When Evel intended to jump English buses in Wembley stadium and was confronted with a pre-sale of only 3000 tickets in a 100,000-seat venue, he took to the streets and undertook his own public relations campaign. Without the benefit of today’s social media megaphone, he filled Wembley with 80,000 people.

In a closing monologue voice-over in the 1971 biopic Evel Knievel, George Hamilton as Knievel sums up his role in society:

“Important people in this country … celebrities like myself, Elvis, Frank Sinatra, John Wayne, we have a responsibility. There are millions of people that look at our lives and it gives theirs some meaning. People come out from their jobs, most of which are meaningless to them, and they watch me jump twenty cars, maybe get splattered. It means something to them. They jump right alongside of me … they take the bars in their hands and for one split second they’re all daredevils.”

People may have lived vicariously through the last gladiator during his jumps, but they wouldn’t have wanted to live like him. The 2015 documentary Being Evel and Leigh Montville’s 2011 biography, Evel: The High-Flying Life of Evel Knievel: American Showman, Daredevil, and Legend reveals the sometimes-violent, philandering, criminal, conman, egotist in Knievel. But even with all this, we need more people like Evel.

Oh, we have enough daredevils. YouTube is filled with millions of videos of professional and amateur stunts. Some impressive, most just stupid. Politics and business have their share of philandering, criminal, egotistical, con artists. What we need are more people who mirror Knievel’s refusal to be boxed in by someone else’s idea of social norms and tradition.

At home, people are motivated by shares and re-tweets, likes and loves. At work, even though they’re encouraged by the tired and trite business mantras to “think outside the box” and “push the envelope,” they’re still restrained by corporate drones ready to shoot down their careers if they threaten someone else’s domain or self-imposed power. Although some refuse to be stopped by these invisible and senseless barriers and succeed, they are far outnumbered by those who play it safe. We are unwittingly becoming a risk-averse culture competing in daily popularity contests, afraid of who might disagree, take offense, or complain.

Evel is buried at the Mountain View Cemetery. A sign directs visitors to his gravesite. Despite his individual flamboyance in dress and mannerisms, other than some red white and blue bunting in a nearby tree, it’s fairly simple and understated. A single granite headstone that Evel had made right before the Snake River Canyon jump. It was intended to mark the site of his potential demise and was put into storage when his life didn’t end there. The side engraved before the jump has an image of the rocket cycle and identifies him as Robert ‘Evel’ Knievel, motorcyclist and daredevil, gives details of the jump, and has a simple quote over the image of an American flag, “A man can fall many times in life but he’s never a failure if he tries to get up.” The other side is the traditional name and dates of birth and death with “Words to Live For – Faith Health Education Love Honorability Dream Believe in Jesus Christ.”

Evel knew who he was, and regardless of what others thought, he wasn’t afraid to be that person. When asked why he put his life in danger his answer was, “I do it because I’m Evel Knievel and there’s something within me that makes me do it, and I don’t try to figure it out, I just try to do it the best I can.” Over the closing credits of the 1971 movie is a song inspired by Evel that includes the lyrics, “Sell your soul to the future, fortune and to fame, up your status and then they remember you as old what’s your name. So, I do what I please.” Play the game and in the end what will people remember?

Imagine the possibilities if instead of people modeling their lives after social media “influencers” whose actions are designed to please or allowing their actions to be dictated by a shallow corporate khaki lackey protecting their own status, they instead followed Knievel’s lead. They took a risk. Grabbed the handlebars of life’s ride, became a daredevil and jumped over the canyon of conformity.

We could use more Evel in this world.

Based on a True Story

Sat, 25 May 2019 01:56:17 GMT

Most movies are entertaining fiction. There is no African country of Wakanda or an exotic island where pre-historic dinosaurs roam. Rocky Balboa does not exist, and there is no Batman. (If there were a Batman though, Michael Keaton’s portrayal would be the most accurate.) But unfortunately, when a filmmaker hangs the tag "Based on a true story,” on a movie, or the film represents history, many people think they are getting the truth.

The emotional truth is you wanted to stop for a few beers after work. The fictionalization is a friend was struggling with a personal crisis and only you could offer the advice they needed to recover.

The movie Spotlight shone a bright light on Boston Globe reporters who uncovered widespread child sex abuse in Boston’s Catholic Churches. At the time of its release, amid claims of inaccuracies, the film's co-writer and director Tom McCarthy said, "The movie is based on real events and uses, by necessity, scenes, and dialogue to introduce characters, provide context and articulate broad themes.” This introduction of characters and articulating broad themes portrayed Jack Dunn, the director of public affairs at Boston College, so inaccurately he left the theatre and vomited. Then he sued. As part of the settlement, the producers admitted in a public statement, "As is the case with most movies based on historical events, ‘Spotlight’ contains fictionalized dialogue that was attributed to Mr. Dunn for dramatic effect. We acknowledge that Mr. Dunn was not part of the Archdiocesan cover-up.”

Journalist Brian Williams enhanced his experiences in war-torn Iraq for dramatic effect and lost the coveted anchor chair of NBC Nightly News. The creators of Spotlight were rewarded for their use of dramatic effect with Oscars for best picture and best original screenplay.

One of the most dramatic stories in American history is the Apollo 11 moon landing. Historian James R. Hansen’s book First Man, about the life of Neil Armstrong, the first man to step foot on the surface, was the basis for the 2018 film of the same name. There is an emotional scene where Armstrong makes an unscheduled walk and drops his daughter’s baby bracelet into a crater. Although there is no evidence Armstrong left anything behind, during his research Hansen got a sense it could have happened and thinks if he did leave something of his daughter's behind, like her baby bracelet, it would have made the landing more memorable. Hansen claims, “there are times when the power of poetry prevails over the uncertainty of fact.” Or does the power of money in exchange for story rights and a co-producer credit prevail over facts?

Aaron Sorkin wrote the play and subsequent screenplay for the fictional story, A Few Good Men. In a memorable scene Jack Nicholson as Lieutenant Colonel Nathan Jessup, in a vicious way tells a young lawyer, portrayed by Tom Cruise, “You can’t handle the truth.”

Sorkin and others who build movie narratives around history and true stories should understand audiences not only need the truth, but history requires it.

The Grand Discovery of Grandparenting

Sat, 20 Apr 2019 01:53:46 GMT

A little over a month ago was the first anniversary of my becoming a grandfather. The party invitations said it was my grandson Carter’s first birthday, the cake had his name on it, none of the presents were mine, everyone sang to him, and no one wanted my picture, but inside I knew it was my day too. Although he changed the most - starting the year crying, confused and hungry and ending it laughing, alert, and shoveling handfuls of crunchy snacks in his mouth - things changed for me too. Physically I gained a few pounds. A few crunchy snacks passed my lips also, only mine were deep fried. But there was something else.

As the year progressed though, things felt a little different. It was more than just decreased drainage. It was his joy in discovery. Bright colors. Splashing water. The sour taste of a pickle and the soft sweetness of a banana. And music. Not just the happy melody of a children’s tune. One afternoon we grandfathers, Carter and my son grabbed lunch at a favorite establishment. The jukebox was playing. Jukebox music is like oxygen or the Shamrock Shake. You don’t notice it till it’s gone. Or someone plays Sweet Home Alabama three times in an hour and screams the words like they’re a drunk 22-year-old standing in a muddy field at a county fair concert. I didn’t notice the music until Carter stiffened in his high chair, tilted his head and cracked a wide toothy grin. Then started to bounce to the rhythm of a song. A tune I heard thousands of times, that rocked my dorm room speakers decades ago, and now made an occasional underappreciated reappearance on SiriusXM’s 70s on 7. Don't Bring Me Down by the Electric Light Orchestra. At that moment I got to experience the song with someone who never heard it before. I realized then that through Carter I was finding renewed appreciation in things I had stopped noticing.

Bubbles, a warm breeze on your face, someone you love walking through the door, a juicy tangerine, the sloppy kiss of a dog, the pages of a familiar book. Not only the joy of re-discovery but also appreciating a child’s ability to live in the moment. Nothing else matters but what’s in front of them.

I wouldn't say being a grandparent has so much changed my life as it has given me a renewed perspective. Be grateful for even the simplest pleasures and focus on the now, because the next moment will be here soon enough.

So, if you need me for something, it’ll have to wait. I’m sitting here with some crunchy treats re-discovering Charlton Heston in a loincloth.

Hey. Don't bring me down.

To A Friend

Mon, 25 Feb 2019 02:58:31 GMT

I have been fortunate to make many friends in my life. And by friends, I mean an actual emotional and physical connection beyond the cyber sharing memes and cat videos on Facebook. People we meet in elementary and high school and college. As a result of our work and moves that may result. Some are casual and passing. Others are close and long-lasting and survive the test of time and distance. Each friendship is different. Because we all bring something unique and different to friendship and we all take something unique and different away.

I knew our lives together would be short. It’s the nature of a dog’s biology. Jake’s DNA was largely Newfoundland. We recently learned there was also some lab and collie in his bloodline. Ten or 11 years is average lifespan for the larger breeds. December 27, 2018, was Jake's sixteenth birthday.

By early January Jake could no longer climb the stairs to our second floor, and he needed middle of the night trips outside to relieve himself. To keep him company and help him respond to the call of nature I spent most of January and February sleeping on the first-floor family room couch. In those weeks his hearing, eyesight, and thought process diminished, and I knew our time together was coming to an end.

Friday night I hosted an annual charity event that requires me to be engaging and quick on my feet. Jake and our two other dogs greeted me when I got home.

When Saturday morning came though he and I knew our time together here was over. He held on past Friday, but his energy was gone. My wife and I hoped Jake would pass quietly from this world in his sleep. I am glad he didn’t. I got one last chance to tell him how much of a friend he was to me. And before the bright light in his eyes dimmed he was able to share as much with me.

Jake bounded into my life as a puppy and a stranger in February 2003. He quietly left it in February 2019 as an old man and a close and dear friend.

God speed Jake. Thank you for being my friend.

There I Go, Turn The Page

Mon, 18 Feb 2019 03:02:08 GMT

In January I saw Bob Seger in concert. Although he still sings of being young and restless and bored, Bob is older, rested and energized. He sang hit after hit for two hours, moving back and forth across the stage, swaying, and dancing, arms raised above his head, pulling the crowd into the show. No obvious evidence of the spinal surgery that interrupted the tour. Most of us in the arena were like Bob, our hair shorter and grayer, our bodies bearing the scars of our own surgeries, and our faces creased by the tracks of time.

The letters in bold are Bob's; the others are mine.

We have deadlines and commitments. For decades it was our job to work the fields every workday, have a picnic every Labor Day. But with autumn closing in those days can change. Above all the lights of the day to day, up those twisting turning roads of life’s journey, is a place where some men never go. They remain just another spoke in a great big wheel. But time doesn’t stop, and all too soon we'll wonder, twenty years now, where’d they go?

When we reminisce about the days of old, do we consider the potential of the years ahead? Too many people delay their dreams with the pacifying promise that if I ever get out of here, that's what I'm gonna do. Too many never take that long shot gamble. But those that do all have one thing in common. They got the fire down below.

The road to my next chapter lies somewhere ahead. When it gets here, it might be the hardest thing I’ll ever do, but I’m looking forward to the chance to turn the page. Maybe I’ll leave them whispering in my wake, Joe’s run off to fire lake.