As a boy, Christmas was by far my most anxiously awaited day of the year. I used to mark the days off a calendar tacked to my bedroom wall, starting the day after Thanksgiving. My mother adored all things Christmas, and her enthusiasm was infectious. You couldn’t live in her house and not be excited about Christmas. I would hear her singing, “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” every single day of the season.
I made my Christmas wishes known early in a personal letter to Santa Claus. I wrote a copy for my mother just in case the rumors swirling around elementary school concerning the “Santa Question” turned out to be factual. I didn’t want to believe it then, and I’m still not happy about it even now. I understand the universal truths about no free lunches and what goes around comes around, but c’mon, wouldn’t the world be a far better place with a real Santa Claus in it? Oh sure, I know what you’re thinking. Somebody, somewhere would be offended. Santa would be forced to lawyer up to deal with all the injunctions. His liability insurance would go out the roof, so to speak. And attempts would be made to unionize his helpers and risk outsourcing the entire production process to India. But wouldn’t an iPod or an iPad or an iPhone underneath the tree help? Or a pair of iMittens and a scarf? Or a signed copy of Shall Never See So Much? Of course it would.
But I digress.
On Christmas Eve, our tradition was to have our family gathering at my grandmother’s home. Our family budgets were always limited, but that didn’t stop my grandmother and uncles from giving terrific gifts. I couldn’t wait to tear into my stack of boxes. And I was never disappointed.
On Christmas Day, my brother and I awoke early and charged into the living room to see what awaited. I remember some of the sights, but what I remember more clearly were the smells of the electronic devices like radios and trains and games. Santa was perpetually generous, a nice return on the investment of a cookie and glass of milk, which he never entirely finished. We then opened the gifts we exchanged as a family, which, in my case, tended more toward gifts of clothing. A big breakfast with big biscuits and sausage followed, and then it was on to playing with the new stuff.
Our extended family gathered in the afternoon at our home. I wish I could turn back the clock and have just one more hour with my parents and relatives all under that same roof again. One more hour to share the laughter and the revel in the fellowship of family. Just one hour.
When our family gathers this Christmas, I’ll make it a point to remember that priceless memories are being made. I’ll enjoy each moment, each person, like we always do, like we used to do when I was a kid. No, I can’t get that long-ago hour back, but I can enjoy and savor the hour I’ll be gifted when we’re all together again.
I can’t wait. And for the record, I still miss Santa Claus.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Birthday of the Marine Corps
November 10th is the 236th birthday of the United States Marine Corps.
I had the great privilege of serving on active duty in the Marine Corps for three years back in the early Seventies. Apart from my family members, a few close friends, and the 4th of July, the only other birthday I point to each year is the birthday of the Corps.
It’s worth noting that the Marine Corps birthday is a big deal to Marines. It’s been celebrated for as long as this nation has existed. Marines have been mounting up, moving out, and following their commanders into every clime and place since those first young men stepped forward at Philadelphia’s Tun Tavern in 1775. And they’re still stepping forward, thankfully. Indeed, they’re still performing brilliantly—the very best and brightest and bravest this nation possesses, as good now as they’ve ever been.
These young men and women who wear the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor belong to the United States of America, to us, to all of us, and we should stop and thank God for them. Countless generations of Marines have said goodbye to loved ones, endured harsh weather and debilitating disease, faced and defeated determined enemies, shed their blood, lost their buddies and sometimes even their own lives, and in the process honored us and the Corps they served by keeping us a free nation. Their sacrifices, their courage, their magnificence is what I remember and celebrate every November 10. It’s a small act for such an incredible lineage of honorable, gallant, and victorious service.
I feel blessed to have worn a uniform upon which the world-renowned initials USMC were etched.
Happy birthday, Marines.
And by the way, Thank You.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Airports & Airplanes: Observations of Useful Things (Or Not)
• When eating peanuts, women often place the peanuts on a napkin and proceed to consume one at a time. Men will often open the bag and invert directly into the mouth. Southerners will open the bag, pour a few into their free hand, gently shake back and forth as if cleansing, and then toss into the mouth. I can always spot a fellow grit.
• If someone in the coach section reclines their seatback into your face, well past the one or two customary clicks, then try coughing with such force that their hair actually parts. It very often works. Throw in some sniffles for additional urgency. “Oh, I think I’m gonna sneeze,” can be the clincher. If it’s a long flight, throw in a warning cough every half-hour, or so.
• If a female traveler with a carry-on bag strikes up a conversation with you in the gate area, know that she is judging your trustworthiness. Soon you may hear, “Will you watch my bag while I make a quick trip to the ladies room?” Just beware that on average a quick trip will take 16.25 minutes, so if you’re eligible to board early, you’re obliged to stay with her bag. You gotta do it. A good preemptive move would be to declare, “Yes, I’ll watch your bag,” as soon as eye contact is made. Could save you five or six minutes; could make you look like a fool, too. Whatever.
• American air carriers have an extraordinary record of safety, but it’s always worthwhile to know where the emergency exits are located. It’s also worthwhile to guess which of the passengers will be the ones pushing and crawling over others in a mad attempt to escape first. I’ve always assumed that the biggest men would be the most ruthless (and thereby the least helpful) in an emergency. And then I have to remind myself that I’m a big man.
• Remember that the most dangerous part of any trip starts when you get off the airplane and get into a car.
• If someone in the coach section reclines their seatback into your face, well past the one or two customary clicks, then try coughing with such force that their hair actually parts. It very often works. Throw in some sniffles for additional urgency. “Oh, I think I’m gonna sneeze,” can be the clincher. If it’s a long flight, throw in a warning cough every half-hour, or so.
• If a female traveler with a carry-on bag strikes up a conversation with you in the gate area, know that she is judging your trustworthiness. Soon you may hear, “Will you watch my bag while I make a quick trip to the ladies room?” Just beware that on average a quick trip will take 16.25 minutes, so if you’re eligible to board early, you’re obliged to stay with her bag. You gotta do it. A good preemptive move would be to declare, “Yes, I’ll watch your bag,” as soon as eye contact is made. Could save you five or six minutes; could make you look like a fool, too. Whatever.
• American air carriers have an extraordinary record of safety, but it’s always worthwhile to know where the emergency exits are located. It’s also worthwhile to guess which of the passengers will be the ones pushing and crawling over others in a mad attempt to escape first. I’ve always assumed that the biggest men would be the most ruthless (and thereby the least helpful) in an emergency. And then I have to remind myself that I’m a big man.
• Remember that the most dangerous part of any trip starts when you get off the airplane and get into a car.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
A Gold Medal Moment
Back in February, my novel Shall Never See So Much was chosen by MWSA (Military Writers Society of America, of which I am a member) as its Book of the Month selection. MWSA had also provided a very favorable review that described the story as “incredible.”
Is there an author anywhere who wouldn’t relish such a description? Not at this desk, I have to say. The adjective incredible is always a coveted measure of performance unless, of course, its negative use flouts a particularly dark part of one’s character or boorish behavior, in which case its inclusion in a blog of this sort would become unlikely.
At any rate, I received notification this past weekend that MWSA selected my novel for a Gold Medal in its category of Historical Fiction–Chronicle. A freakin’ Gold Medal, for cryin’ out loud! Like Michael Phelps wins every time he enters a pool. Like the award that launched the career of Sugar Ray Leonard. Like the entire 1980 U.S. Olympic Hockey team wore after they took down the vaunted Russkies and the Finns.
I’ve always wondered what it might be like to win a Gold Medal.
Well, thanks to the wonderful folks at MWSA, I’m going to construct a podium, unfurl my American flag, and find a recording of the National Anthem. Then I’m going to stand up there proudly and have myself a moment. I don’t mean just any moment; I’m talking about A GOLD MEDAL MOMENT.
Then I’ll finally know.
Is there an author anywhere who wouldn’t relish such a description? Not at this desk, I have to say. The adjective incredible is always a coveted measure of performance unless, of course, its negative use flouts a particularly dark part of one’s character or boorish behavior, in which case its inclusion in a blog of this sort would become unlikely.
At any rate, I received notification this past weekend that MWSA selected my novel for a Gold Medal in its category of Historical Fiction–Chronicle. A freakin’ Gold Medal, for cryin’ out loud! Like Michael Phelps wins every time he enters a pool. Like the award that launched the career of Sugar Ray Leonard. Like the entire 1980 U.S. Olympic Hockey team wore after they took down the vaunted Russkies and the Finns.
I’ve always wondered what it might be like to win a Gold Medal.
Well, thanks to the wonderful folks at MWSA, I’m going to construct a podium, unfurl my American flag, and find a recording of the National Anthem. Then I’m going to stand up there proudly and have myself a moment. I don’t mean just any moment; I’m talking about A GOLD MEDAL MOMENT.
Then I’ll finally know.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Elephant in the Room
"Elephant in the room" (as described by Wikipedia) is an English metaphorical idiom for an obvious truth that is being ignored or goes unaddressed. It is based on the idea that an elephant in a room would be impossible to overlook; thus, those who pretend the elephant is not there have chosen to avoid dealing with the looming big issue.
One of those issues is the Orphan Epidemic. You've probably seen the pictures and heard the stories of their plight. The bad news is that it’s often easy for us to turn away from dirty, snotty, malnourished kids. The good news is that my middle son is addressing this particular “elephant in the room” through a non-profit organization called Patch Our Planet. He saw a problem that is largely underserved and felt compelled to do something about it.
According to most estimates, there are in excess of 140 million orphans worldwide. The population of Russia is slightly under 142 million people, to provide some context. Enormous numbers of children are in the streets of our countries each year, with no direction and no hope. Is it any wonder that sex trafficking, drugs, and homelessness enter into and profoundly affect these young lives?
My son founded Patch Our Planet with the belief that there is only one lasting solution, or patch, to the Orphan Epidemic, and that is through churches. There was a time when churches took the lead in this crisis. But at some point that church leadership diminished, while at the same time the orphan problem was growing exponentially larger. That is what Patch Our Planet has been chartered to do: to provide sustaining leadership. It exists to equip and educate churches to care for orphans here and around the world. It sees a world where every church in every community is caring for every orphan. That’s leadership! And that’s working toward a sensible solution to a large and seemingly intractable problem.
How exactly does it work? Patch Our Planet has developed two strategies for the local church. There is a Local Orphan Strategy (foster care) and a Global Orphan Strategy (world orphans). It works in collaboration with the leaders of churches to fit the strategy into the church's overall vision.
How can you help? You can imagine trying to start a non-profit organization in this economic environment. Launching any type of venture at any given time is a daunting task, so there must be a passion that underlies the organization. I see that passion in my son's organization. There is an elephant in the room and my son has chosen to step forward and do something about it. He can use your help, along with the millions of orphans’ lives he has been inspired to improve. Here are some ways you can learn more:
Website: www.patchourplanet.org
Donate: http://patchourplanet.blogspot.com/p/our-inspiration_25.html
Follow on Facebook: Patch Our Planet
One of those issues is the Orphan Epidemic. You've probably seen the pictures and heard the stories of their plight. The bad news is that it’s often easy for us to turn away from dirty, snotty, malnourished kids. The good news is that my middle son is addressing this particular “elephant in the room” through a non-profit organization called Patch Our Planet. He saw a problem that is largely underserved and felt compelled to do something about it.
According to most estimates, there are in excess of 140 million orphans worldwide. The population of Russia is slightly under 142 million people, to provide some context. Enormous numbers of children are in the streets of our countries each year, with no direction and no hope. Is it any wonder that sex trafficking, drugs, and homelessness enter into and profoundly affect these young lives?
My son founded Patch Our Planet with the belief that there is only one lasting solution, or patch, to the Orphan Epidemic, and that is through churches. There was a time when churches took the lead in this crisis. But at some point that church leadership diminished, while at the same time the orphan problem was growing exponentially larger. That is what Patch Our Planet has been chartered to do: to provide sustaining leadership. It exists to equip and educate churches to care for orphans here and around the world. It sees a world where every church in every community is caring for every orphan. That’s leadership! And that’s working toward a sensible solution to a large and seemingly intractable problem.
How exactly does it work? Patch Our Planet has developed two strategies for the local church. There is a Local Orphan Strategy (foster care) and a Global Orphan Strategy (world orphans). It works in collaboration with the leaders of churches to fit the strategy into the church's overall vision.
How can you help? You can imagine trying to start a non-profit organization in this economic environment. Launching any type of venture at any given time is a daunting task, so there must be a passion that underlies the organization. I see that passion in my son's organization. There is an elephant in the room and my son has chosen to step forward and do something about it. He can use your help, along with the millions of orphans’ lives he has been inspired to improve. Here are some ways you can learn more:
Website: www.patchourplanet.org
Donate: http://patchourplanet.blogspot.com/p/our-inspiration_25.html
Follow on Facebook: Patch Our Planet
Thursday, September 15, 2011
A Marine Hero
Today former Marine Corps Corporal Dakota Meyer was presented the nation’s highest military award for combat valor, the Medal of Honor, by President Obama in a White House ceremony. Corporal Meyer’s Medal of Honor award is the first to a living Marine since the Vietnam War.
Disobeying an order to remain clear of a deadly ambush zone, Corporal Meyer moved forward in a Humvee driven by a fellow Marine to provide covering fire and to also evacuate several wounded against what was right on the verge of being an overpowering enemy force. Corporal Meyer entered the lethal space four separate times in the process of rescuing 36 Afghan and American troops, several of whom he personally carried to the Humvee for evacuation to the rear. After already performing well above the normal call of duty, Corporal Meyer learned that four of his mates were still in the ambush area. Making a fifth trip, Corporal Meyer again braved withering fire only to find that his three fellow Marines and a Navy corpsmen had been killed in the vicious firefight. “It’s what Marines do,” he replied when asked why he moved forward when others stayed back.
At the time, Corporal Meyer was 21 years old.
Like other Medal of Honor awardees, Corporal Meyer insists he is hardly a hero. He says he will accept and wear the medal to honor the Marines he served with, especially his four buddies who died. “The worst day of my life,” he says of his profound sense of loss. “I feel like I failed them and failed their families.”
My gosh. A failure?
This young man made five trips into what was a hot combat hell, with 36 men alive today based directly upon what he did. He drove out under the threat of likely violent death five different times. He tore into the enemy with the ferocity of an enraged United States Marine, the flashing of his weapon the last sight many of his Taliban ambushers probably ever saw. He left his position several times to bring wounded to his vehicle. He himself was wounded. He left no one on the field. All of this after having been ordered to stay put.
A failure?
No. A warrior.
One hears the term “warrior” these days to describe athletes and others who play games. The word’s use is widespread and gratuitous, much like the young use “amazing” to describe anyone or anything only slightly above ordinariness. To see an NFL wide receiver thumping his chest after a routinely “amazing” play and hear him characterized as a “warrior” is ludicrous when compared to a real warrior like Corporal Dakota Meyer.
That our nation produces such courageous, selfless people as Dakota Meyer should make us ALL better. You have the gratitude of this former Marine for what you did and who you are.
Semper Fi, my young brother.
Disobeying an order to remain clear of a deadly ambush zone, Corporal Meyer moved forward in a Humvee driven by a fellow Marine to provide covering fire and to also evacuate several wounded against what was right on the verge of being an overpowering enemy force. Corporal Meyer entered the lethal space four separate times in the process of rescuing 36 Afghan and American troops, several of whom he personally carried to the Humvee for evacuation to the rear. After already performing well above the normal call of duty, Corporal Meyer learned that four of his mates were still in the ambush area. Making a fifth trip, Corporal Meyer again braved withering fire only to find that his three fellow Marines and a Navy corpsmen had been killed in the vicious firefight. “It’s what Marines do,” he replied when asked why he moved forward when others stayed back.
At the time, Corporal Meyer was 21 years old.
Like other Medal of Honor awardees, Corporal Meyer insists he is hardly a hero. He says he will accept and wear the medal to honor the Marines he served with, especially his four buddies who died. “The worst day of my life,” he says of his profound sense of loss. “I feel like I failed them and failed their families.”
My gosh. A failure?
This young man made five trips into what was a hot combat hell, with 36 men alive today based directly upon what he did. He drove out under the threat of likely violent death five different times. He tore into the enemy with the ferocity of an enraged United States Marine, the flashing of his weapon the last sight many of his Taliban ambushers probably ever saw. He left his position several times to bring wounded to his vehicle. He himself was wounded. He left no one on the field. All of this after having been ordered to stay put.
A failure?
No. A warrior.
One hears the term “warrior” these days to describe athletes and others who play games. The word’s use is widespread and gratuitous, much like the young use “amazing” to describe anyone or anything only slightly above ordinariness. To see an NFL wide receiver thumping his chest after a routinely “amazing” play and hear him characterized as a “warrior” is ludicrous when compared to a real warrior like Corporal Dakota Meyer.
That our nation produces such courageous, selfless people as Dakota Meyer should make us ALL better. You have the gratitude of this former Marine for what you did and who you are.
Semper Fi, my young brother.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Random Thoughts . . .
All of this stock-market volatility makes my stomach churn. As if there’s not enough volatility in the world already.
I wonder how society will pay the doctor and hospital bills of the Boomer generation for the next 25 years? Will there be enough physicians? Enough beds? Enough diapers? Just send the bills to our kids.
Speaking of kids: I’m not exactly sure when the lines crossed, but my three kids now teach me more than I teach them. They think very well on their own, and they know a lot about life and parenting and how the world might work better. I listen carefully, because inevitably I learn something useful. They pastor large churches, start non-profits, raise kids with their spouses, and run small businesses on the side. It’s not enough that they’ve given us wonderful grandkids, but now I can quietly listen and learn. And I do.
Speaking of grandkids: They are one of life’s grandest gifts, to be sure, each one a unique little treasure that keeps on giving and enriching. I’m thankful beyond measure that I’ve lived long enough to receive such a bountiful blessing.
Speaking of living long enough: The recent helicopter crash that took 30 of our finest reinforces the truism that our freedom comes with a price. They were all dedicated and brave young men, their lives cut short and their families devastated over such a profound loss. We should be made better by their sacrifice.
Try as I might, I can maintain a salad diet for only one week, tops. Then it’s gotta be Mexican. Or Chinese. Or Italian. Or whatever.
I’m a Coca-Cola guy. Diet Coke, to be specific. I live in Atlanta, so Pepsi has absolutely no utility in my life. Not now, not ever. I ordered a Diet Coke and a banana split from room service several years ago, and the guy on the other end of the phone started laughing. Hey, a guy’s got his preferences, right?
Speaking of Atlanta: The summer Georgia heat has been brutal of late. Hi-90s in the shade. Could it be that Al Gore is right? By the way, Al, thanks for inventing the internet. Keeps me inside in the air-conditioned cool, ordering stuff from Amazon and monitoring the stock-market swings.
Kudos to the Atlanta Braves. We won’t likely catch the Phillies in the regular season, but we’ll get ‘em in the postseason.
That’s it for now.
Bye.
I wonder how society will pay the doctor and hospital bills of the Boomer generation for the next 25 years? Will there be enough physicians? Enough beds? Enough diapers? Just send the bills to our kids.
Speaking of kids: I’m not exactly sure when the lines crossed, but my three kids now teach me more than I teach them. They think very well on their own, and they know a lot about life and parenting and how the world might work better. I listen carefully, because inevitably I learn something useful. They pastor large churches, start non-profits, raise kids with their spouses, and run small businesses on the side. It’s not enough that they’ve given us wonderful grandkids, but now I can quietly listen and learn. And I do.
Speaking of grandkids: They are one of life’s grandest gifts, to be sure, each one a unique little treasure that keeps on giving and enriching. I’m thankful beyond measure that I’ve lived long enough to receive such a bountiful blessing.
Speaking of living long enough: The recent helicopter crash that took 30 of our finest reinforces the truism that our freedom comes with a price. They were all dedicated and brave young men, their lives cut short and their families devastated over such a profound loss. We should be made better by their sacrifice.
Try as I might, I can maintain a salad diet for only one week, tops. Then it’s gotta be Mexican. Or Chinese. Or Italian. Or whatever.
I’m a Coca-Cola guy. Diet Coke, to be specific. I live in Atlanta, so Pepsi has absolutely no utility in my life. Not now, not ever. I ordered a Diet Coke and a banana split from room service several years ago, and the guy on the other end of the phone started laughing. Hey, a guy’s got his preferences, right?
Speaking of Atlanta: The summer Georgia heat has been brutal of late. Hi-90s in the shade. Could it be that Al Gore is right? By the way, Al, thanks for inventing the internet. Keeps me inside in the air-conditioned cool, ordering stuff from Amazon and monitoring the stock-market swings.
Kudos to the Atlanta Braves. We won’t likely catch the Phillies in the regular season, but we’ll get ‘em in the postseason.
That’s it for now.
Bye.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
America in August, 2021
The Dow closed July at 4,512, up from June’s 4,314.
The U.S debt increased to $28 trillion, or 167% of GDP, at the end of Q2, 2021. Members of the Democrat, Republican, Tea Party, and Compassion Now! political parties reached agreement on the debt increase after a contentious debate.
The U.S and Greece entered into a trade agreement; terms and estimates weren’t immediately available.
The U.S. National Health Services announced that a Six-Sigma study concluded that senior citizens over the age of 66 years, 7 months, 6 weeks, who required orthopedic surgery, would henceforth be outsourced to Cuba. The NHS organ-transplant czar stated there would be no changes in the policy of outsourcing transplant surgeries to Thailand. An airline transport-shuttle contract was awarded to Baghdad Air.
Pakistan threatened a nuclear exchange with India over a border dispute. Iran warned the U.S to avoid intervention or risk Iranian nukes against all 50 American states and Puerto Rico. Puerto Rico responded that Iran would consequently risk a “full retaliatory response launched from San Juan.” Guyana threatened to nuke Suriname over the expanding drug war. The U.S. Secretary of Defense, at a press conference on the subject of proliferation, shrugged and said, “What do you want me to do, guys?”
College football players remained on strike for the 6th consecutive week. The College Football Players Association remained adamant that 20% of all athletic revenue be allocated for football players’ salaries, estimated at $188,000 per scholarship athlete. Women athletes are expected to sue. One prominent Southeast program said its athletes are unhappy with what they assert would be a serious cut in pay. “C’mon y’all, this is America!” signs appeared on campus.
Publishing news reflects the continuing migration to E-books. Only 1,700 hardbound books were sold in the nation’s 30 remaining book stores in June.
The Army plans to debut a new pink beret by Fall. The new headwear will be optional for Special Ops personnel.
Ford announced that its new 2022 model Colossus will be rated at 66 MPG with GPS, no-charge batteries, hands-free phone and texting, anti-theft warning identification with optional fragmentation devices, and armor plating for urban driving. Car loans at the prime rate of 13.75% are available for qualifying customers.
The TSA announced that it will no longer need any mechanical screening devices. “We can simply tell by looking at ‘em,” is the new advertised slogan. The TSA workforce has been augmented by employees of the now defunct postal service.
The Rolling Stones announced a new U.S. tour, beginning in November and sponsored by Viagra.
The U.S debt increased to $28 trillion, or 167% of GDP, at the end of Q2, 2021. Members of the Democrat, Republican, Tea Party, and Compassion Now! political parties reached agreement on the debt increase after a contentious debate.
The U.S and Greece entered into a trade agreement; terms and estimates weren’t immediately available.
The U.S. National Health Services announced that a Six-Sigma study concluded that senior citizens over the age of 66 years, 7 months, 6 weeks, who required orthopedic surgery, would henceforth be outsourced to Cuba. The NHS organ-transplant czar stated there would be no changes in the policy of outsourcing transplant surgeries to Thailand. An airline transport-shuttle contract was awarded to Baghdad Air.
Pakistan threatened a nuclear exchange with India over a border dispute. Iran warned the U.S to avoid intervention or risk Iranian nukes against all 50 American states and Puerto Rico. Puerto Rico responded that Iran would consequently risk a “full retaliatory response launched from San Juan.” Guyana threatened to nuke Suriname over the expanding drug war. The U.S. Secretary of Defense, at a press conference on the subject of proliferation, shrugged and said, “What do you want me to do, guys?”
College football players remained on strike for the 6th consecutive week. The College Football Players Association remained adamant that 20% of all athletic revenue be allocated for football players’ salaries, estimated at $188,000 per scholarship athlete. Women athletes are expected to sue. One prominent Southeast program said its athletes are unhappy with what they assert would be a serious cut in pay. “C’mon y’all, this is America!” signs appeared on campus.
Publishing news reflects the continuing migration to E-books. Only 1,700 hardbound books were sold in the nation’s 30 remaining book stores in June.
The Army plans to debut a new pink beret by Fall. The new headwear will be optional for Special Ops personnel.
Ford announced that its new 2022 model Colossus will be rated at 66 MPG with GPS, no-charge batteries, hands-free phone and texting, anti-theft warning identification with optional fragmentation devices, and armor plating for urban driving. Car loans at the prime rate of 13.75% are available for qualifying customers.
The TSA announced that it will no longer need any mechanical screening devices. “We can simply tell by looking at ‘em,” is the new advertised slogan. The TSA workforce has been augmented by employees of the now defunct postal service.
The Rolling Stones announced a new U.S. tour, beginning in November and sponsored by Viagra.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Is Loyalty Dead?
When I saw recently where Tiger Woods had fired his caddie of twelve years, I started thinking about the concept of loyalty. Is it disappearing from business and personal relationships? There are those who argue that indeed it’s long gone, as anachronistic and outdated as a music store.
Several years ago, I had an opportunity to visit a Midwest-based company who had been awarded a prestigious Malcolm Baldrige National Quality Award. Over an hour’s presentation, the company’s manufacturing representative made a point of mentioning (and then twice repeating) the fact that “loyalty in business is dead.” I wondered why he embraced such a notion, so I raised my hand.
Me: “Are you married?”
Him: “Yes.”
Me: “Have you ever played on a sports team?”
Him: “Yes.”
Me: “Were you ever in the armed forces?”
Him (proudly): “Yes, Army airborne.”
Me: “Do you force your employees to wear those blue t-shirts, the ones with the company logo?”
Him: “No, of course not.”
Me: “Doesn’t it demonstrate some degree of loyalty that they wear those shirts?”
Him: “Not really.”
Me: “If they wore your chief competitor’s t-shirt, would you consider that disloyal?”
Him (smiling): “They can wear whatever they want.”
Me: “Isn’t the business world really just a cluster of personal relationships, not unlike relationships in marriage or sports teams or military units?”
Him: “I suppose so, yeah.”
Me: “Then do you really buy that drivel about loyalty being dead in business?”
Him (pausing): “Yep, it just doesn’t exist anymore.”
Okay, so we disagree. And I understand that companies can’t promise lifetime or unconditional employment anymore, given the cutthroat, global competition that predominates today. I also understand that companies will sometimes discard loyal and often older, better compensated employees without a moment’s hesitation when the “downsizing” occurs. The most successful companies, however, who care deeply about their brand and their growth and their ability to attract, develop, and then retain good people, also care deeply about those people. Is that an aspect of loyalty? I think so, yeah.
Cantor Fitzgerald lost 658 of its employees, or two-thirds of its workforce, in the September 11, 2001 attack upon the World Trade Center. On September 12, the company committed itself to somehow rebuilding its business, almost from scratch. The firm made a pledge to distribute 25 percent of the firm's profits for the next five years, along with paying for ten years of health care, for the benefit of those 658 families. Is that an aspect of loyalty? Sure looks that way to me.
Lots of marriages still stay together; Marines and soldiers still selflessly throw themselves on grenades to save their buddies; companies spend large sums developing their employees and making contributions to their respective communities; not all golfers fire their longtime caddies.
Is loyalty dead? No, of course not. It’s MIA sometimes, but it’s certainly not dead. After all, who would want to live in a world where there’s no loyalty, or no blue t-shirts with the company logo?
Several years ago, I had an opportunity to visit a Midwest-based company who had been awarded a prestigious Malcolm Baldrige National Quality Award. Over an hour’s presentation, the company’s manufacturing representative made a point of mentioning (and then twice repeating) the fact that “loyalty in business is dead.” I wondered why he embraced such a notion, so I raised my hand.
Me: “Are you married?”
Him: “Yes.”
Me: “Have you ever played on a sports team?”
Him: “Yes.”
Me: “Were you ever in the armed forces?”
Him (proudly): “Yes, Army airborne.”
Me: “Do you force your employees to wear those blue t-shirts, the ones with the company logo?”
Him: “No, of course not.”
Me: “Doesn’t it demonstrate some degree of loyalty that they wear those shirts?”
Him: “Not really.”
Me: “If they wore your chief competitor’s t-shirt, would you consider that disloyal?”
Him (smiling): “They can wear whatever they want.”
Me: “Isn’t the business world really just a cluster of personal relationships, not unlike relationships in marriage or sports teams or military units?”
Him: “I suppose so, yeah.”
Me: “Then do you really buy that drivel about loyalty being dead in business?”
Him (pausing): “Yep, it just doesn’t exist anymore.”
Okay, so we disagree. And I understand that companies can’t promise lifetime or unconditional employment anymore, given the cutthroat, global competition that predominates today. I also understand that companies will sometimes discard loyal and often older, better compensated employees without a moment’s hesitation when the “downsizing” occurs. The most successful companies, however, who care deeply about their brand and their growth and their ability to attract, develop, and then retain good people, also care deeply about those people. Is that an aspect of loyalty? I think so, yeah.
Cantor Fitzgerald lost 658 of its employees, or two-thirds of its workforce, in the September 11, 2001 attack upon the World Trade Center. On September 12, the company committed itself to somehow rebuilding its business, almost from scratch. The firm made a pledge to distribute 25 percent of the firm's profits for the next five years, along with paying for ten years of health care, for the benefit of those 658 families. Is that an aspect of loyalty? Sure looks that way to me.
Lots of marriages still stay together; Marines and soldiers still selflessly throw themselves on grenades to save their buddies; companies spend large sums developing their employees and making contributions to their respective communities; not all golfers fire their longtime caddies.
Is loyalty dead? No, of course not. It’s MIA sometimes, but it’s certainly not dead. After all, who would want to live in a world where there’s no loyalty, or no blue t-shirts with the company logo?
Thursday, July 14, 2011
The State of American Politics
It’s hard to think of a more corrupting occupation than American politics. While it’s by no means an illegal activity, as opposed to, say, operating a meth lab or running guns to Mexico, it nevertheless seems to systematically corrupt otherwise good men and women of stature and accomplishment.
Our system has, in the past 235 years, produced political leaders who have provided able national leadership during times of war, of economic strife, of civil unrest, and of growth and regeneration. But something’s not right in our body politic. Its ability to produce leaders of quality has been severely diminished. Ironically, the world-class quality of our made-in-America products and services has risen steadily and inexorably over the last quarter century; ironically, too, the quality of our elected leaders has deteriorated steadily and inexorably over the same period. Or so it seems to me. We have philanderers and exhibitionists, bribe seekers and bribe takers, money launderers and sexual predators. We have a political class who has to beg for money virtually every day to keep their jobs. We have behavior from high elected officials that is routinely unethical, often immoral, and sometimes outright illegal. And then they have the nerve to complain about the political scruples of the Iraqi and Afghan pols.
We’ve always had our share of rascals in political life. I get that. And I realize our real-time, right-now, 24/7 news cycle exposes more of the underside of American life than ever before, to include political shenanigans. But heretofore we’ve always been able to produce political leaders to meet the challenges of the times. Someone has traditionally always stepped forward and led. Washington, Lincoln, TR, FDR, Truman, JFK, Reagan.
So where are they now? I can’t find any already in national office, and I’m looking hard, believe me. Oh, maybe there’s a leader in the military or private enterprise or state government who could provide quality leadership at the national level, but how long before they would be corrupted by special interests or re-election demands or the hyper partisanship or simply the arrogance that comes with raw power? And why would anyone in their right mind want to enter such a profession nowadays, what with the all-intrusive scrutiny and the pettiness and the begging and butt-kissing that go with it?
Bit of a conundrum, huh? Many good and talented Americans just stay away. And who can blame them? Those who do seek office seem to have to sell their souls to gain the office, only to be corrupted once there, choked, swallowed, and digested by a relentless, boa-like system. Not always, but seemingly often enough. And that is, if they weren’t corrupt to begin with. Those moths have always been attracted to the bright lights.
So where’s the leadership? Where’s the competence? Where’s the integrity?
Beats me. I wish I had a solution. But I don’t. Just like you, I’ll keep watching. And listening. And waiting.
And hoping.
Our system has, in the past 235 years, produced political leaders who have provided able national leadership during times of war, of economic strife, of civil unrest, and of growth and regeneration. But something’s not right in our body politic. Its ability to produce leaders of quality has been severely diminished. Ironically, the world-class quality of our made-in-America products and services has risen steadily and inexorably over the last quarter century; ironically, too, the quality of our elected leaders has deteriorated steadily and inexorably over the same period. Or so it seems to me. We have philanderers and exhibitionists, bribe seekers and bribe takers, money launderers and sexual predators. We have a political class who has to beg for money virtually every day to keep their jobs. We have behavior from high elected officials that is routinely unethical, often immoral, and sometimes outright illegal. And then they have the nerve to complain about the political scruples of the Iraqi and Afghan pols.
We’ve always had our share of rascals in political life. I get that. And I realize our real-time, right-now, 24/7 news cycle exposes more of the underside of American life than ever before, to include political shenanigans. But heretofore we’ve always been able to produce political leaders to meet the challenges of the times. Someone has traditionally always stepped forward and led. Washington, Lincoln, TR, FDR, Truman, JFK, Reagan.
So where are they now? I can’t find any already in national office, and I’m looking hard, believe me. Oh, maybe there’s a leader in the military or private enterprise or state government who could provide quality leadership at the national level, but how long before they would be corrupted by special interests or re-election demands or the hyper partisanship or simply the arrogance that comes with raw power? And why would anyone in their right mind want to enter such a profession nowadays, what with the all-intrusive scrutiny and the pettiness and the begging and butt-kissing that go with it?
Bit of a conundrum, huh? Many good and talented Americans just stay away. And who can blame them? Those who do seek office seem to have to sell their souls to gain the office, only to be corrupted once there, choked, swallowed, and digested by a relentless, boa-like system. Not always, but seemingly often enough. And that is, if they weren’t corrupt to begin with. Those moths have always been attracted to the bright lights.
So where’s the leadership? Where’s the competence? Where’s the integrity?
Beats me. I wish I had a solution. But I don’t. Just like you, I’ll keep watching. And listening. And waiting.
And hoping.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Baseball: The Grandest Game
Baseball is the grandest of all games, in my opinion.
I love its history, its traditions, its pace, and its iconic players. I can remember from my childhood hitting baseballs in the front yard, over the fence, like the great Mickey Mantle. The first time I saw Willie Mays’ batting stance, I adopted it for my own use. I even used his basket-catch method when I started out in Little League.
Nothing in sports is quite as beautiful or majestic to me as walking into a baseball stadium and seeing the colors—the green grass, the white chalk lines, the flag waving in the breeze, the teams in their respective uniforms. A hotdog never smells or tastes better than at a ballpark. Even the loudest of vendors hawking their goods in the aisle never seems obtrusive. On the scale of life’s most wonderful sounds, the popping of a catcher’s mitt or a wooden bat striking a cowhide ball rank only slightly below that of a baby’s laughter. To hear an umpire giving sharp, unambiguous ball-and-strike calls is a voice of America, plain and simple.
I’m not sure how many baseball, softball, or wiffle ball games I’ve played over my lifetime, but it’s enough to have crowded out the chance to learn a lot of practical stuff. I still can’t repair a car, and I had to learn things like basic plumbing and electricity well into adulthood. Still, I wouldn’t trade one well-hit line drive of my ball-playing days for any of the other skills.
My sons were excellent baseball players. Both were all-stars and both played on teams that won a lot. My daughter played softball equally as well, and still plays to this day. I enjoyed those days and nights at the ballpark, and I suffered withdrawal when their playing days were over. I knew then I’d have to do plumbing or electrical chores at home.
Now my grandsons are playing. The two eldest are excellent ballplayers who play with athleticism, smarts, and heart. Our family name is stitched onto the back of their jerseys, and they make me proud the way they play with skill and competitive fire on the field. They make me even prouder the way they play the game fairly and as good teammates. For me, it’s like going back in time, and I must admit that I can’t get enough of it.
Soon my 4-year-old grandson will get a great treat and see his first major-league game. And I’ll get a great treat in seeing him see his first major-league game. He’s going to be a player himself, and my instincts suggest he’ll be a splendid one. He’ll put on his hat and uniform and pull for the Braves to win yet another. He may even get to run the bases after the game is over. He’ll soak it all in and discover what a truly incomparable game baseball is. I know he’s excited about it.
Almost as much as I am.
I love its history, its traditions, its pace, and its iconic players. I can remember from my childhood hitting baseballs in the front yard, over the fence, like the great Mickey Mantle. The first time I saw Willie Mays’ batting stance, I adopted it for my own use. I even used his basket-catch method when I started out in Little League.
Nothing in sports is quite as beautiful or majestic to me as walking into a baseball stadium and seeing the colors—the green grass, the white chalk lines, the flag waving in the breeze, the teams in their respective uniforms. A hotdog never smells or tastes better than at a ballpark. Even the loudest of vendors hawking their goods in the aisle never seems obtrusive. On the scale of life’s most wonderful sounds, the popping of a catcher’s mitt or a wooden bat striking a cowhide ball rank only slightly below that of a baby’s laughter. To hear an umpire giving sharp, unambiguous ball-and-strike calls is a voice of America, plain and simple.
I’m not sure how many baseball, softball, or wiffle ball games I’ve played over my lifetime, but it’s enough to have crowded out the chance to learn a lot of practical stuff. I still can’t repair a car, and I had to learn things like basic plumbing and electricity well into adulthood. Still, I wouldn’t trade one well-hit line drive of my ball-playing days for any of the other skills.
My sons were excellent baseball players. Both were all-stars and both played on teams that won a lot. My daughter played softball equally as well, and still plays to this day. I enjoyed those days and nights at the ballpark, and I suffered withdrawal when their playing days were over. I knew then I’d have to do plumbing or electrical chores at home.
Now my grandsons are playing. The two eldest are excellent ballplayers who play with athleticism, smarts, and heart. Our family name is stitched onto the back of their jerseys, and they make me proud the way they play with skill and competitive fire on the field. They make me even prouder the way they play the game fairly and as good teammates. For me, it’s like going back in time, and I must admit that I can’t get enough of it.
Soon my 4-year-old grandson will get a great treat and see his first major-league game. And I’ll get a great treat in seeing him see his first major-league game. He’s going to be a player himself, and my instincts suggest he’ll be a splendid one. He’ll put on his hat and uniform and pull for the Braves to win yet another. He may even get to run the bases after the game is over. He’ll soak it all in and discover what a truly incomparable game baseball is. I know he’s excited about it.
Almost as much as I am.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Thanks to the Greatest Generation
As a child in the Fifties, I was fascinated with all things World War II—the great battles, the inspiring leaders, the movies and documentaries, the books and memorabilia—and I have maintained that interest to this day. I was mesmerized by the stories told by the victorious vets who had come home to start families, to hold civilian jobs, to teach Sunday School and coach Little League baseball teams. They were giants to me then, as much for their heroism as for their evident pride of service and their selfless humility.
They are still giants to me.
Like so many other Americans, my family had a history of service and sacrifice during the war. My uncle, an Army NCO, was wounded at Schofield Barracks on the Dec. 7, 1941 attack on Pearl Harbor and its Honolulu environs, giving the nation a Gillis casualty in virtually the opening minutes of World War II. Another uncle was a member of an Air Corps bomber crew who flew dozens of risky missions out of England. My cousin was wounded at the Battle of the Bulge as a member of the Army’s famed 101st Airborne Division. Another cousin died as a Navy pilot in a carrier accident during the Battle of Tarawa. My own father’s forward Air Corps base was bombed during the Aleutian Islands campaign.
My mother worked for the Atlanta office of Western Union during the war years. There were thousands upon thousands of cables sent, many of which bore the dreaded news that a loved one was wounded or missing or killed in action. In fact, my aunt was notified of her pilot husband’s death via a Western Union telegram in what began an unspeakably hard day for her.
My parents’ generation survived the Great Depression and then went on to win World War II. They saved the world from totalitarianism. They faced the veteran armies and navies of the Axis, fought it out in hedgerows and across beaches, in bone-chilling cold and mind-numbing heat. They fought and they won, and in the process freed millions of innocents caught in the slipstream of unprecedented global catastrophe, left tens of thousands of American dead in cemeteries across the Atlantic and Pacific, and then finally packed up their gear and came home.
Sixty years later, they are dying at a rate of 1,000 per day. There will soon come a time when none will be left. Their legacy will survive, a legacy as the Greatest Generation, but their physical presence will disappear. The difference they have made is not just profound, but astonishing. Is there an equal in American history? In world history?
As we approach this Memorial Day, I salute the victors—the members of the armed forces who won it on the ground, in the air, and on the seas; the women and men who supported the war effort back home; the military and political leaders whose wisdom and strength and skill saw the nation through.
You are indeed the Greatest Generation. Thank you and God bless you, and may you never be forgotten.
They are still giants to me.
Like so many other Americans, my family had a history of service and sacrifice during the war. My uncle, an Army NCO, was wounded at Schofield Barracks on the Dec. 7, 1941 attack on Pearl Harbor and its Honolulu environs, giving the nation a Gillis casualty in virtually the opening minutes of World War II. Another uncle was a member of an Air Corps bomber crew who flew dozens of risky missions out of England. My cousin was wounded at the Battle of the Bulge as a member of the Army’s famed 101st Airborne Division. Another cousin died as a Navy pilot in a carrier accident during the Battle of Tarawa. My own father’s forward Air Corps base was bombed during the Aleutian Islands campaign.
My mother worked for the Atlanta office of Western Union during the war years. There were thousands upon thousands of cables sent, many of which bore the dreaded news that a loved one was wounded or missing or killed in action. In fact, my aunt was notified of her pilot husband’s death via a Western Union telegram in what began an unspeakably hard day for her.
My parents’ generation survived the Great Depression and then went on to win World War II. They saved the world from totalitarianism. They faced the veteran armies and navies of the Axis, fought it out in hedgerows and across beaches, in bone-chilling cold and mind-numbing heat. They fought and they won, and in the process freed millions of innocents caught in the slipstream of unprecedented global catastrophe, left tens of thousands of American dead in cemeteries across the Atlantic and Pacific, and then finally packed up their gear and came home.
Sixty years later, they are dying at a rate of 1,000 per day. There will soon come a time when none will be left. Their legacy will survive, a legacy as the Greatest Generation, but their physical presence will disappear. The difference they have made is not just profound, but astonishing. Is there an equal in American history? In world history?
As we approach this Memorial Day, I salute the victors—the members of the armed forces who won it on the ground, in the air, and on the seas; the women and men who supported the war effort back home; the military and political leaders whose wisdom and strength and skill saw the nation through.
You are indeed the Greatest Generation. Thank you and God bless you, and may you never be forgotten.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
A Mother's Day Visit
My 87-year-old mother lives in an assisted-living facility and is in the unyielding grip of Alzheimer’s, moving steadily toward the late stages. She retains some recognition of the names and faces of her immediate family members, but she has difficulty with the specific relationships. She still has a grasp of the concept of family, however, and the deep meaning it still holds for her, even if she can’t quickly resurrect someone’s spot in the family tree.
We visited her on Mother’s Day, bringing milk chocolate which she still indulges with a childlike enthusiasm, and chocolate-chip cookies which also raises her eyebrows and produces a mischievous grin. My son and daughter-in-law brought along their 4-year-old daughter and 8-month-old son, the sight of which instantly relegated the chocolate to insignificance. Those kids brightened her day like nothing else, like they always do. And while she greatly enjoys the adult visitors, nothing transforms her face quite like the visit of one of her great-grandchildren.
Nothing. Not the latest chit-chat nor the cookies nor the resident cat who saunters in for a visit.
We stayed for a little while, and the children warmed to her. She has a heart for kids, and they can sense it. It’s in her eyes. And her smile. And her gentle touch. Even under the circumstances.
When we made ready to leave, she commented on just how special the visit had been for her, how much she had enjoyed it.”We were all together,” she said with evident satisfaction. And it showed on her face, exactly like it would have had the visit been twenty years ago, or forty years ago. I know that expression as clearly as I know anything, as timeless and unchanged as if I myself had been the child.
I was glad for the visit. Glad for her. Glad for us. And especially grateful that her love of family still somehow resides in her mind, and especially in her heart, despite the harshness of her disease.
She’s truly still a gift. Even the kids can somehow see that.
We visited her on Mother’s Day, bringing milk chocolate which she still indulges with a childlike enthusiasm, and chocolate-chip cookies which also raises her eyebrows and produces a mischievous grin. My son and daughter-in-law brought along their 4-year-old daughter and 8-month-old son, the sight of which instantly relegated the chocolate to insignificance. Those kids brightened her day like nothing else, like they always do. And while she greatly enjoys the adult visitors, nothing transforms her face quite like the visit of one of her great-grandchildren.
Nothing. Not the latest chit-chat nor the cookies nor the resident cat who saunters in for a visit.
We stayed for a little while, and the children warmed to her. She has a heart for kids, and they can sense it. It’s in her eyes. And her smile. And her gentle touch. Even under the circumstances.
When we made ready to leave, she commented on just how special the visit had been for her, how much she had enjoyed it.”We were all together,” she said with evident satisfaction. And it showed on her face, exactly like it would have had the visit been twenty years ago, or forty years ago. I know that expression as clearly as I know anything, as timeless and unchanged as if I myself had been the child.
I was glad for the visit. Glad for her. Glad for us. And especially grateful that her love of family still somehow resides in her mind, and especially in her heart, despite the harshness of her disease.
She’s truly still a gift. Even the kids can somehow see that.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Back When America Played To Win
How long has it been since the USA declared to the world that “If We’re In, We Win”?
World War II in the Forties? Has it really been that long?
We gave up thousands of war dead in Korea and settled for a partition. We gave up thousands more dead in Vietnam and then snatched defeat out of the jaws of victory when we lost our political will. We learned that victory on the battlefield was irrelevant. It's all about the politics, and what the elected leaders state as the end objective. And what an expensive lesson that was. And still is.
Colin Powell famously said of Iraq’s infamously inept Republican Guard that “we’re going to cut them off, then we’re going to kill them.” But we didn’t finish. We left the job for what turned out to be another day, where Harry Reid later declared before the surge offensive that the war was lost. And, it seems, he was perfectly okay with it. You win some; you lose some (yawn). Let’s be frank: It’s the real world out there, people. What’s for dinner?
Now we’ve got Libya. It is, we’re told, a humanitarian mission. And we haven’t officially taken sides (of course not; that would be judgmental). The adversaries are seen by the civilized world as the good guys (the rebels) and the bad guys (Gaddafi’s thugs). Gaddafi has a history of killing Americans. But somehow he’s still alive and making mischief. So now we’ve sent American warplanes and launched dozens of missile and drone strikes to kill and maim lots of people and destroy tons of equipment in a non-partisan act of humanitarian ecstasy. Can’t you feel the love? So, if there are no further questions, let’s get back to feeling good about ourselves. But wait—I thought what our sailors and Marines are doing to help our Japanese friends was humanitarian. Or what we did to help out Haiti.
Hey, we have to be careful with American power and how it’s perceived. It’s complicated and nuanced out there. We could offend someone who otherwise wants to blow us into misty pink particles.
What about getting in to win or not getting in at all? I’m not for committing American troops to Libya or anywhere else where the explicitly stated and expected outcome is something other than victory. We win; they lose. It’s ain’t complicated. No ad-hoc “humanitarian” missions that reveal an astonishing amateurism in the very people who send our kids to war.
Thank God George Washington cared about winning. And Lincoln. And Roosevelt. And Petraeus has shown he can win if we’ll let him. But are we so ambivalent about winning or losing that we no longer look at the scoreboard? Is winning so macho, so yesterday? Is it now all about self esteem and image?
I don’t know about you, but I don’t want any of our young Americans in uniform put in harm’s way for any reason other than victory. No stalemates, no setting of arbitrary exit dates and then scampering home, no partitions, no humanitarian missions involving the use of deadly force as its primary tactic.
If we go, we go to win. And our men and women take their orders from American commanders. If not, then stay out.
And leave Libya to the French.
World War II in the Forties? Has it really been that long?
We gave up thousands of war dead in Korea and settled for a partition. We gave up thousands more dead in Vietnam and then snatched defeat out of the jaws of victory when we lost our political will. We learned that victory on the battlefield was irrelevant. It's all about the politics, and what the elected leaders state as the end objective. And what an expensive lesson that was. And still is.
Colin Powell famously said of Iraq’s infamously inept Republican Guard that “we’re going to cut them off, then we’re going to kill them.” But we didn’t finish. We left the job for what turned out to be another day, where Harry Reid later declared before the surge offensive that the war was lost. And, it seems, he was perfectly okay with it. You win some; you lose some (yawn). Let’s be frank: It’s the real world out there, people. What’s for dinner?
Now we’ve got Libya. It is, we’re told, a humanitarian mission. And we haven’t officially taken sides (of course not; that would be judgmental). The adversaries are seen by the civilized world as the good guys (the rebels) and the bad guys (Gaddafi’s thugs). Gaddafi has a history of killing Americans. But somehow he’s still alive and making mischief. So now we’ve sent American warplanes and launched dozens of missile and drone strikes to kill and maim lots of people and destroy tons of equipment in a non-partisan act of humanitarian ecstasy. Can’t you feel the love? So, if there are no further questions, let’s get back to feeling good about ourselves. But wait—I thought what our sailors and Marines are doing to help our Japanese friends was humanitarian. Or what we did to help out Haiti.
Hey, we have to be careful with American power and how it’s perceived. It’s complicated and nuanced out there. We could offend someone who otherwise wants to blow us into misty pink particles.
What about getting in to win or not getting in at all? I’m not for committing American troops to Libya or anywhere else where the explicitly stated and expected outcome is something other than victory. We win; they lose. It’s ain’t complicated. No ad-hoc “humanitarian” missions that reveal an astonishing amateurism in the very people who send our kids to war.
Thank God George Washington cared about winning. And Lincoln. And Roosevelt. And Petraeus has shown he can win if we’ll let him. But are we so ambivalent about winning or losing that we no longer look at the scoreboard? Is winning so macho, so yesterday? Is it now all about self esteem and image?
I don’t know about you, but I don’t want any of our young Americans in uniform put in harm’s way for any reason other than victory. No stalemates, no setting of arbitrary exit dates and then scampering home, no partitions, no humanitarian missions involving the use of deadly force as its primary tactic.
If we go, we go to win. And our men and women take their orders from American commanders. If not, then stay out.
And leave Libya to the French.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
An Athens State of Mind
Fall Saturdays in Athens, Georgia are simply incomparable. To my mind, there is no better place on earth than a football Saturday in the Classic City. I’ve been to lots of foreign countries and most of the USA states, and Athens is easily my place of choice when it’s time to tee it up between those famous green hedges.
Spring Saturdays aren’t half bad, either. Not quite the same, mind you, but there’s enough of the beauty and nostalgia of my alma mater to keep pulling me back. It was G-Day last Saturday, and the Dawgs were out there in full gear for their annual spring game. The play was spirited, and there were 43,000 of us who had nothing better to do than to tailgate and cheer on the boys. As usual, I’m confident we’re on the verge of a national championship. Why not the Bulldogs? Somebody’s gotta win it. May as well be us.
My legs and the tops of my ears are still sunburned, but who cares about a little discomfort? And who cares that it’s not actually football season?
My parking-lot friends and I are coming up on our 31st season together. Our “CEO” arrives very early and leaves late, making sure his charges have a place to park. Many of our kids have grown up and are now raising kids of their own. We often remark how cool it would be if one of the kids or grandkids someday donned the Red & Black and fought it out in Sanford Stadium for UGA. Some of our parents have passed, and not all of us are as healthy as we were back in '81. We’ve had our share of surgeries and scares, successes and failures, good luck and bad, but we still keep coming back to embellish the old stories and to share the new ones with great anticipation. We get giddy when we win and cranky when we lose, and there’s always the next game to point to.
But most of all, we care about each other, like a family—a Georgia Bulldog family!—and I wouldn’t trade the friendships for all the under-the-table money at—hey, wait, I have to remember nothing’s been proven yet.
Great friends, great memories, strong bonds. The 30 years have passed all too quickly. Seems like only yesterday our kids were young and our backs didn’t hurt as much after a long day. My wife and I sometimes wonder how many more seasons we can continue to do this.
Ah, c’mon. It’s the Dawgs. It’s a new season. Suck it up. Heck, we can win it all.
Can’t wait ‘till Fall.
Spring Saturdays aren’t half bad, either. Not quite the same, mind you, but there’s enough of the beauty and nostalgia of my alma mater to keep pulling me back. It was G-Day last Saturday, and the Dawgs were out there in full gear for their annual spring game. The play was spirited, and there were 43,000 of us who had nothing better to do than to tailgate and cheer on the boys. As usual, I’m confident we’re on the verge of a national championship. Why not the Bulldogs? Somebody’s gotta win it. May as well be us.
My legs and the tops of my ears are still sunburned, but who cares about a little discomfort? And who cares that it’s not actually football season?
My parking-lot friends and I are coming up on our 31st season together. Our “CEO” arrives very early and leaves late, making sure his charges have a place to park. Many of our kids have grown up and are now raising kids of their own. We often remark how cool it would be if one of the kids or grandkids someday donned the Red & Black and fought it out in Sanford Stadium for UGA. Some of our parents have passed, and not all of us are as healthy as we were back in '81. We’ve had our share of surgeries and scares, successes and failures, good luck and bad, but we still keep coming back to embellish the old stories and to share the new ones with great anticipation. We get giddy when we win and cranky when we lose, and there’s always the next game to point to.
But most of all, we care about each other, like a family—a Georgia Bulldog family!—and I wouldn’t trade the friendships for all the under-the-table money at—hey, wait, I have to remember nothing’s been proven yet.
Great friends, great memories, strong bonds. The 30 years have passed all too quickly. Seems like only yesterday our kids were young and our backs didn’t hurt as much after a long day. My wife and I sometimes wonder how many more seasons we can continue to do this.
Ah, c’mon. It’s the Dawgs. It’s a new season. Suck it up. Heck, we can win it all.
Can’t wait ‘till Fall.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Out With The Old, In With The New
I ‘m having a new deck built at my home. My son and I built the old deck 16 years ago, so it was time for a new one. I asked the contractors to prepare their bids under the assumption that I would take down the old deck, and thus they could anticipate a clean construction site when they showed up to start the project.
I was involved in building the old version, so I should be able to take it down, right? The technical term is “demo,” in case you’re wondering. I can do demo. Done if before on other projects. At this point in my life, I can do demo better than I can build anew.
Well, I just spent the past several days up to my backside in the fine art of demo. Crow bar, sledge hammer, claw hammer . . . those are the technical terms for the tools we use in demo. There were lots of boards, lots and lots of exposed nails, and once everything was on the ground, those same boards (with those same nails) had to be transported to the dumpster. The thought crossed my mind more than once that a visit to the ER would easily negate the project savings I was otherwise hoping to realize. Besides, I really didn’t want to demo a body part, vital or not.
Two spider bites, three bruises, four skin tears, and several thousand Advil tablets later, I’m happy to report that I upheld my end of the bargain. I did it. I took it down. With no ER trips, no loss of body parts.
The contractor showed up this morning, and by the end of the day the new deck was framed and boarded. They loaded their nail guns with magazines of nails, much like a rifleman. Bang, bang, bang, and soon the deck’s up. My son and I had no nail guns. We did it the old analog way.
And I took it down the old analog way. Nothing new-age about it. Leverage, pressure here and there, throw it on a pile, and walk it to the dumpster.
And a hot bath afterwards.
Kinda thinking now that any future request for bids might not include me doing the demo.
I was involved in building the old version, so I should be able to take it down, right? The technical term is “demo,” in case you’re wondering. I can do demo. Done if before on other projects. At this point in my life, I can do demo better than I can build anew.
Well, I just spent the past several days up to my backside in the fine art of demo. Crow bar, sledge hammer, claw hammer . . . those are the technical terms for the tools we use in demo. There were lots of boards, lots and lots of exposed nails, and once everything was on the ground, those same boards (with those same nails) had to be transported to the dumpster. The thought crossed my mind more than once that a visit to the ER would easily negate the project savings I was otherwise hoping to realize. Besides, I really didn’t want to demo a body part, vital or not.
Two spider bites, three bruises, four skin tears, and several thousand Advil tablets later, I’m happy to report that I upheld my end of the bargain. I did it. I took it down. With no ER trips, no loss of body parts.
The contractor showed up this morning, and by the end of the day the new deck was framed and boarded. They loaded their nail guns with magazines of nails, much like a rifleman. Bang, bang, bang, and soon the deck’s up. My son and I had no nail guns. We did it the old analog way.
And I took it down the old analog way. Nothing new-age about it. Leverage, pressure here and there, throw it on a pile, and walk it to the dumpster.
And a hot bath afterwards.
Kinda thinking now that any future request for bids might not include me doing the demo.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Ten Welcomed Phrases
1. He (she) is out of surgery and is doing well.
2. Thank you so much, it's exactly what I wanted.
3. Welcome to Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.
4. I loved your book, and it keeps staying with me.
5. My fellow Americans, I am happy to report that all objectives have been met and hostilities have now ceased.
6. Hi Dad, we made it home okay.
7. The injury to (Georgia player, any player) doesn't appear to be serious.
8. Your offer has been accepted.
9. Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the national anthem.
10. Yes, of course! (Left to your own imagination)
2. Thank you so much, it's exactly what I wanted.
3. Welcome to Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.
4. I loved your book, and it keeps staying with me.
5. My fellow Americans, I am happy to report that all objectives have been met and hostilities have now ceased.
6. Hi Dad, we made it home okay.
7. The injury to (Georgia player, any player) doesn't appear to be serious.
8. Your offer has been accepted.
9. Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the national anthem.
10. Yes, of course! (Left to your own imagination)
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Ten Undesirable Phrases
10. “Sorry, sir. No credit cards. Cash only.” (Restaurant cashier)
9. “Tonight we’re conducting a survey on . . . ” (Telemarketer)
8. “Due to the current high call volumes, we estimate your wait to be . . .” (Technical support)
7. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” (Highway patrolman)
6. “You’re not going to like this, but when we got in there, we found . . .” (Auto mechanic)
5. “It will pay for itself.” (Politician)
4. “And all lanes are blocked.” (Radio traffic report)
3. “This is the Captain speaking. We have a little problem, but we hope to get it corrected and be underway shortly.” (Airline pilot)
2. “The Dow Jones is in freefall.” (TV newscaster)
1. "Good grief! I haven't seen one like that before." (Physician)
9. “Tonight we’re conducting a survey on . . . ” (Telemarketer)
8. “Due to the current high call volumes, we estimate your wait to be . . .” (Technical support)
7. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” (Highway patrolman)
6. “You’re not going to like this, but when we got in there, we found . . .” (Auto mechanic)
5. “It will pay for itself.” (Politician)
4. “And all lanes are blocked.” (Radio traffic report)
3. “This is the Captain speaking. We have a little problem, but we hope to get it corrected and be underway shortly.” (Airline pilot)
2. “The Dow Jones is in freefall.” (TV newscaster)
1. "Good grief! I haven't seen one like that before." (Physician)
Friday, March 4, 2011
The Right of Free Speech
The Supreme Court ruled on Wednesday in an important First Amendment free speech case that Albert Snyder, father of Marine Lance Corporal Matthew Snyder, was not entitled to damages for the emotional distress inflicted by protesters from the Westboro Baptist Church in Kansas. The protestors had picketed the funeral of Lance Corporal Matthews, who was killed in Iraq in 2006, and as a result legal action was taken against the church by Mr. Snyder.
This particular church group pickets military funerals because they believe God is punishing soldiers who defend a country that has a "policy" of accepting homosexuals. They carry signs that read “God Hates the USA/Thank God for 9/11” and “Semper Fi Fags” and “Thank God for IEDs.”
For a church group (or anyone else) to picket the funeral of a member of the U.S. military seems inconceivable. The family members of the deceased are having the absolute worst day of their lives, and not far away someone is holding a sign that reads “Thank God for Dead Soldiers.” I have known Baptists my entire life, and never have I known one who would do something as cruel and contemptible as this. Not one. It is no surprise, then, that mainstream Baptists reject this crowd as the malodorous open sore they most certainly are.
In January 2011, Westboro announced it would picket the funeral of Christina Green, the 9-year-old victim of the Tucson shooting, who wanted only to meet Rep. Gabby Giffords. The Arizona legislature wisely passed an emergency bill to ban protests within 300 feet of a funeral service, and Tucson residents made plans to shield the funeral from protesters.
What types of people are these? What sort of leader are they following? Can they not understand the pain they are causing or the anger they are arousing? Are they not parents themselves?
I don’t know. I know only that it seems they are giving thanks to God for the deaths of those who ensure their First Amendment rights. It is both ironic and sickening. But mostly sickening.
I’m not going to start a comparison with the God they worship and mine; I’ll just mention that we have some differences there, and leave it at that. And I wouldn’t presume to know what awaits them on the other side of the mortality they seem so intent on wasting. We all have freedom of choice. None of us, however, has freedom from consequences.
The truth is, they can follow any leader they want. They can choose to believe anything they want. And they can protest and carry signs with hurtful messages as long as they obey the law.
Jerks and fools have rights, too.
This particular church group pickets military funerals because they believe God is punishing soldiers who defend a country that has a "policy" of accepting homosexuals. They carry signs that read “God Hates the USA/Thank God for 9/11” and “Semper Fi Fags” and “Thank God for IEDs.”
For a church group (or anyone else) to picket the funeral of a member of the U.S. military seems inconceivable. The family members of the deceased are having the absolute worst day of their lives, and not far away someone is holding a sign that reads “Thank God for Dead Soldiers.” I have known Baptists my entire life, and never have I known one who would do something as cruel and contemptible as this. Not one. It is no surprise, then, that mainstream Baptists reject this crowd as the malodorous open sore they most certainly are.
In January 2011, Westboro announced it would picket the funeral of Christina Green, the 9-year-old victim of the Tucson shooting, who wanted only to meet Rep. Gabby Giffords. The Arizona legislature wisely passed an emergency bill to ban protests within 300 feet of a funeral service, and Tucson residents made plans to shield the funeral from protesters.
What types of people are these? What sort of leader are they following? Can they not understand the pain they are causing or the anger they are arousing? Are they not parents themselves?
I don’t know. I know only that it seems they are giving thanks to God for the deaths of those who ensure their First Amendment rights. It is both ironic and sickening. But mostly sickening.
I’m not going to start a comparison with the God they worship and mine; I’ll just mention that we have some differences there, and leave it at that. And I wouldn’t presume to know what awaits them on the other side of the mortality they seem so intent on wasting. We all have freedom of choice. None of us, however, has freedom from consequences.
The truth is, they can follow any leader they want. They can choose to believe anything they want. And they can protest and carry signs with hurtful messages as long as they obey the law.
Jerks and fools have rights, too.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
The Flag Raising
“The raising of that flag on Suribachi means a Marine Corps for the next 500 years.” – Secretary of the Navy James Forrestal.
Sixty-six years ago today, February 23, 1945, six U.S. Marines and one Navy corpsman raised the American flag on Iwo Jima's Mt. Suribachi on the fifth day of a thirty-five day battle, one of the most intense in World War II. Of the six flag raisers, three would die in battle shortly thereafter. The Americans would suffer 26,038 casualties, of which 6,821 would die on an island 4.5 miles long and 2.5 miles wide. The number of U.S. casualties at Iwo Jima was greater than the total Allied casualties on D-Day.
With the battle still raging, the iconic, Pulitzer-Prize winning photograph taken by Joe Rosenthal has often been described as the most famous photograph ever taken. The image was the basis for the Marine Corps War Memorial in Washington, D.C. The three surviving flag raisers became national celebrities as they eventually traveled the country in endless bond drives, so far from the horrors they had experienced at Iwo Jima.
Marines have flag raising in their DNA. From Iwo to Hue City to Baghdad, there always seems to be a Marine with a flag when the situation arises. I have seen the actual flag raised on Iwo Jima, and the sight of it made my throat constrict. I cannot remember viewing any other museum artifact that affected me so instantly and so deeply as did the sight of that slightly faded, bullet-scarred flag.
No one could have known that such a seemingly simple flag-raising would result in something as symbolic and powerful and enduring as those Marines and that flag pictured atop Suribachi.
Sixty-six years ago today, February 23, 1945, six U.S. Marines and one Navy corpsman raised the American flag on Iwo Jima's Mt. Suribachi on the fifth day of a thirty-five day battle, one of the most intense in World War II. Of the six flag raisers, three would die in battle shortly thereafter. The Americans would suffer 26,038 casualties, of which 6,821 would die on an island 4.5 miles long and 2.5 miles wide. The number of U.S. casualties at Iwo Jima was greater than the total Allied casualties on D-Day.
With the battle still raging, the iconic, Pulitzer-Prize winning photograph taken by Joe Rosenthal has often been described as the most famous photograph ever taken. The image was the basis for the Marine Corps War Memorial in Washington, D.C. The three surviving flag raisers became national celebrities as they eventually traveled the country in endless bond drives, so far from the horrors they had experienced at Iwo Jima.
Marines have flag raising in their DNA. From Iwo to Hue City to Baghdad, there always seems to be a Marine with a flag when the situation arises. I have seen the actual flag raised on Iwo Jima, and the sight of it made my throat constrict. I cannot remember viewing any other museum artifact that affected me so instantly and so deeply as did the sight of that slightly faded, bullet-scarred flag.
No one could have known that such a seemingly simple flag-raising would result in something as symbolic and powerful and enduring as those Marines and that flag pictured atop Suribachi.
To the Marines of Iwo Jima, Semper Fi.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
I’m Really Tired of Lindsay Lohan
I don’t know about you, but I’ve become sick of hearing about the disaster that is Lindsay Lohan, to a point where I feel like an hour of primal screaming would only partly assuage the frustration. Hers is often the lead story on national news programs—television and radio—and it always seems to fit into a pattern of ill-advised behavior ranging from drug/alcohol abuse, alleged theft of jewels or designer clothes, courtroom appearances, relentless partying, probation violations, ad infinitum, ad nauseam.
She commands more space on the national airwaves than an American hero recently awarded the Medal of Honor for an astonishing act of physical and moral bravery. We have U.S. medical researchers hot on the trail of a potentially dramatic vaccine that can fight against any flu virus—just one vaccine! Our country has a debt that is on schedule to make our nation a bankrupt, third-world debtor nation whose bonds and buildings and banks belong to the Chinese. We have Marines and soldiers in vicious combat in Afghanistan on a daily basis, some dying, many being wounded, in a fight against an enemy and an ideology that wants to destroy us, the Great Satan. We have individuals and groups in our midst who are feeding the hungry, clothing the poor, educating the unschooled, repairing the cleft lips and palates of children, and donating everything from time and treasure to life-saving organs and blood.
And the decision makers who run the news organizations decide we need to hear about Lindsay Lohan. In prime time. In real time. All the time.
I certainly don’t wish anything calamitous on young Ms. Lohan; I’m just tired of seeing her face and hearing the same old stories. Ditto with Charlie Sheen and the Kardashians and Paris and Spencer and the rest. It used to be that individuals in the news were actually people of accomplishment, whether famously or infamously. Now it’s people deemed newsworthy doing absolutely nothing of consequence. What’s so newsworthy about lewd or childish behavior?
Of course, Jane Fonda raves about the talent of Ms. Lohan the actress, about how she cares about her “craft.” Jane Fonda is certainly a credible source. Ask the Vietnam vets.
I know what you’re thinking: It’s all about ratings. And, sadly, you’re right.
But what about the messages that are sent? The examples being set? Shouldn’t that count?
I know what we’re all thinking: Nope, not anymore.
She commands more space on the national airwaves than an American hero recently awarded the Medal of Honor for an astonishing act of physical and moral bravery. We have U.S. medical researchers hot on the trail of a potentially dramatic vaccine that can fight against any flu virus—just one vaccine! Our country has a debt that is on schedule to make our nation a bankrupt, third-world debtor nation whose bonds and buildings and banks belong to the Chinese. We have Marines and soldiers in vicious combat in Afghanistan on a daily basis, some dying, many being wounded, in a fight against an enemy and an ideology that wants to destroy us, the Great Satan. We have individuals and groups in our midst who are feeding the hungry, clothing the poor, educating the unschooled, repairing the cleft lips and palates of children, and donating everything from time and treasure to life-saving organs and blood.
And the decision makers who run the news organizations decide we need to hear about Lindsay Lohan. In prime time. In real time. All the time.
I certainly don’t wish anything calamitous on young Ms. Lohan; I’m just tired of seeing her face and hearing the same old stories. Ditto with Charlie Sheen and the Kardashians and Paris and Spencer and the rest. It used to be that individuals in the news were actually people of accomplishment, whether famously or infamously. Now it’s people deemed newsworthy doing absolutely nothing of consequence. What’s so newsworthy about lewd or childish behavior?
Of course, Jane Fonda raves about the talent of Ms. Lohan the actress, about how she cares about her “craft.” Jane Fonda is certainly a credible source. Ask the Vietnam vets.
I know what you’re thinking: It’s all about ratings. And, sadly, you’re right.
But what about the messages that are sent? The examples being set? Shouldn’t that count?
I know what we’re all thinking: Nope, not anymore.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Miracles
I’m a believer in miracles.
By definition, a miracle is “an event that appears inexplicable by the laws of nature and so is held to be supernatural in origin or an act of God.” (American Heritage Dictionary)
Pope John Paul II has one miracle attributed to him, and is on his way toward sainthood. Has one, needs another.
The births of each of my children, and now grandchildren, were miracles, each and every one. There’s just no other way to explain it.
That my wonderful wife has put up with me for as long as she has is nothing short of miraculous. Really, it is.
My best friend ejected out of a stricken Marine F-4 Phantom jet at an altitude of less than one-hundred feet. He was so low that his chute couldn’t deploy, and he tumbled violently across a freshly plowed field sitting atop a rocket-assisted ejection seat. Had there not been a divine intervention, I would not have had a 20+ year friendship of such quality that one is lucky if one has 2-3 such friendships over an entire lifetime. He got lucky, and consequently, so did I.
I believe the recovery of Rep. Gabrielle Giffords will be seen as miraculous before all is said and done. Actually, it seems like a miracle that she has survived at all, given her injury.
There are miracles among my fellow church members, ranging from organ transplants to sudden awakenings from deep comas.
“Do you believe in miracles?” shouted announcer Al Michaels as the young USA Olympians beat the vaunted Russians in ice hockey in 1980 Lake Placid Winter Games.
The 33 Chilean miners trapped for more than two months, and then dramatically rescued. A miracle? I certainly thought so as I watched in utter amazement.
I’m a believer in miracles, and as I finish my next novel and prepare to take it to market, guess what I’ll be hoping for?
Yep, you guessed it.
By definition, a miracle is “an event that appears inexplicable by the laws of nature and so is held to be supernatural in origin or an act of God.” (American Heritage Dictionary)
Pope John Paul II has one miracle attributed to him, and is on his way toward sainthood. Has one, needs another.
The births of each of my children, and now grandchildren, were miracles, each and every one. There’s just no other way to explain it.
That my wonderful wife has put up with me for as long as she has is nothing short of miraculous. Really, it is.
My best friend ejected out of a stricken Marine F-4 Phantom jet at an altitude of less than one-hundred feet. He was so low that his chute couldn’t deploy, and he tumbled violently across a freshly plowed field sitting atop a rocket-assisted ejection seat. Had there not been a divine intervention, I would not have had a 20+ year friendship of such quality that one is lucky if one has 2-3 such friendships over an entire lifetime. He got lucky, and consequently, so did I.
I believe the recovery of Rep. Gabrielle Giffords will be seen as miraculous before all is said and done. Actually, it seems like a miracle that she has survived at all, given her injury.
There are miracles among my fellow church members, ranging from organ transplants to sudden awakenings from deep comas.
“Do you believe in miracles?” shouted announcer Al Michaels as the young USA Olympians beat the vaunted Russians in ice hockey in 1980 Lake Placid Winter Games.
The 33 Chilean miners trapped for more than two months, and then dramatically rescued. A miracle? I certainly thought so as I watched in utter amazement.
I’m a believer in miracles, and as I finish my next novel and prepare to take it to market, guess what I’ll be hoping for?
Yep, you guessed it.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
From the Hangar to the Taxiway
I have written a suspense novel that deals with the rough-and-tumble of the business world. It involves a firm that suddenly loses its longtime leader, and then struggles to put the pieces back together again in the aftermath. Along the way, there are changes that are both unpleasant and potentially destructive. The firm finds itself woefully near to the cliff’s edge.
Will someone emerge and rescue this great company from taking on more water than it can stand, and still remain afloat? Is anyone strong enough or resourceful enough to find a way? Hmmm . . . stay tuned.
In the meantime, I am ready to begin the final editing process. One of my critical readers has recently finished with her excellent review. Today I heard from a longtime, trusted friend and former colleague who was also kind enough to read and comment on the manuscript. He is the CEO of a large, respected company and has held other CEO positions in his distinguished business career. His feedback was positive and highly encouraging, not to mention useful, and he even mentioned several marketing avenues for the book that I had not previously considered (that’s why he’s a CEO).
Now it’s time to move the book to the taxiway. Fire the engines, go over the checklist, adjust where needed, make sure everything is ready. No time for sloppiness or inattention to detail. Everything needs to be in place, in good working order, ready for the next step.
Then, and only then, can it move to the runway. Then, and only then, will it be considered airworthy.
I love the sound of those engines. I feel the need for speed. And I love the excitement over where this flight could take me.
Tray tables stowed, seatbelts buckled, seatbacks in the upright and locked position.
Cleared to taxi.
Will someone emerge and rescue this great company from taking on more water than it can stand, and still remain afloat? Is anyone strong enough or resourceful enough to find a way? Hmmm . . . stay tuned.
In the meantime, I am ready to begin the final editing process. One of my critical readers has recently finished with her excellent review. Today I heard from a longtime, trusted friend and former colleague who was also kind enough to read and comment on the manuscript. He is the CEO of a large, respected company and has held other CEO positions in his distinguished business career. His feedback was positive and highly encouraging, not to mention useful, and he even mentioned several marketing avenues for the book that I had not previously considered (that’s why he’s a CEO).
Now it’s time to move the book to the taxiway. Fire the engines, go over the checklist, adjust where needed, make sure everything is ready. No time for sloppiness or inattention to detail. Everything needs to be in place, in good working order, ready for the next step.
Then, and only then, can it move to the runway. Then, and only then, will it be considered airworthy.
I love the sound of those engines. I feel the need for speed. And I love the excitement over where this flight could take me.
Tray tables stowed, seatbelts buckled, seatbacks in the upright and locked position.
Cleared to taxi.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The Grandkids
We fill our house with grandchildren during the holidays, and inevitably some of the kids (perhaps even most) are at some point coughing and sneezing from allergies or colds or respiratory ailments. We buy tissues by the pallet; the parents—our kids and their spouses—dutifully administer the various medications to their afflicted little charges; breathing-treatment devices and hand-held inhalers are not uncommon sites. Hey, children change environments and climates and often fall ill, at which point they are more likely to share their bugs than their Christmas toys. Since I have a propensity to transform a common cold into full-blown bronchitis, I tend to tread carefully among the ubiquitous hacking and sneezing unless . . .
One of those precious grandkids reaches up to me with an expression of happiness or trust or needed comfort, and then I reach down for them. Instantly; cheerfully; sympathetically. Even amid the bucketloads of snot and drool and the mist of coughing and sneezing, I simply can’t resist. And who could? I’m D-Daddy. I have a role to provide, and I think about that role a lot, and I want to be there to provide it, unless . . .
I feel the sniffles and slight cough beginning to find its way from the submerged to the surface, an annoyance that will eventually morph into something more. It always works that way. Then I know there’s a near certainty that I’ll end up needing a Z-pack and several days of feeling like a bird in an oil spill. I know my own health tendencies, and I know I should keep my distance, unless . . .
One of those grandkids comes crawling into the recliner with me. Those quiet moments are priceless, and I am certain beyond all doubt that I get more from their presence than they do from mine. I always hope the cold will stay just that—a cold—but I know it’s unlikely. Maybe this time I’ll be lucky, unless . . .
The cough deepens. Then I know I’m toast. After the kids have departed, I’ll go to my doctor and get the requisite prescriptions to bring me back to health. And I’ll tell him that I wouldn’t trade the visit with my sick grandkids for the avoidance of his fee. And do you know what he always tells me? He always says, “Good for you.”
And it is good for me.
One of those precious grandkids reaches up to me with an expression of happiness or trust or needed comfort, and then I reach down for them. Instantly; cheerfully; sympathetically. Even amid the bucketloads of snot and drool and the mist of coughing and sneezing, I simply can’t resist. And who could? I’m D-Daddy. I have a role to provide, and I think about that role a lot, and I want to be there to provide it, unless . . .
I feel the sniffles and slight cough beginning to find its way from the submerged to the surface, an annoyance that will eventually morph into something more. It always works that way. Then I know there’s a near certainty that I’ll end up needing a Z-pack and several days of feeling like a bird in an oil spill. I know my own health tendencies, and I know I should keep my distance, unless . . .
One of those grandkids comes crawling into the recliner with me. Those quiet moments are priceless, and I am certain beyond all doubt that I get more from their presence than they do from mine. I always hope the cold will stay just that—a cold—but I know it’s unlikely. Maybe this time I’ll be lucky, unless . . .
The cough deepens. Then I know I’m toast. After the kids have departed, I’ll go to my doctor and get the requisite prescriptions to bring me back to health. And I’ll tell him that I wouldn’t trade the visit with my sick grandkids for the avoidance of his fee. And do you know what he always tells me? He always says, “Good for you.”
And it is good for me.
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