To Be A Man Of Letters

I'm not a purist. Not by any stretch of the imagination. There are those who prefer longhand, sketching stories in pencil or pen on legal pads. Not me. 

No, I can barely read my own printing today. It's progressively gotten worse over the years, especially since I predominated type everything I write and have for decades.

The irony here is the fact that, throughout most of high school, I wanted to be an architect, and my printing was impeccable due to all the drafting courses I took.

But thanks to one typing class my freshman year in high school on an IBM Selectric III, my printing went to hell in a handbasket from then on. 

That's when my grandfather gave me his typewriter, a Remington Noiseless from the 1930's (hence my using the Courier font in this piece). The ribbon was a pain in the butt to manage, but mercy me I loved that typewriter. I typed many a poem, story and class paper on that old machine, and it was the only "word processor" I had my first year in college. Yes, white out was my best friend that year during all my late night typing fests. 

I dug up an interview I did with my grandfather the year after I learned how to type, one that I typed up on the very typewriter he gave me. We talked about the Great Depression and it's fascinating to me now since I've become a self-taught student of economics.

"Well, I [my grandfather speaking here] was 21 years old when the depression began, and my wife was 20. We lived in Bloomington, Indiana. We had gotten married just 6 months before the stock market crashed in 1929. The thing I noticed the most was that banks started closing and closing fast. People were losing money everywhere. People were also losing their homes.

Oh, yes, I remember the stock market crash! Besides losing money and banks closing, I was hearing of people killing themselves. Also, I had a friend that had lost all of his hair besides his money. He ended up separating from his wife and heading for the hills to pan for gold.

Most of the people I knew had lost their jobs. I was lucky. We lived on a farm. But the farm wasn't that good of an income then. I also chopped wood for making railroad ties at $0.10 an hour, 10 hours a day. I know it doesn't sound like much, but it helped a lot."

Ten cents an hour. Wow. Well, the writing for me continued and the typing went from the Remington to a Magnavox Videowriter (remember those?) to an early Apple home computer to a variety of PCs to my MacBook and iPad of today.

A big part of being a writer is reading and I've been fortunate to have such rich access to both. I grew up buried in books, tunneling through character and plot. Words were sustenance for heart and mind. I've always thanked my mother for feeding my primal critical thinking mind by reading to me and encouraging me to read and write. My wife grew up with a voracious appetite for reading as well.

So when the Mama and I had children, of course we planned to ignite our same love of books and story in them, which we've done successfully. The imagination fire in their bellies burns bright and we read every day and every night. 

The Mama takes both girls to the library every week and they bring a big bag of books home each and every time. This summer they've been in the Read to Rhythm program sponsored by the Santa Cruz Friends of the Santa Cruz Libraries. And speaking of economics, they're incentivized to read -- the more they read the more "book bucks" they get to spend on yummy treats around town.

Both Beatrice and Bryce are rich storytellers and have been telling them visually through drawing and play-acting (just as we did at a very early age as well). And now that Bea is learning to read and write, her heart lights up with story, which in turn lights up ours. Bryce isn't far behind either, already writing her name and other letters relaying animated visions as if the world were her stage.

I've been fortunate to write regularly with modest success and visibility, to publish a weekly column about empowering a better workplace, and to have published a children's book and a career management business book. My girls and the Mama also inspire me to one day write that great American novel as well, to be a man of letters I've always aspired to be.

Maybe someday...

Just don't ask me to handwrite anything. It would be like trying to read Tolkien Dwarvish runes. Trust me. 

Schooled At Schoolhouse Rock

“Interjections 
Show excitement, 
Or emotion. 
They're generally set apart from a sentence
By an exclamation point,
Or by a comma when the feeling's not as strong.”

—Schoolhouse Rock, Interjections


The staff member stared at me, a slight forced smile on her face betrayed her awkwardness.

"Excuse me, but I'm going to have to stand here and watch you delete it."

An hour earlier the local musical production of Schoolhouse Rock Live! was just about to start and we all simmered with excitement. The girls were a little worried about how loud it would be and had their ear muffs at the ready, but the Mama and me couldn't wait. We grew up on Schoolhouse Rock and had introduced the girls to some of them in the past year, some of their early favorites being "Three Is a Magic Number," "I'm Just a Bill," and "Interplanet Janet."

The announcer began and ran through show preliminaries. We half-listened while waiting for the show to start.

"...and due to copyright laws, flash photography or video recording are not permitted during the production or anywhere inside the theater..."

The first half of the production started and the Mama and I were lost in childhood memories -- waking up early for Saturday morning cartoons and the Schoolhouse Rock shorts in between. Bryce got a little squirmy, but Beatrice enjoyed every song. This production told the story of a teacher getting ready for his first day of school and how his beloved Schoolhouse Rock comes alive in his living room to teach him how to be a better teacher. (We highly recommend it.)

Intermission came and we ate a snack in the lobby and took a bathroom break. Once back inside the theater, we sat down, but then I had the bright idea of taking a picture of the stage and posting it online. We'd already done a #BhivePower selfie and posted it, so being the social big daddy I am, I thought I'd take a quick shot.

As soon as I took the picture of the stage and headed back to my seat, Beatrice called me out.

"Daddy, you're not supposed to take pictures."

"Shhhh...I know. Don't tell anyone."

The people right behind us laughed at Beatrice schooling her father, but no sooner had I started to edit the photo to post, one of the theater staff appeared and looked right at me.

"I'm sorry, but I was told that someone down here was taking pictures down here. Again, photography of any kind isn't allowed in the theater."

"I'm sorry," I admitted. The Mama gave me a "you're caught" look, laughed and shook her head.

The staff member just stared at me. A slight forced smile on her face betrayed her awkwardness. I looked down to break eye contact, already bummed that I was caught. She didn't leave.

"Excuse me, but I'm going to have to stand here and watch you delete it. Sorry."

Or by a comma when the feeling's not as strong.

Rats.

So there I was, in front of my family, and those other audience members paying attention, deleting the stage photo I took so she could see I actually deleted it.

"Thank you," she said, and was gone.

"Daddy, I told you," Beatrice said.

Schooled at Schoolhouse Rock. The fact that my eldest daughter paid attention and knew what I did was wrong was actually an awkward but proud parenting moment.

B-hive power indeed. So instead, I took a picture of the production poster in the lobby, the rebel I am.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah -- Yay!

Darn, that's the end.

Because That's How It Works With The Guys That Work

“It seems to me I could live my life
A lot better than I think I am
I guess that's why they call me
They call me the working man…”

—Rush


The social notification popped up on my phone.

Craig R kettlebellied

I'm sorry, what? I thought.

Wait, that's not quite right. I squinted and read again.

Craig R kettlebelled

What?

I opened up the MapMyRun app to make sure I got it right. Then I made a sarcastic comment on my friend Craig's MapMyRun feed. Then he responded. And then I did again. And so it goes.

And I still didn't get what kettlebelled was, until we got together and talked workout shop that help us old guys fight the effects of age and gravity's depravity.

Because that's how it works. Between friends that work. When you've known each other a long time you're rightfully comfortable in calling each other out, calling each other names and calling the kettlebelly black, all the while like big brothers (although sometimes like stepsisters) who always have the other's back, practicing the lifestyle of true friendship.

For nearly 40 years we’ve collectively been the guys that work. Some of us are childhood friends, some of us meeting later in high school or right after high school, all who in adulthood continue making an annual trek to hangout for a rest day like we did again recently.

Men of a certain age, an unremarkable age, who continue to invest in a friendship that’s seen many ups and downs, ins and outs, and others who have come and gone over the years. Men who have had varying careers, varying relationships, some with children and some without, who have experienced hardship and loss as well as success and enduring love. Men who have created an inclusive culture from a shared collective of unique behaviors and experiences that extend well beyond the bounds of their own inner drum circle, affecting many others in their lives – family, friends, colleagues and today even passerby on social networks.

The guys that work. But it’s not all unconditional bromance love-fest because there’s a valuable return for us all – the catch phrases, the sounding boards, the support networks, the referrals and all the memories that keep us motivated, working hard to keep working together and reinvesting in our mutual friendships.

Just like the guys at work reference that Geddy Lee makes about his bandmates and long-time friends in Rush, a progressive rock band that’s been playing together for over 40 years and my favorite band. But the “guys at work” include everyone who works for, in and around Rush, and their extended families and friends. (Yes, they make fun of me for always fitting in the Rush reference. Hey, I'm only a fan, not a fanatic.)

But the guys at work that work isn't usually the norm, since women still having older and longer-lasting friendships than men. But we've been an exceptional footnote to that data, one that I hope my girls are proud of someday when they look back over 40 years of their friendships.

Because that's how it works with the guys that work. Amen. Let's do a little kettlebellying, my Brothers.

The Part When Freedom Rings

“Alternating currents force a show of hands
Rational responses force a change of plans
Anything can happen…”

—Neil Peart (now an American Citizen, by the way)

The girls listened as we explained why we celebrate the 4th of July.

"Do you know what country we live in?" I asked.

"Santa Cruz," Beatrice answered.

"No, that's the city we live in. The country we live in is --"

"California!"

Not surprising coming from young kids who experience the literal "now" and frame their responses accordingly. Even with the traveling we've done to date, the answer a few weeks ago would've been New York.

We went on to give then a very brief, high-level overview of the United States of America, sans the Revolutionary War for now, but including the fact that it's 239 years old and July 4 is its birthday.

"Is that as old as the world?"

"No, the world is billions of years old."

"Wow," Bea said, not really getting the span of geological time. Bryce had already moved on to something else.

Beatrice will start 1st grade this year and soon will begin the standardized learning of American history and beyond. Thankfully they're both still too young to fully experience the institutionalized crazy American politics has become (and actually always has been), but they are old enough to have experienced community generosity here at home and elsewhere. They've met many decent Americans from diverse backgrounds who are personally responsible citizens. No matter how viscerally frayed, thankfully the fringe on either end doesn't affect the B-hive.

At least, not yet. For the Mama and I, we revel in the fact that we live in a country where we can still "turn the channel" from detrimental viewpoints and content (in our opinion). And we can freely share our own beliefs in live and virtual forums where others can nod in agreement, responsibly disagree, or turn the channel as well. This and voting can be important catalysts for change, although economists argue that our individual votes don't really make a difference, so why do we vote, but individually the aggregate can make for very powerful and inspiring motivation.

We also pride ourselves in staying informed as much as possible, reading reputable "in the middle and a little to the left" mostly objective media outlets and listening to and/or watching the like (for me, that's NPR, hands down), and not simply overreacting when misinformation floods the social channels as it so often does (and I've gotten swept away in more than once).

Being an informed citizen free to agree or disagree, and/or participate or not in the divisive social and political rhetoric, but always participating in the betterment of society through responsible personal leadership, family, community and country and of course inspired action -- that's the part we want to live everyday.

The part when freedom rings and the independence and individuality empowers the rights of others who feel the same. The part we'll continue to celebrate and instill in our girls while negating hate, prejudice and oppression. The part when we acknowledge equality, regardless of sexual preference.

And then there's the reality that, while they may not be able be able to be whatever they want when they grow up, we do still live in a country where opportunity aspires to these ends and there's resiliency in that American economic magic.

Heck, there still may be gold in them thar hills...

Where The Real Magic Happens

“Magic happens—but it often requires some planning.” —Neil Peart

I sat less than two feet from the TV. Fixated. My butt glued to the floor. Nothing else mattered except for the singing and dancing monsters, children and adults on the screen. The chill of foggy frosted winter mornings or the scorching summer Central Valley heat made no difference. My mom would vacuum all around me and I still wouldn’t budge. I didn’t hear or see anything else except for my special show brought to me by the letters A-Z.

“…can you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street…”

That blessed little Children’s Television Workshop creation (now Sesame Workshop) that launched learning and imaginations not only for the Mama’s and my generation, but also for the subsequent generations since – including our girls. Over 45 years of Jim Henson furry Muppet fun on an imaginary inner-city street in New York City.

The Big Apple idea that shared big yet safe, sometimes socially and culturally sensitive, accessible information for toddlers and children (and their parents) about learning and life. So it was only appropriate that when we planned our big family vacation adventure to New York City and beyond, that we’d end where it all began for us as children – Sesame Place – the amusement park that celebrates all that’s huggable Muppet and more. To sit on that beloved corner of 123 Sesame Street with my girls

We’re West Coast folk for sure, but we decided that for this adventure we wanted to go east, to do something different and give the girls some travel sea "land" legs for a future of continuous discovery. We’ve traveled many different places with them prior to this, but this was the longest duration we’ve done “on the road again” since before they were born. The Mama architected the journey and I helped with a few finishing touches and then we were off…no step-by-step planning, just enough of an outline to guide us on our journey and make some magic.

Because that’s what travel is for us, experiencing new locales and their locals who light up synapses we never knew we had like exotic fireflies on a sweet summer night. That includes those across town or across the state or across the country or around the globe. As much as our budget bandwidth allows, and even then the Mama is quite creative with a dollar.

It’s important to us that our girls eventually find it important to them that there’s a whole world of adventure and experience out there, easy and hard lessons alike, spacious views and painful realities, that will give them a rich tapestry of perspectives and worldviews. We can only hope that these experiences, along with the mindful presence we try to impart on them over the years and the spirituality they may find, will help them hewn the strongest of life staffs for their journeys far and wide.

Oh, and there’s the fun. Tons and tons of fun.

So now after over 6,300 miles of planes, trains and automobile through three states, five cities, a cave and visits with family and friends in less than two weeks, we’re home.

And that’s where the real magic happens anyway, when the blur of what we've experienced pools in our busy heads and hopeful hearts like summer rain in Central Park.

To Those Fathers Lost Loving What They Do

The voice mails knocked the wind out of me. Literally. After only hearing a few of them back to back I had to move on in the memorial and quickly. I've heard some of them over the years and of course have read, viewed and heard the countless tragic and heroic stories about what happened that beautiful blue sky morning.

But the voice mails, they really tore me up inside (with the "missing posters" coming in a close second). On this Father's Day nearly 14 years since it happened, I imagine those fathers (and everybody else that day) going to work that morning to do what they loved to do so they could help take care of their families. Of course not everyone feels this way, but I like to believe that besides bringing home a paycheck there's something or many things inherently motivating for us in the work that we do.

I talk about that a lot of late -- the fact that we're loyal to the work we love to do. But that's not quite the complete picture, only snapshot from the industry I work in and the work I love to do. Most of us are loyal to the family and friends we love and care about first, then the communities we share with other families and friends outside of ours, and then the work we love to do and/or the business we create that brings work that gives us meaning and a means to an end in those communities we share with many others.

There were those fathers (and everybody else that day) who worked on every floor of the World Trade Center twin towers, and those who worked in and around the streets below, and those who worked as first responders that fateful day.

During our family vacation this week we visited the 9/11 Memorial Museum. At first, the Mama and I were okay with our solo tours (we didn't bring the girls through the whole thing together, but we talked with them about it). But then, it became overwhelming, our own emotions from the memories of 9/11 pulling us under like a riptide.

But it was a double riptide for me listening to the voice mails of those calling loved ones from the planes or the buildings, telling them what was happening.

Then there's the part when the husband leaves his wife a voicemail that says, "I'm going to be okay. I'm in the other tower."

The second riptide is the automated voice at the very end of the loved one's message.

"End of message."

That's it. It doesn't matter which god you believe in (or not), or what part of the political spectrum you fall in, that's it. That automated part of the message marked the tragic end for so many people, eerily punctuating the end of their stories. And to the fathers (and everybody else) who tried to save so many others, God bless them all -- those lost and those who lost and those who live with the memories of horrific terrorism.

Because that's what it was. Crazy and not so crazy people who hated us willing to die to kill innocent Americans and many others from other parts of the globe. It doesn't matter what came before and what role our government may or may not have played in what led to it. What matters is how we mobilize to heal.

Like terrorist acts all around the world for thousands of years, they're crazy and not so crazy people who hate other people and would rather have them eradicated than actually have to co-exist with them. It's also about power and control and keeping those despised powerless and in constant fear of injury and/or death. These acts span a myriad of civilizations, religions and political factions, and do not fit neatly into any world view no matter how hard we try (and dear God, we certainly try).

Then there's the part when you're on vacation meeting decent Americans from diverse backgrounds and tourists from all over the world in one of the greatest cities in the world, New York, and then you hear about the terrorist attack in South Carolina, one where a single person took the lives of nine others in what is supposed to be a safe haven -- a church. Call it what it is, kids. This was terrorism, something we avoiding calling our own in this country, and thankfully many reputable media outlets are calling it just that. Terrorism against a black congregation because of a hateful white man's vendetta that blacks and whites should not live together in the same communities, a racist pox this country has yet to be able to cure, much less eradicate. The terrorist brought this pox and sat at with the Bible study group at the historic Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in South Carolina, and then he killed them.

I'm writing this today, on Father's Day, to call for the same kind of mobilization we had on 9/11 for these terrorist atrocities in our own cities against decent Americans, whether in the North or South, East or West, Right or Left, Black or White, or any of the ethnicities that make up supposedly still one of the greatest "free" nations today. I call for us to mobilize and help this community and others like it and treat them with the same respect and reverence that we did on 9/11. The 9/11 Memorial Fountains are perfect metaphors for this kind of loss, the endless tears that flow into dark abyss after dark abyss -- while the people who gather around it pay their respects and many hope to make a difference for our future.

Because then I imagine the part when Rev. Clementa Pinckney, one of the nine victims who perished in the SC terrorist attack, leaves voice mails the morning of June 17 for his beloved wife and children while on the way to doing the work he loved to do for the community he loved doing it for. I imagine his family listening to it over and over again, mourning there loss, punctuated painfully by the automated voice saying, "End of message."

The other morning while on vacation our youngest daughter Bryce brought the Bible from the hotel room to breakfast. She doesn't really know what it it is, and we're not church-going folk (although I was raised so), but it was sweet how she called it her book of charm bracelets.

As I celebrate Father's Day with my wife and daughters in a hotel in New York City, I am so very grateful and draw upon my early Christian roots, sending healing thoughts and prayers to all the families who lost loved ones in Charleston, South Carolina, this last week.

My affinity is to those fathers lost loving what they do to make a positive difference in this world, and today I choose to celebrate them.

Not Really A Miracle On 34th Street

"Wait, why are you closed again?"

"Because we're moving stores soon."

No signs posted anywhere. No automated message when I had called the store. Nothing.

We were soaked completely through from the rain, although we now had umbrellas. The two young women who said they worked at the store smiled at us as if we should've known, like maybe we simply neglected to read the imaginary memo sent to us from afar.

"Sorry girls, no Promise Pets," the Mama said.

I looked up and cried out to the vacation gods in vain, but they only answered with more warm rain.

***

Six weeks earlier the Mama had launched the plan. We were in the midst of finalizing our big summer vacation to New York City and the girls really wanted Promise Pets -- these cute, floppy-eared Beagles you can get from Build-A-Bear Workshops. Since there was a flagship Build-A-Bear workshop in NYC, we were going to take the girls there, but they'd have to earn "stars" by helping around the house in order to get the beloved Beagles.

Beatrice gets the value of a dollar, or is at least starting to understand. Bryce, not so much, so the star idea was a good one. Week by week the girls helping the Mama around the house, unloading the dishwasher, folding the clothes, feeding our fish, and other helpful tasks. Bea worked hard to get all her stars, and although Bryce struggled for most of the time, she came through in the end.

And so just a few days ago we flew to NYC and our summer adventure began. It had been over 12 years since Amy and I had gone to New York, but even then we remember walking through historic and iconic Central Park for the first time. This time with the girls it was just as memorable, and being summertime as opposed to early spring the first time we went, the park was lush and emerald green, with the trees and vegetation offering cool refuge from the muggy hot City streets. But even in the park we wilted quickly, me and the girls more than the Mama who had grown up with humid summers in the Midwest.

With the girls in tow, we visited the Central Park Zoo, and then the Children's Zoo, and the historic carousel, and then one of the playgrounds and splash parks where the girls got to cool off. At times the humidity was unbearable for me, but I survived, even after we each had to carry Bryce for part of our journey. We came across a pair of park musicians who were amazing, playing guitar and violin and singing classics such as "Dear Prudence" by the Beatles.

“…the sun is up, the sky is blue, it’s beautiful and so are you…”

Indeed. All in all a fantastic first visit with the girls to Central Park. Then it was time to find the Build-A-Bear Workshop, the flagship store located not too far from Times Square. The subway took us part way and then we walked, and walked, and walked in and around Times Square, taking in all the sights and sounds and smells (good and bad) and aggressive migrant street performers dressed as Elmo, Pooh Bear and Minions, hawking hugs and pictures for money.

But we loved it all and the end game of course were those hallowed Promise Pets. However, even with GPS, we kept going up and down and in and around Times Square without finding the Build-A-Bear. Then, it started to rain, and immediately there were street hawkers galore selling umbrellas.

Which we didn't buy. At least, not at first. No, we kept trudging away. The Mama found the scent of the trail again and there we were, the B-hive marching through the Big Apple, block after block, until within 10 minutes we were completely soaked.

But, none of us were squawking, not even the girls. Nope, we just kept on and on until finally we slipped into a little side street store and purchased two cheap umbrellas and ponchos for the girls. Bryce didn't like the poncho at all but thankfully cheap umbrellas worked.

Suddenly there it was, shining like a warm beacon in the heavy summer rain, after hours of NYC adventure behind us -- the Build-A-Bear Workshop on the corner of 5th Avenue and 46th Street.

We crossed the intersection and stood perplexed because we couldn't find the door. And when we did, the doors were locked, although the store was lit from the inside and there were people moving around. They were difficult to see however because the entire two sides of the corner store were blocked out with a white covering; we couldn't see a thing except for said cracks where the locked doors were.

So I called the store that only led me into a mousetrap game-like phone tree experience and never to a live person, and the rain still hadn't let up.

"I want a Promise Pet," whined Bryce.

"Me too," said Beatrice.

Finally, two young ladies came to the locked doors near where we stood. They had an empty flat cart and knocked on the door, so we assumed they worked there.

"Do you work here?" I asked.

"Yes," one of the women said, smiling.

"Are you open?"

"No, we're not."

The Mama and I couldn't believe what we were hearing.

"What do you mean you're not open?"

The other woman spoke. "Oh, sorry. You can try our other store at [undecipherable]."

We just looked at each other.

"Are we getting the promise pets now?" both girls asked.

I shook my head in disbelief. "Wait, why are you closed again?"

"Because we're moving stores soon."

No signs posted anywhere. No automated message when I had called the store. Nothing.

We were soaked completely through from the rain, although we now had umbrellas. The two young women who said they worked at the store smiled at us as if we should've known, like maybe we simply neglected to read the imaginary memo sent to us from afar.

"Sorry girls, no Promise Pets," the Mama said.

I looked up and cried out to the gods, but they only answered with more warm rain.

That's when things went really fast--

We tried to hail a cab, but none would stop.

I said 'Let me use Uber.'

'Great,' the Mama said.

But then I realized I hadn't used the app for a while and had deleted it. 

I downloaded it again, but then couldn't remember my login info. 

I tried to connect with Facebook, but it tried to create a new account.

The rain kept coming. 

You've got to be kidding, I thought.

'Are we getting a promise pet?' the girls asked again.

Then a cab pulled over and got us.

I called the other [undecipherable] Build-A-Bear location, but it turned out to be Macy's.

So I told the cab driver to take us to Macy's on 34th Street (yes, the famous one), because we figured we could find toys there and we couldn't find the other Build-A-Bear anyway.

More rain. Traffic jam.

Time ticking.

We finally get to Macy's and we get inside and ask two other young ladies:

'Excuse me, where is the toy section?'

'Oh, I'm sorry. There aren't any toys here at this Macy's. We only carry toys at Christmas.'

We couldn't help but laugh. 

The girls were disappointed but kept the faith as we moved outside again, the rain finally stopping.

We found the Manhattan Mall just up the street, which actually had a Toys "R" Us Express, and was actually open, and actually had toys the girls wanted.

And me too.

Not really a miracle on 34th street, but the B-hive takes Manhattan nonetheless.

Right on. #BhivePower #NYC